Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (19 page)

The rain had stopped by the time Frank and Chad left HPD.
"Thanks for minor favors," Chad remarked.

"You got that right," Frank answered with a grin.
"Let's go shake up Mr. Reuben Rankin."

"What exactly are we looking for?"

"Clown costumes, make up, gaff hooks—that sort of
thing. But, the most important target is a steel door in the lower level that I
want to see behind."

"Oh, what kind of a door?"

"One that's locked and rolls up like a garage door. Not
something you see in every house in town.'

"Sounds intriguing."

"I'll tell you something else. Reuben Rankin has a
detailed file on all my cases. He has more information about me than I can
recall about myself. How do you suppose he collected that? And why?"

Chad pondered that, shrugged. "I don't know,
newspapers?"

"I'm not often written up with the type of detail
Rankin's got."

"Maybe that reporter, Julia Brewster dug up stuff on
you. She's always sniffing around the department."

"That's one explanation. I'm sure we've got a leak
somewhere, but with my standing right now, you'd have to take a number to be
the one giving out bad press on me." Chad shrugged, didn't reply. "If
it works out the way I think it will, you make some excuse to get into the
bathroom. Snoop around, but don't remove anything. If we find evidence, we'll
come back with a warrant."

"Gotcha."

They pulled into the long drive and up toward the house.
Rankin's Mercedes was parked outside on the driveway, and the garage doors were
closed. Frank and Chad climbed out of the car and started toward the front
door.

"Wait a minute," Frank paused. He hurried over to
the Mercedes and knelt down, scanning the pavement for signs of a transmission
leak. He stood and brushed his hands together, a curious expression on his face
as he stared at Chad. "Let's go," he ordered.

They walked to the door and rang the bell. Gus answered
immediately. It occurred to Frank that Gus had been watching them. Rankin's
taciturn associate stood back and indicated they should enter, never changing
his expression from the stoic and sullen look he most often wore. Rankin came
toward them, his chair humming and his face beaming.

"Right on time," he smiled. "Never let it be
said that my favorite detective trifles with an agenda. Welcome Frank, I've
been looking forward to this. Where should we start?"

Frank remained silent for a beat or two, attempting to gain
the upper hand in the interview. "I want to see three areas: the bedrooms,
the garage, and behind that roll-up door downstairs. Then we'll see."

"Great. Let's start downstairs. That's my favorite
place in the house." He spun his chair and headed for the specially constructed
stairway. He maneuvered the elevator chair without Gus's help and shifted to
the second wheelchair that waited at the bottom. The two Boxers sat waiting in
the lounge/exercise area, their ears planed and stubby tails swishing back and
forth. One uttered a brief whine as Rankin stroked their heads and muttered
endearing comments before putting the chair in motion toward the steel door.

"Sometimes I feel those two dogs are more loving and
loyal than any person I know," he commented over his shoulder, not caring
whether Frank or Chad heard or agreed. When he reached the door, he laid his
hand on an electric scanner and the door rattled upward.

"Are you the only one who can activate that door?"
Frank asked.

"No, Gus can too. It wouldn't be prudent for me to have
the only access, in case something happened to me."

Frank stared through the opening at what looked to be a
jungle, an arboretum consisting of trees, shrubs, and flowers of exotic origin,
some of which Frank recognized, but many he did not. Immediately to the right
of the door was a work area constructed to cater to the necessities of a person
in a wheelchair. It included a massive stainless steel desk with room for a
computer and workspace for dissecting and observing specimens. There was a binocular
microscope, scales, and chemicals in glass bottles, tweezers, Exacto knives,
Petri dishes, and a Bunsen burner among other paraphernalia Frank wasn't
familiar with. Beside the desk were two cabinets, one obviously containing
books and magazines, the other, a supply cabinet with solid steel doors. The
remainder of the area seemed organized and divided into rooms separated by
clear plastic walls. Some walls were dripping with condensation, others were
clear.

Frank could feel Rankin watching him, to register his
reaction. He concentrated on keeping his face blank, not giving away anything
he was thinking. He was surprised, but at the same time not. This could be the
source for the rare poison Al Shuman found during Nguyen's autopsy.

"My passion," Rankin explained. "Several
years ago I became fascinated by the kinds of plants that ensure and at the
same time threaten man's survival. Each of these specimens can provide
lifesaving medicines or immediate death, depending on the knowledge and intent
of the user. Can you imagine the courage and dedication primitive societies
must have required to understand how provocative their natural environment
could be? Trial and error was their only laboratory. Even now, in many places
around the globe, people experiment with newfound toxic cures and poisons. Most
of these plants grow naturally, some here in Houston, and appear innocent to
the unknowledgeable. Some I've imported, and all are legal. I have lists of
those considered controlled substances, and would love to have them growing
here, but that would be imprudent, not to say illegal. Here, let me show
you."

He moved the chair to the locked glass bookcase filled with
books and journals with colorful titles. Frank read Justifiable Euthanasia, by
P.V. Admiral, and Forensic Pathology: a Handbook from the Department of
Justice, Poisonous Plants and Fungi, by P. North. Before he could read in more
titles, Rankin reached a thick volume from the shelf.

"This is my personal favorite," He uttered,
handing the tome to Frank. "It's relatively recent and is fascinating - an
impressive life's work by one Mr. Daniel E, Moerman."

Frank read the title: Native American Ethno Biology,
published by Timber Press. He leafed through the massive book, a very
impressive catalog of plants used as drugs, food, fibers, dyes, hunting and
fishing supplies, incense and fragrances, fuels, tools and many more uses.
Before he could begin to grasp how thorough the research had been, Rankin was
moving away from the bookcase along a concrete path between the arrays of
vegetation.

"I imagine you're more interested in death-dealing
plants than medicinal and narcotic specimens. One form of toxicity rating is
based on a one to six ratio. It's the one I'm most familiar with, where one is
the least and generally takes fifteen grams per kilogram to be lethal. That
would be more than one quart, or a little over two pounds, not all that
efficient. A plant rated as a six only requires five milligrams per kilogram to
cause death. About seven drops." He stopped in front of a shrub Frank
recognized immediately.

"The well known Castor Bean," Rankin said,
"Ricinus communis, often referred to as 'Gourd' in the Bible and known in
the U.S. as the African Coffee Tree, castor-oil plant or Palma Christi. They
call it koi in Hawaii."

"That sucker's been in the news lately," Chad
remarked. "It's the source of ricin, a terrorist tool."

"You're so right, but you need only drive around the
block to find it used as a decoration. This plant is so common anyone could
produce immense amounts of poison in their kitchen in a matter of moments. It
has a toxicity rating of six."

"What's this Azalea doing here?" Frank asked.
Rankin spun his chair.

"Ah, yes, Rhododendron arborescens, related to Mountain
Laurel elsewhere and one of the most common decorative plants in the southern
U.S., especially in Houston. It's rated a six."

"This can kill you?" Chad asked.

"It would be a long and nasty way to go. Only a sadist
would choose it as a poison. Any part of the plant can cause nausea,
irritation, drooling, vomiting, tearing, paralysis, diarrhea, coma and death.
It takes about six hours. The Romans discovered that even a honey made from
this plant could kill. That's also true for other rhododendron, laurel and
oleander, our commonly used freeway flora." Rankin pointed to each of the
plants as he named them.

"Why the separate rooms?" Frank asked,

"As I said, much of my collection is imported. Some
require unique environments. The poly vinyl walls allow me to maintain
conditions better suited for plants preferring specific climates."

"Do you have a specimen of Cinchona ledgeriana T' Frank
asked.

Rankin shot him a surprised look. "I'm impressed you
know of that tree, Detective. I don't recall any mention in your file that you
suffer from malaria. The plant is named for Countess Cinchona, wife of the
Spanish Ambassador to Peru during the sixteenth century. The story is, she
suffered from that common ailment and was cured by a local medicine man, and so
had the tree imported to Spain."

Rankin ushered them into one of the walled off rooms with
condensation on the walls. Inside, the humidity was nearly intolerable, even
for a Houstonian.

"If this plant grows in the Andes, and in Europe, why
does it need this sort of environment?" Frank asked.

"I imported this tree from India, and I've been having
trouble with it. Gus helped me transplant it in here to see if we could save
it. It's not working, I'm afraid."

"I understand Cinchona is a common source of
quinine," Frank added.

"Yes, it is. A drug that spread via Madrid to Europe
around the end of the 'Thirty Years War,' as I recall."

"It has multiple curative uses, as well as quinine
water for mixed drinks."

"That's right, but it has to be used with care."

"What's its toxicity?"

"It's rated four, but an overdose can cause death after
several hours of agony. Not a nice way to go." Rankin looked up, with an
expression Frank couldn't read. Curiosity, maybe?

He fixed his host with a glare. "Your protégé, Nguyen
Qui Mang went out from an overdose of quinoline." There was no doubt about
Rankin's expression this time - shock.

Frank waited for Rankin to say something, but after the man
recovered from the shock of this "news," he focused on the tree and
nothing. Remember, he's an actor, Frank told himself, and then asked out loud,
"Do you know of any other Cinchona ledgeriana growing in Houston?"

Rankin shook his head.

"Near by?"

Rankin turned his head, still looking unsettled.
"Murphy Gardens in Galveston maybe, I don't know."

Frank glanced around. "Where do you grow your peyote?"

The question seemed to catch Rankin by surprise.

"What? Peyote? I don't have any peyote. That's a
controlled substance."

"I see," Frank nodded. "In that case, I've
seen all I care to in here. Let's have a look at the garage."

"Of course," Rankin agreed, and spun his chair,
wheeling back the way they had come. Once they had left the arboretum, Chad
asked if he could use the bathroom. Rankin waved him permission, seemingly more
concerned about what Frank had told him than about Chad's bladder problems.
"If you have any trouble finding what you need, Gus is around somewhere.
Have him show you the way."

Chad hurried off as Frank and Rankin headed for the door to
the garage. During the migration, Rankin resumed some of his jovial demeanor.
"What in thunder do you want to look at in my garage?"

Frank didn't answer.

"I'm curious," Rankin persisted.

"Why didn't you tell me your real name is
Sullivan?"

"I haven't used that name in years. It never occurred
to me that you wanted to know."

"You knew you were a suspect in a murder investigation.
I would have thought you would rather tell me, than to let me find out, and add
that to my suspicions."

"Come on, Detective, lots of people change their names
for non-nefarious reasons. Isn't that so, Senor Francisco Riojas?"

Frank didn't answer, fighting to keep a grin off his face.
Touché.

The door from the house to the garage opened onto a concrete
platform with a metal handrail and a ramp down to floor level. Rankin remained
at the top of the ramp while Frank walked down the ramp. There were no cars in
the garage, and Frank barely glimpsed at the bay where he knew Rankin parked
the Mercedes. In the second port, he knelt down and peered at stains on the
floor. None remained wet, but one was damp, like it had originally been a small
puddle. Frank glanced up at Rankin before pinching the sticky substance,
rubbing his finger and thumb together, and sniffing his fingers.

"One of your cars has a transmission leak, Mr.
Rankin," Frank said, and slowly brought his eyes up to watch the reaction.
Rankin's face moved from curious through the formulation of a distant thought
to anger. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he got it out, the
door opened and Chad came from the house in the company of Gus. Chad nodded to
Frank, telling him he had found something. Frank stood. Rankin finally found
his voice.

"This visit is over." He punched a steel disk on
the wall by the door, and the garage door hummed upward. "Both of you
detectives will leave now. If you want anything further from me, come with a
warrant and please call ahead so I can alert my attorney. Good day."

He spun the chair and entered the house before either Frank
or Chad could respond. Gus framed himself in the door, his arms crossed, and a
scowl on his face.

Frank shrugged. "Come on Chad, we're done here."
He walked out the open garage door as he wiped at his greasy fingers with his
handkerchief..