Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (5 page)

"Nguyen works nights. He often sleeps in. Maybe I
should call and warn him we're on the way."

"Please, don't do that," Frank responded. "It
isn't necessary." Tami blinked.

"Could I... er... please see the warrant?"

Frank handed it to her. She looked it over carefully, her
eyes widening. When she reached the intent of the warrant, she gasped an
animal-like sound and covered her mouth with her left hand. The paper quivered
in her right. "Oh, no. Mr. Nguyen is dead? Murdered?"

"We're not certain, but it appears that way. Now, are
you ready to help us try to find his killer?"

"Yes. Yes of course." She opened the center desk
drawer and retrieved a ring of keys. "This way, please." She headed
for a sliding glass door directly away from the front door, Frank, Gerry and
the two uniforms filing behind her. They followed a long concrete walk past a
small swimming pool, a bank of vending machines, and near a building housing
coin-operated washing machines and dryers. The multi-story apartment complex
was arranged among groves of welled, live oak trees and clusters of ligustrum
bushes. The buildings had large letters painted on the ends. At Building
"B," Tami ascended a back and forth column of stairs to the fourth
level, and stopped in front of a door with 401 marked above a peephole. She
knocked on the door and called out Nguyen's name.

"No one's home, Tami," Frank stated.

"I know, but it's procedure." She flashed a brief
smile. Although she still looked shaken, she'd regained her professional
composure. She knocked again, and immediately inserted the key into the lock.
When the door opened, she stood aside, expecting all four police officers to
enter. Only Frank and Gerry walked in. Chad and Roger stayed outside, frowning.

A short hall ran directly into a living area. On the wall
opposite the door, where anyone would see it immediately, was a life-sized
poster of the deceased, dressed in a fashionable black silk tuxedo, backed by
red and gold drapes. He had a huge smile on his face and a microphone in his
hand. Bold black letters spelled out LAS VEGAS above his head. Under his feet
they read: Hon Cu Loa - Appearing Nightly at Harrah's, beginning November 1st.

"I hope Harrah's has a back up act."

Tami's voice brought Gerry and Frank out of their state of
shock at encountering the image of Hon Cu Loa as a living person, animated and
vibrant rather than a gray cadaver on a morgue slab. "Keep her out of
here," he ordered the uniformed officers.

"Gotcha," Roger Harrington answered.

Frank walked into the apartment and placed his briefcase on
the counter near the kitchen. It was a one-bedroom layout with a sitting room
as a continuation of the hall. A sliding door led to a small balcony off a
dining room, kitchen wing. The counter separated the kitchen from the sitting
room. Frank opened the briefcase and took out two pairs of latex gloves. He
turned to offer Gerry a pair before he noticed she was already wearing gloves
and had moved to the poster for a closer look. He put one set of gloves back in
the case and pulled on the other as he glanced around.

Everything was neat beyond normal. There were sparse
furnishings: two bar stools with wicker seats sat in front of the counter, a
futon served as a chair and probably the bed at night. A plastic egg crate sat
beside the futon with a lamp, a copy of Variety and the TV remote. A small
13-inch TV with built-in DVD sat on a second egg crate in front of the chair.
The poster was the only decoration in the room. Nguyen evidently took his meals
at the counter. The only item in the dining nook was an exercise bike.

Frank removed a packet of small, magenta colored adhesive
dots from the briefcase and went to the bedroom. Although it was arranged in an
order as neat as the outer room, it was crammed with furniture and
paraphernalia. A make-up table sat near the far wall and a there was a computer
workstation where the bed was meant to be. A series of cinder block and plank
bookcases lined a third wall. A few paperback books were stacked on the lower
shelf, and the rest were filled with VHS tapes and DVD cases. Frank made a
mental note that Nguyen was visual rather than print oriented. A closet
occupied the last wall.

Frank went to the make-up table first, and examined the jars
and bottles there. He pulled magenta dots from the waxed paper and placed one
on each of the bottles, numbering them sequentially. Pictures and memos on
yellow post-its surrounded the mirror. Frank stuck numbered dots to these,
except for one snapshot of Nguyen. He slipped that into his pocket and then
turned to the computer. He leafed through an address book before he put it in
his pocket. Likewise, he went through a checkbook and a basket filled with
bills. He pasted numbered dots on them and left them on the desk.

When he opened the closet, he wasn't surprised to find
everything neatly arranged. A long vinyl shoe bag separated street clothes to
the left, mostly jeans and tee shirts, and costumes to the right. The black tux
Nguyen wore in the poster was hanging with the costumes. The upper shelf
contained baseball caps, neatly folded socks, and underwear. On the floor were
four plastic, open-at-the-top file cabinets in a row. Frank placed stickers on
everything in the closet and spent several minutes flipping through the tabs on
the folders. They were organized around Nguyen's past and future career as a
comedian. He pulled one folder from a file at random; it was filled with
material Nguyen used when seeking a job. The folder contained photos of Nguyen,
newspaper clips and a CD in a jewel case with a picture of a stage, with 'The
Ha Ha House' in bold letters on a velvet curtain. Frank slipped the CD into his
pocket.

Satisfied that he had seen everything that was exposed, he
began a meticulous search for the unseeable. He checked the baseboards for
hollow compartments or places where the carpet had been tampered with, looked
and felt along the blinds that covered the windows, and scanned the walls and
ceiling with a reflecting flashlight to detect any repair to the original
plaster. When he had finished examining the makeup table and the computer desk
for hollow legs or false drawers, he heard voices coming from the outer room.
The forensic team had arrived.

He pushed the file box back in place and went to talk to
them. He found Gerry on hands and knees in the middle of the sitting room,
sniffing the carpet. He watched as she used a roll of duct-tape to outline a
block of the rag.

"We need at least this much extracted and
analyzed," she instructed one of the lab techs. The man grunted in
agreement.

"Did you search the kitchen, Gerry?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, and the bathroom. I tagged everything I want
transported." She turned back to the lab tech. "If you can manage it,
I'd like to have the bathtub drain siphoned." Another affirmative grunt.

Frank saw a woman he recognized from other cases and knew
was in charge. "Ms. Aguilla isn't it? Phyllis Aguilla?"

"That's right, Detective Rivers. I'm flattered that you
remember me."

"I always remember someone who does good work. My
partner and I are going to get out of your way. We've left labels on all the
items we want transported and I'm taking these." He held out the photo,
address book and CD. "They came from the bedroom."

Aguilla took a digital picture of Frank holding the items
and made a note in a thin spiral ringed pad. "All right, Detective. Any
other special requests?"

"Yes, two things. The make-up in the bedroom needs to
go to Al Shuman so he can compare it to that found on the victim's face."
He waited as Aguilla made notes. "Number two, there was a bag of heroin
recovered when we found the body. Check carefully for possible stashes."

"Will do," Phyllis assured him. Frank turned to
Gerry. "Do you have any special requests for the techs?"

"I already told that fellow over there," she
nodded her head to a man kneeling on the floor near where she had placed the
gray tape. "I want that carpet, and the bathroom drain siphoned."

Aguilla made more notes.

"Gerry and I are going down to interview the
administrative people and any neighbors we can find. We won't leave until
you're finished here."

Gerry and Frank found Tami leaning against the outside wall
of the office and looking pensive, her gaze not focused on the present, but
shading a thoughtful inner self. An older woman stood beside her, rigid, arms
crossed, one foot slightly in front of the other. The older woman was dressed
in stonewashed jeans and a gray sweatshirt that read "BERKLEY" in
bold, dark green letters.

"She called her boss," Gerry reported.

"So I see," Frank nodded. He decided Tami was no
airhead. She knew the limits of her authority. He walked directly to the woman
with her arms crossed and showed her his badge. "One of your tenants was
found murdered yesterday. We're conducting a detailed search for evidence which
we hope will lead to finding the killer."

"I'm well aware of what you're doing."

"My name's Detective Rivers and this is my partner,
Detective Gardner. And you are?"

"Marcia Kline. I'm the manager of Isabella
Apartments."

"Did you see the search warrant?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any questions?"

"I have many questions, Detective. For one, how long do
you intend to be here frightening our renters?"

"That's difficult to say. We'll be here as long as
needed to complete a thorough investigation and question anyone who might have
known the murder victim."

"You intend to question people?"

"Yes. Starting with you," He turned to Tami, who
had abandoned her bout with introspection and was looking at him like he was a
piranha in a goldfish bowl. "And your employees."

"All my employees?"

"Of course."

"Well, that isn't possible. Ms. Ambruster is the only
employee on the premises today."

"Surely you have a security team on the property and
maintenance workers on standby?"

Marcia looked defensive for the first time. "Our
maintenance crew is on standby, but they aren't on the premises."

"And security?"

"We employee the services of BPS Inc. They monitor our
electronic security system and are only moments away."

"Well, it isn't the best way to insure safety, but
we'll need a list of all your employees, including those terminated since Mr.
Nguyen signed his lease." Frank knew he didn't have to tell Marcia his
intentions, her expression told him she'd figured it out, but he said it anyway
to maintain his edge in the conversation. "We'll interview each of them at
their home."

Before Marcia could respond, Gerry stepped forward and took
her by the elbow. "Come with me Ms. Kline. I'll talk to you and Tami while
Detective Rivers checks with Mr. Nguyen's neighbors." Marcia seemed
relieved to be rid of Frank's relentless stare and let Gerry lead her into the
office. Tami followed, her arms crossed and her eyes focused on the ground.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon by the time the CSI crew
had finished their work and explained to Marcia the meaning of the seal on
Nguyen's apartment. Frank and Gerry loaded the crates of physical evidence into
the squad car and signed the chain of custody forms. Frank drove while Gerry
scanned through the notes she'd gotten from Phyllis Aguilla.

"No prints at all. Wiped clean as a whistle," she
commented. "It'll take time for technical analysis."

"I can't wait to sort through what we do have. Let's
grab a sack of burgers and go back to the office."

"That's good for me," Gerry agreed. "I didn't
get much from Marcia and Tami. You had them disarmed and they seemed
cooperative, but they didn't know much about Nguyen."

"Same from the neighbors. He worked nights, slept
during the day. Kept to himself and didn't bother anybody. Nobody remembers
seeing any visitors the day he was killed."

"He did tell Tami that he planned to attend a
celebration of his new job on Thursday. That's where she thought he was all
day."

"Ah, and the party was being held where?"

"The Ha Ha House. That's where he worked. It's on West
Gray."

Frank reached into his pocket and withdrew the address book.
"Take a look at this. I think his family is listed here along with other
friends and associates."

"You're right," Gerry nodded. "We can get
good background from this little book. Want me to do that?"

Frank looked at her, showing relief and appreciation.
"After we have a chance to look at the physical evidence and plan out
other steps we'll want to take, you can follow up on the book and I'll have a
crack at the Ha Ha House."

When they had checked all the evidence into the office,
Frank scanned Nguyen's picture into the computer and enhanced the photo to be
used in his investigation. When he was satisfied, he printed the final product
and made several copies. He gave a couple to Gerry, put two in his pocket and
filed the remainder.

"Let's look at this CD-Demo," he suggested.

Gerry inserted the CD into a player, and they both sat back
to watch. The screen lit up and the young man whom they had come to know,
appeared.

"Hi. My name is Nguyen Qui Mang. My stage name is Hon
Cu Loa. The demo you are about to see was made at the Ha Ha House comedy club
in Houston. I hope you will consider having me appear at your club. Thanks for
watching."

The screen went blank and then lit up again, showing a
setting similar to the one displayed by the poster in Nguyen's apartment,
except the backdrop curtain was black with gold letters advertising 'Ha Ha
House Comedy Club.' An announcer holding a hand mike shouted, "And now the
one you've all been waiting for. Let's bring them together for our feature
stand up. Here he is! Hon Cu Loa."

There was a loud round of applause, and the camera scanned
an audience sitting around cafe tables clapping; amused, expectant faces
directed at the stage.

Nguyen ran onto the stage and grabbed the mike.

"Hi folks. My name's Hon Cu Loa, and as you probably
guessed, I'm Vietnamese. Of course, Hon Cu Loa is my stage name. Guess you
could say it's my Viet Nam de plume."

Polite laughter.

"Boy! What a change, coming to America. I've been in
Houston several years now. When I got here, I rented a furnished apartment out
on Bellaire. When I moved in, I looked around the place to see if there was
anything I needed so I could be more American. I realized I needed a dog."
A murmur moved through the crowd. Nguyen paused, scanning the audience with a
humorous look, allowing the innuendo to sink in. "I asked the guy next
door where to get one. He told me where to go..."

few twitters. "So, I told him where he could go too,
and asked another guy." Polite laughter. More, Frank decided, for the
comedian's sense of timing and expressions than for the old rejoinder. "He
gave me some directions. When I got there, the sign outside said Pet Store.
"When I went in and saw the prices, I realized why you have so many vegetarians
in Houston." The laughter was more exuberant, if a little nervous.
"The clerk looked at me and asked, 'You're Vietnamese, Right?' I nodded.
He told me, 'You might be interested in our family pack.'"

Frank and Gerry listened to the rest of the promo, admiring
the delivery and amused but unable to laugh with the knowledge that such an
exuberant, bright young man was dead. After the screen went blank, they sat
quietly, staring. Finally, Frank said, "Who could be angry enough with
that guy to hang him up on a meat hook?"

"You've got to remember, Frank, On stage, he was funny
and acted happy, but for all we know, he may have been a real horse's ass. We
still don't know the real Nguyen Qui Mang."

He looked at her. "That's right. And that's your job.
Go meet his friends and family."

She sent him a mock
salute and stood. “I’m on it. Have fun at the club.”