Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (7 page)

Moments later, Dawn and Bernie emerged. Laurie Lowe had
headed back to Albuquerque, New Mexico, and Wolfgang had left for the night.
Dawn had never heard of Nguyen, but Bernie said he had worked with him often.

"He's probably the best stand-up I've ever known,"
Bernie volunteered. Frank noticed that his Spanish accent had disappeared.
"He worked hard," Bernie went on. "Took copious notes on how the
audience reacted to lines and combinations. Man, The Monkey could switch from
one bent to another in mid stream. I knew he'd move up fast, but I didn't
expect Vegas to call so soon."

Frank didn't bother to correct Bernie's assumption that
Nguyen was smiling somewhere between Houston and Las Vegas.

"I've noticed that many of you are different on stage
and off. How did he act off stage?"

"He was the one that suggested I use more dialect in my
performance. Other than his ruse of being an emigrant, he was pretty much the
same. Always in a good mood. Always crackin' and jivin.' Funny, funny man. I
got the impression he was always acting."

Frank and Gerry stood by their cars discussing what they had
learned during the evening, and decided there was nothing new.

"You're sure it's all right if I skip the visit to
Rankin's pad tomorrow?" Gerry asked.

"Yeah, I can fill you in Monday. You need to get
settled. By the way, where are you looking?"

"I've got my eye on a three story townhouse in the
Heights. You know, one of those that are only about one room wide with lots and
lots of stairs?"

"More of the 'keeping your figure' stuff?"

"You're on to me, cousin."

During the drive home, Frank mulled over the case. Was he
missing something? There were no road signs that pointed anywhere but at
Rankin. He arrived in the parking lot to the apartment at a beat or two before
1:00 am. He expected Pauley to be asleep. He was mistaken. Although she looked
tired, she was propped up in bed with a hard-bound copy of Harry Potter and the
Order of the Phoenix supported on her stomach.

"Hi," Frank smiled. "Did you get my
message?"

"I did. That's why I'm still awake." Frank thought
her response unusually cool.

"I didn't expect you to wait up for me."

Paulette didn't answer. She appeared to be reading the book.
Frank shrugged out of his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his
boots.

"Did you enjoy all day and all night with your new
partner?" Paulette asked, a definite tenseness in her voice.

"Yeah. Right. Investigating a murder is always a jolly
time."

Silence.

"How about you?"

"What about me?"

"I tried to call you several times. You never answered
your pretty much the same. Always in a good mood. Always crackin' and jivin.'
Funny, funny man. I got the impression he was always acting."

Frank and Gerry stood by their cars discussing what they had
learned during the evening, and decided there was nothing new.

"You're sure it's all right if I skip the visit to
Rankin's pad tomorrow?" Gerry asked.

"Yeah, I can fill you in Monday. You need to get
settled. By the way, where are you looking?"

"I've got my eye on a three story townhouse in the
Heights. You know, one of those that are only about one room wide with lots and
lots of stairs?"

"More of the 'keeping your figure' stuff?"

"You're on to me, cousin."

During the drive home, Frank mulled over the case. Was he
missing something? There were no road signs that pointed anywhere but at
Rankin. He arrived in the parking lot to the apartment at a beat or two before 1:00
am. He expected Pauley to be asleep. He was mistaken. Although she looked
tired, she was propped up in bed with a hard-bound copy of Harry Potter and the
Order of the Phoenix supported on her stomach.

"Hi," Frank smiled. "Did you get my
message?"

"I did. That's why I'm still awake." Frank thought
her response unusually cool.

"I didn't expect you to wait up for me."

Paulette didn't answer. She appeared to be reading the book.
Frank shrugged out of his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his
boots.

"Did you enjoy all day and all night with your new
partner?" Paulette asked, a definite tenseness in her voice.

"Yeah. Right. Investigating a murder is always a jolly
time."

Silence.

"How about you?"

"What about me?"

"I tried to call you several times. You never answered
your phone."

"Well I was busy. I spent the day scrabbling with Mark
over the details of our deal."

"Mark?"

"Yeah, Mark Simeon. The man who wants me to open the
new stores. Don't you remember?"

It irritated Frank when she accused him of not remembering
in that tone of voice. What she really meant was that he didn't care enough
about the things that were important to her.

"Of course I remember. But you never called him Mark
before. It was Mark Simeon or simply Simeon. That's all."

"Oh. That's all? What are you trying to say?"

Frank carried his boots to the closet, thinking about advice
his father had given him when he had gotten into a fistfight in high school.
"You'll never get to be a big bass if you rise to every bait that hits the
water." He decided to ignore Pauley's last comment and walked to the
bedroom door as he unbuttoned his shirt.

"Aren't you going to answer my question?" Pauley
asked.

He stopped and looked at her. Why was she picking a fight?
He decided she was overly tired, or that the negotiations with Simeon hadn't
gone well and had ground her down.

"I didn't consider it a question. We'll talk about it
in the morning."

She looked back at her book. "I have to meet with Mark
in the morning." she mumbled in a low tone.

"That's fine. I need to interview a suspect
anyway."

She let the book sag. "With your new partner? What's
her name? Gigi?" Frank was too tired to resist a rejoinder.

"Now I'll ask it. What is it you're trying to
say?"

She slammed the book shut and flung it to his side of the
bed.

"Only that you seem to enjoy being with her more than
with me lately."

"Come on, Pauley. It's been one tough day. And you
didn't even answer your phone."

"One long, long day, Frank. It's nearly two in the
morning, and you come home with alcohol on your breath."

"We were casing a comedy club."

"You never drink on the job."

"Under the right circumstances I do."

"It's those circumstances I'm talking about."

"Are you jealous of Gerry?"

"She's very attractive, Frank." She never called
him Frank unless she was making a point.

"She's a cop. She's also Afro-American, if you hadn't
noticed."

"I can't imagine that either of those facts would
thwart a man like you."

"What do you mean, 'A man like me'?"

"You're a sexy guy, Frank. Who should know better than
me? And you don't have a prejudiced bone in your body. Again, who knows better
than me. I don't like you spending eighteen hours a day with such an attractive
woman."

"But it's all right for you to spend all day with a
wealthy investment broker and not answer your phone?"

"If you'd left a message I would have called back. What
were you doing? Checking up on me?"

"Get real, Pauley. What's wrong? You got PMS or
something?"

She grabbed the book
and threw it at him. He pulled the door closed and heard it whack against the
wood. He growled and pulled a blanket from the linen closet next to the
bedroom. He needed sleep and would find the couch more comfortable than the
bedroom.

Chapter
8

Frank was wrong. He couldn't get comfortable. He tossed
around, hoping to find a good position, and trying to turn his mind away from
his spat with Pauley. Their fights had been rare of late, but he remembered the
other time. It had been a terror for them both. He, a hard-headed young cop
parading about like a crusader in armor, wearing his intent to rid humanity
from wrongdoing like a holy bunting about his neck, and she, a fresh young
clothier with a sparkling new shop in a prestigious mall, both eager to be
their own person and succeed in spite of a common non-glamorous background, and
neither willing to relinquish control of their lives for the sake of nurturing
the other. Pauley claimed to hate cops. Frank openly spurned merchants as
fraudulent and predatory. Because of individual pride and inability to forgive,
they had parted ways. Reconciliation had not come easily. Was it all beginning
again?

He finally managed to fall into a limbo of near sleep, and
was washing to and fro in unreal thought when she pulled back the blanket and
snuggled in beside him. She didn't say anything and neither did he. He inhaled
her aroma as he stroked her hair and rubbed her back gently. Soon they were
both sleeping soundly like puppies in a basket they had nearly outgrown.

Pauley arose first, and was dressed and gone before Frank
sat up from the couch and contemplated how he would approach Reuben Rankin. He
showered and dressed. Pauley had brought the morning paper in from the stoop
and left it for him on the breakfast table. Below the fold, under bold
headlines, was the story of the clown case, only a three-inch column with few
facts and no continuation or side bar. His name wasn't mentioned. It hadn't
come from Lieutenant Barker's office. Probably the girl at Nguyen's apartment
complex.

He drank orange juice and grabbed a bagel and a cup of
coffee in a roadie-mug before heading out the door. He took I-10 to the 610
loop and turned south. When he reached San Felipe, he went east to Willowick
and turned left. He had little trouble finding the estate on Del Monte. A lane
covered with white gravel and lined with azalea bushes in their forlorn winter
guise led him under overhanging branches of gigantic live oak trees to a
curving driveway. The house had the massive white columns and red brick of
Jeffersonian styling. He left the blue and white in the middle of the drive and
strolled to the door, taking in the immaculate rolling lawn and showy topiary
shrubs. Reuben had a coin or two.

He rang the doorbell, expecting a servant to come and ask
him why he thought he should be in this neighborhood and where he got the
audacity to expect to see the master without an engraved invitation. Instead, a
friendly voice chirped over an intercom.

"Detective Rivers. What a pleasant surprise. Come on
in."

Frank glanced around for the camera system, but he couldn't
see it.

"When you hear the click," the voice continued,
"the door is unlocked and the security system is disarmed. Come in and
close the door behind you, then walk straight ahead until you see a stairway
going down. I'm in the workout room at the bottom of those stairs. Come on
down."

Frank heard the click, then tried the door and it opened. He
stepped into a foyer floored with white marble. The walls were flat white and
brass hurricane lamps lit his way. The marble gave way to hardwood that would have
put Madison Square Garden's basketball court to shame. The wood ran by a wide
staircase leading up. There was a mechanized seat along the banister, intended,
Frank surmised, to get Rankin upstairs unassisted.

The hall was covered with wall hangings. They were all
poster-sized portraits of Reuben Rankin on stage in various costumes and
makeup. In every one, he was holding a microphone and brandishing a broad,
captivating smile.

There was a wheelchair at the top of the stairs that led
down, and a second mechanized glide-seat rail. The seat was at the foot of the
stairway. Frank heard muffled voices and what sounded like the clank of a
barbell being seated on the holder over a weight-lifting bench. He descended
the stairs and saw Rankin sitting on the workbench, wiping his face with a huge
white terrycloth towel. There was another wheelchair near the bench.

Rankin's apparent fitness was a surprise. His face still
reminded Frank of the Pillsbury Doughboy, but the muscle tone of his chest and
arms were that of an athlete. His legs however, were spindly and sinewy.

Frank scanned the room, finding it more than just a gym.
There was a home theater on the right, with an enormous LCD viewing screen and
four plush chairs. A closed louvered metal door covered the wall directly
behind the workout area. On the left was a fully stocked wet bar. The bodyguard
with the pigtail sat on a stool at the bar, sipping a glass of amber colored
liquid and staring at Frank. Two brawny Boxer dogs made bookends on either side
of the bar stool, staring at Frank with the same intensity as the bodyguard.
Both dogs sat like statues, their cropped ears up and forward. The one on the
right rose to all fours. The entire rear quarters of the dog wagged, not only
the tail, and the animal whined. Rankin glanced at the dogs.

"Senta!" The dog sat immediately, and both Boxers
planed their ears and looked sad. "Don't worry. They're both
sissies," Rankin said, "but I don't want that to get out. They're
meant to be vicious guard dogs." He turned to face Frank. "Welcome to
my home, Detective Rivers. After...ahem...running into you yesterday, I hoped
you would come."

"Why did you expect me, Mr. Rankin? I didn't know who
you were until after we met."

Rankin didn't answer immediately. He nodded to the man at
the bar. "Gus, come help me up."

Gus sauntered to the wheelchair and picked up a fluffy white
robe. He held it, and helped Rankin put it on and stand. Rankin smoothed the
robe, uncovering the logo on the left breast, two large letter R’s in midnight
black. When Rankin nodded, Gus lifted him with ease into the wheelchair. Rankin
touched a lever on the right arm of the chair and swung around to face Frank.

"I know all about you, Detective Rivers. One of my
passions is reading about police work. I confess, your name has become more
than familiar to me. Like a voyeur or a stalker, I've followed your career in
detail. When I saw you at the Ha Ha House yesterday, I concluded you were there
at that time of day for only one reason—some sort of investigation." The congenial
smile that hadn't left his face since he began talking to Frank broadened.
"Am I correct?"

"Is your club investigated often?"

Rankin clapped his hands. "Excellent. You don't
disappoint, answering a question with a question. No, glad to say, I don't
think any of my clubs have ever been investigated." Frank started to say
something, but Rankin held up his hand. "Wait," he said. "This
isn't the best way to have a civil conversation. Let's go to the den. Would you
like a drink?"

Frank refused the drink and stood back as Rankin propelled
his chair to the stairway. He lifted himself with grace born from practice onto
the glide seat, and began to ride up the stairs.

"Neat, huh?" Rankin exclaimed. "What a
wonderful way to climb stairs, Detective. You should try it."

Frank walked along beside, aware that Gus was busy tidying
up the workout area. The dogs bound up the stairs, passing Frank, and waited,
wiggling and whining as Rankin maneuvered himself into the waiting wheelchair.

"This way," Rankin said, and zipped off to a room
under the main staircase. The dogs' toenails clicked on the hardwood floor in
rhythm. Frank decided that Reuben Rankin was a contented man, his mood
reflected in his eyes, snappy dark eyes that sparkled with humor.

The room looked more like a library than a den. Book shelves
filled two walls, and framed pictures of Rankin posing with various celebrities
covered the others. Frank recognized faces of people he had seen on TV and in
the movies: Dean Martin, Johnny Carson, Steve Martin and Joan Rivers caught his
eye.

The dogs found a carpet in the corner and curled up with
heads on paws. Evidence of a habit developed by frequent visits to the room.

There was a drafting table and a long library-like table in
the middle of the room, and two overstuffed chairs nearby. Frank walked to the
bookshelves and began reading titles. There were numerous subjects and many
covers that he assumed to be first editions. One entire section was reserved
for police procedural and private detective novels written by modern writers:
Michael Connelly, Patricia Cromwell, James Lee Burke, Sara Paretsky, Jeffery
Deaver and Janet Evanovich to name but a few. Shelved with the novels were
books on poisons and weapons and procedures used by many police departments.

"Do you like my collection, Detective?"

"Impressive. I've heard of many of these authors, but I
must confess, I haven't read any of them."

"Ah, yes. That would be a true busman's holiday, I
would imagine."

Frank didn't respond. His attention had fallen on three thick
binders, too tall for the space, lying flat on the bottom shelf, spines
outward, making the bold black titles easy to read - FRANK RIVERS, HPD.

"Drat," Rankin exclaimed when he saw Frank's
astonishment. "You've discovered my secret before I could show it to
you." He wheeled to the bookcase and took the top folder down. "I'm a
real fan. A groupie I fear. I've followed your career through the press and
scrounged up what I could from other sources. It was quite sad when you were
forced to expose your long-term partner last year."

"I don't know whether to be flattered or alarmed,"
Frank replied.

"Don't worry," Rankin laughed. "I'm not a
stalker, merely a fan. Fans are important people in my business."

"I've heard you were a headliner in Las Vegas. Do you still
perform?"

The snappy eyes took on a forlorn aspect. "Alas, no. I
tried a comeback once, but what with my handicap, and the way the restrictions
encumbered my delivery, I couldn't pull it off. Look at this clipping." He
had opened the binder to a photo that Frank recognized immediately. It was he,
caught with his suit coat open to expose his revolver in a shoulder holster,
the door of his car wide open behind him and the front door of the Houston City
Hotel in front of him.

"Early in your career," Rankin commented.

"Very early. That was my arrival at..."

"Your friend, the attorney. No need to bring up names
of the dead. I was impressed by how you wouldn't accept what everyone else
thought was obvious, the lawyer found naked in a hotel room from an apparent
overdose of narcotics. You not only found the killer, but you cleared your
friend's good name. His family must have been most grateful."

"Have you seen the papers this morning, Mr.
Rankin?"

The man looked up over the rim of the binder. "No, not
yet. I usually do that with lunch. Gus always puts the morning papers on the
table in the dining room. Is there something I should read?"

Frank removed the photo of Nguyen from his pocket and showed
it to him. "There's a report of his murder on the front page."

He watched the humor drain from Rankin's eyes, replaced by a
flinty hardness he couldn't interpret.

Rankin looked at his lap and mumbled. "So that's why
you were at the club on Gray."

Frank nodded.

Rankin spun his chair and rolled to the middle of the room before
wheeling back near one of the overstuffed chairs. Frank noticed Rankin's eyes
were misty. He was fighting back tears.

"Sit down, Detective. You must have hundreds of
questions to ask me." Frank sat.

"The first one is obvious, Mr. Rankin. When was the
last time you saw Mr. Nguyen alive?"

Rankin took a moment to think. "Wednesday night. After
the last show, Manny told me about his offer from Las Vegas. We sat alone at
the club for hours, toasting his success and lamenting the separation."

"Were you happy for him?"

"Oh my, yes. The reason I decided to get into the
comedy club business in the first place was to help propel talented comics
along the path to the top. I realized that if I had to languish in a wheelchair
the rest of my life, the least I could do was provide opportunity for others
from my home town."

"I understand you arranged a going away party for him,
and he didn't show."

"I wasn't surprised when he ducked the party. He didn't
like that sort of thing. I did it anyway, as much for the others at the club as
for him. Now I know why he didn't come. He was dead."

"This may be a delicate question, Mr. Rankin, but how
did you lose the use of your legs?"

"The newspapers said that I was drunk and fell off the
stage while I was performing, but that's a lie. I was shot. Low in the back. I
tumbled into the pit and thought I was going to die. Maybe I did, in a
way."

"I should be aware of all this, but I confess, I know
nothing about the story."

"Not much to know, really. There has always been
a...what shall I say, a gangland atmosphere in Vegas? Even more so in the early
days than now. I wasn't popular with some of the club owners anyway, and when I
got word to the proper authorities about some high dollar drug deals, one of
them retired me."

"I see. That's interesting, but about Mr. Nguyen. You
called him Manny."

Rankin laughed. "The man of many names. I thought his
choice for a stage name, Hon Cu Loa, was a stroke of genius. Monkey's Island.
Most of his co-workers tagged him 'Monkey,' but I knew him as Manny Wynne
before he earned his name. He needed to appear as a recent emigrant from Viet
Nam, so he resurrected Nguyen Qui Mang, the name on his birth certificate, as a
cover in case the press dug into his background. He is... was very
Americanized."

"Did he have any enemies?"