by Harry Hoge
"Let's face it, Frank. If I'd brought this idea to you, you would have done everything possible to squash it. Am I right?"
Frank knew she was right. He answered her question by saying nothing.
"Am I right?" Gerry asked, her voice louder and her tone displaying irritation.
Frank simply looked at her and nodded his head, then asked, "In there, you said you had some experience as a stand-up. You told me you'd done a little, but have you really done all that?"
"Well, I've thought about it. Let's just call it 'resume enhancement.' Whatever it takes to complete the mission. That's what they taught me in the Marine Corps," she explained, grinning.
They had reached the squad room. Frank pushed the door open and held it until all the detectives were inside. Gerry went directly to her desk and sat with one hip on the top of it, her folders clutched by her side. Stanton, Foster, Grisham, and Fox formed a semi-circle in front of her. They looked like students waiting for wisdom from their teacher during an outdoor field trip.
Frank came up and pushed a mobile white-board where they could all see it. On the board, he and Gerry had drawn a line down the center to the halfway point, and a horizontal line from side to side, dividing the board into two squares at the top and a long rectangle at the bottom. At the top of the first square was the name "Nguyen," and in the second square was "Lowe." Below each name were neatly printed facts about each case. It summed up what had been discussed at the conference.
"We have pictures tacked to the wall near the coffee pot," Frank started, and waved that way. "All of the files are kept in this file cabinet." He pointed to a four-drawer gray cabinet beside Gerry's desk. Gerry eased herself off her desk and put the folders she had been carrying in the top drawer.
"Well," Foster responded. "Holloman assigned us the scut work. Where do you want us to start?"
Gerry reached back into the file cabinet and withdrew the thinner of the two folders. She handed it to Frank, and Frank, looking quizzical, passed it on to Foster.
"Those are the cases I downloaded from the Internet," Gerry explained. "I don't know what Frank wants, but if it were me, I'd start with the oldest and work a time line."
Frank nodded. "Sounds good," he agreed, then reached into the cabinet and selected the file with the information he had on the employees of the two clubs. "I think it best to start with the people connected to the Ha Ha House. That appears to be the main business, and Rankin spends more time there."
They exchanged cell phone numbers and set a schedule for reporting to each other, and then the four detectives retired to their desks to begin their work.
Gerry flashed Frank a charming smile. "Guess I best go home and get prepared for my interview with Rankin. It's scheduled for high noon."
"You're pretty damn sure of yourself, Bea Black. What makes you so sure Rankin will even hire you?"
"I've learned in this business, that if you line your ducks in a row and present logical solutions to most questions, you generally get what you want. Besides, when I first joined the department, we did a sting on a club in Kingwood. A place called Rising Stars. There was a guy working there named Richard Appleway who helped us out on it. Nice fellow. We've kept in touch. After the place closed, he moved to New Jersey. I've already called him. He wasn't there, but I left him a message asking him to vouch for me. I've got him listed as a reference, and I think he'll back me if it comes down to it."
"I seem to remember something about the place, but that begs the question as to why you want to go under cover again."
She laid her hand on his arm and looked at him without a hint of humor. "Maybe I'm just a ham, partner. Gotta go."
Frank covered her hand with his. "You be careful and remember, I'm looking out for you."
Now she smiled a small, soft smile, and left.
Chapter 18
Frank sensed the hostility from the other detectives as he outlined what he wanted them to do. There would be no sabotage from them, no attempt to rebel openly. They were professionals and would give the task force their supreme effort, but at the same time they would use every opportunity to make him aware that they still considered him a pariah, one who turned on his own. No matter the logic of the situation, he had severed "The Blue Line" and needed to pay penance to regain inside respect, if that were even possible. He resigned himself to the circumstances and laid out the work schedule. Having done that, he told them he wanted to follow up leads in Nguyen's neighborhood and left the office.
As he walked through the hall toward the front door, he replayed the memory tapes of his bother and banishment at the bequest of his contemporaries, whether from denial or defensiveness, and he had to fight back his anger and the temptation to shoot his middle finger in the air. When he pushed through the outside door, Chad Sherman was huddled under the eave smoking a cigarette. Frank hadn't known the ruddy officer smoked. Maybe he would take it up again. Pauley had talked him into quitting several years ago, but, dammit! He still wanted one.
"Still pouring," Sherman grinned.
"They reassigned you already?" Frank asked.
"Yep. Like it or not, we're Yin and Yang for a few days."
"Actually, I think we make a cute couple," Frank joked. "Are you sure whatever evil patina seems to be on me won't wear off on you?"
"I take it the other detectives are giving you some crap because of Skip."
"You could say that."
"They'll get over it. Skip made his own mess; all you did was show it to the world. There's no amnesty for bad cops."
Frank didn't reply as he looked up at the sky. The rain was steady, the kind that socks in and last sometimes for days. When Sherman finished his cigarette, Frank asked, "You ready to go?"
Sherman shrugged. "You're the boss." "Okay, you drive."
They hurried across the parking lot to the squad car, scrabbled in and wiped at the rain that had soaked them during the short run. Sherman pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and ran it over his red crew cut, then dabbed at his badge and the brass on his uniform.
The short hair and the "hard-body" physique made Sherman look younger than Frank knew him to be. "I understand you're about to complete your course work at U of H," he commented.
Sherman nodded as he put the handkerchief away. He turned the key and started the car, adjusted the defroster to clear the windshield, and hunkered over the wheel, listening to the engine as it warmed up.
"Gerry tells me you plan to leave the department." Sherman nodded again. "Yeah, even though I really don't want to, I've got three kids and need more money. It'll make life better at home in more ways than one." "What's your wife's name?" "Janet."
"Janet doesn't like you being a street cop?" "What woman does? She's supportive, but we fight about my job a lot. Often, it's a silent fight, but the strain's always there."
"You don't need to justify that problem to me. I understand it only too well."
Sherman looked at Frank and nodded. Frank had no way of telling whether or not Chad knew anything about his relationship with Pauley, but he knew how insidious departmental gossip could be. There were few secrets in HPD.
The engine settled into a quiet hum. "Where we headed?" Sherman asked.
Frank didn't have a plan when he stormed out of the office, but now he needed one. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"We are going to be uninvited guests at Reuben Rankin's house this afternoon. I like him for the murders, but I couldn't get a search warrant. Maybe he'll be kind enough to let us look around without one."
"Gotcha. Which way?"
"River Oaks."
Sherman raised his eyebrows and eased out of the parking lot. headed for Allen Parkway.
Reuben Rankin was not home. He was in his office at the Ha Ha House waiting for his appointment to interview a new rind-up act with the intriguing stage name of Bea Black. Reuben sat at a desk of dark wood, reading a copy of Variety as he waited. He glanced at his watch. It wasn't time yet, about ten more
minutes. Gus lounged on a sofa behind him, flicking through a Playboy magazine. A framed picture of the Houston skyline at night hung on the wall over the sofa, and a framed poster of the interior of the club, showing laughing customers and an unnamed comedian on stage dominated the wall to the left of the door. The only other furniture in the room other than the desk and sofa, was a bank of two filing cabinets and two straight-backed office armchairs, the generic model available at Office Depot or Office Max with heavy, blue tweed upholstery. A flat panel monitor looked down from a brace above the door, showing four separate views of the club beyond; one of the front door and the aisle to the bar, a second of the bar itself, and one close up and one distant view, of the seating area and the stage. There was no activity in any of the scenes because it was too early for anyone to be about preparing for the evening crowd.
Outside the front door, Gerry and Roger assessed each other's costumes. Roger's six-foot five frame looked imposing in his black, eight button, double-breasted, silk suit, a la Dion Sanders, pearl gray shirt, zebra striped black and white tie and a gray, snap-brimmed fedora that matched his shirt. Gerry wore an ample pants suit of black lyocell/cotton with back elastic waist, black long-sleeved ribbed sweater, leather shoes, "Sanya"-style, Louis Hill chandelier earrings, and black crocodile shoulder bag. What set her appearance off was the stunning black wig designed so that spiral curls fell below her shoulders and the padded body suit that on her tall lithe, frame caused her to look 40 pounds heavier. Her makeup was subtle, attracting attention to her high cheekbones and alert dark eyes.
"What do you think?" she asked Roger.
"Probably your best look ever. How about me?"
"I like it. Not quite sleazy enough to look like a pimp, but no one would think you were a stockbroker either." She smiled. "We're probably stereotypical enough to fool most people."
"Showtime," Roger announced as he reached for the door.
Reuben looked up when the bell told him someone had opened the front door. He watched as the couple scanned the club for some sign of life. He studied the comedienne and her agent, and decided they were professional theater types. The woman carried a portfolio under her left arm, which no doubt contained her promotion bio. He reached for a switch on the intercom. "Miss Black, please follow the aisle around the bar to the door marked Private. I have trouble getting around, or I would come meet you."
He watched the couple walk as he had instructed, neither saying anything to the other. Now that they knew they were being watched, they looked nervous; a common reaction Reuben had noticed with most people. He nodded at Gus. The surly companion hauled himself to his feet and walked to the door. He opened it and stood back so the visitors would have a clear view of Reuben, and vise-versa. Both the man and the woman flashed broad smiles and hastened their pace.
Roger stepped around Gerry and extended his hand to Reuben. "Mr. Rankin, it's kind of you to see us on such short notice."
Reuben took the hand. A firm grip. "Excuse me for not getting up." He indicated the wheelchair. "And your timing is perfect. We have an immediate need for an act. I hope you can fill the bill." Before either Gerry or Roger could respond, Rankin nodded at the portfolio under Gerry's arm. "Is that your clip?"
"Yes," Gerry responded, and handed the file to Rankin. "I've been away from the business for a while. Now, I want back in. It hasn't been long enough for me to go stale, and I miss it."
Rankin opened the folder and looked at the information, turning each page carefully and studying it without comment or change of expression. "Why the hiatus?" he asked without interrupting his scan.
Gerry looked at Roger and patted him on the arm. "Roger is more than an agent," she indicated with a smile. "We had a falling out, but that's resolved now."
Rankin looked at Roger. "What's your last name, Roger?"
"Wellington," Roger lied. "Roger Wellington. I used to have a full compliment of professionals, but Bea is my only client at the present."
"What was the spat about?"
Rankin knew it was a personal question, one he would not normally ask of a complete stranger, but he expected an answer. Discontent between an agent and an employee often generated disharmony in the work place. He had no time for unnecessary problems, and he wanted that known at the start. He knew the couple standing in front of him was prepared to disclose what he wanted to know, or they wouldn't have brought it up without his probing.
"Me," Roger answered. "If I'd done better by Bea, she'd probably be in high clover by now. I muffed an Atlantic City gig, and we fought about it."
"Hey, my man, don't take it all on yourself." Gerry added. "As I remember it, we both dropped the ball."
Rankin hesitated on a page. "You worked The Casablanca Club?"
"Yes, I did," Gerry responded. "Nice room. I liked it there. Richard Appleway was handling the stand-ups then. He was first rate. I understand he's not there any more."
"That's right," Rankin agreed. "I know Richard. Known him a long time. I'll give him a call, and if he vouches for you, I'll give you a shot."
Gerry felt her stomach turn. Name-dropping was a mistake. She didn't know if Richard might recommend her. She had done a good job while working the stage, but the sting had brought a lot of embarrassment to the club and Richard had lost his job as a result. "I don't know where he is at present," she responded.
Rankin smiled. "I do." He reached for the phone as he gave his Rolodex a spin. He punched in a number and smiled again as he waited for the call to go through.
"Richard. Hey, this is a voice from your questionable past.
Reuben... Yeah, that's right... Fine, Richard. Things are just fine here... How's Molly... Good... The reason I'm calling is, there's an attractive young comedienne standing here asking for a job... Bea Black... That's right..."
There was a long silence. Rankin stared at Gerry as he listened; Richard was evidently giving Rankin his opinion of Gerry. She did her best to not look apprehensive. It was taking too long.
"I see," Rankin said and moved the phone to his other ear. He broke eye contact with Gerry and patted his shirt pocket for a pen. Not finding one, he picked up a yellow, wooden pencil from the top of his desk and doodled on a pad. Gerry noticed he was drawing a series of capital O's as if he were in penmanship class. "Uh huh... Okay, Richard thanks. The next time you're in Houston give me a ring. ...Same to you, buddy."
He hung up, closed the portfolio and pushed it across his desk at Gerry. Gerry didn't pick it up. Her mind raced, searching for an explanation that might ease Rankin's suspicions and reverse his expected refusal. What a mess. It had never occurred to her that she wouldn't get the job.
Rankin looked at her. Was he nursing the moment? If Frank was right, and this guy was the murderer, what Richard Appleway had probably just told him was like drawing a target on her forehead. She started to say something when Rankin flashed a broad smile.
"I've known Richard since we were boys. He's a man who seldom gushes about anything, but he went to the wall for you. You must be good."
"Does that mean I get the job?"
Rankin frowned. "What it means is that I have a dilemma. The reason I'm in this business is, I want to develop young talent. If what Richard told me is true, you probably won't need any advice from me."
"Anyone can benefit from professional advice, Mr. Rankin," Gerry replied. "Your reputation is legendary. I'm certain I can pick up a few pointers from you."
Rankin looked down at his desk and grinned. "That's very kind, but my ego is only one horn of the dilemma. If you're talented, you probably won't stay with me long. I need long-term acts"
Roger jumped in, "We'll have a contract. Bea's willing to commit to any reasonable terms. Aren't you, Bea?"
"Of course."
Rankin showed his beaming smile. "If you can start tonight, we'll work out details after the show."
It was Gerry's turn to look pensive. "What you mean is, you want to see for yourself that what Richard Appleway said is true?"
<
br /> "The old saw is true, Ms. Black. You can't kid a kidder."
Gerry held out her hand. Rankin took it. They shook. "What time tonight?" Gerry asked.
"Second act. Eight o'clock."
Gerry winked. Rankin covered the handshake with his left hand. "Good." He extended his hand to Roger. Roger didn't take it. He grinned.
"We'll shake hands tonight... after the audition... and after we work out the details."
Frank turned away from Rankin's door after knocking for the fourth time.
"Guess there's no one home," he commented.
Chad Sherman glanced around. "Think we should invite ourselves in? No one can see us."
Frank hesitated, seeming to consider this lighthearted suggestion about breaking and entering. The look of surprise on Chad's face told him if he didn't say something, the rookie detective would haul out his lock picks. Frank smiled and said, "If I didn't like Rankin so much for this happening, I'd be tempted, but it would be just my luck to find evidence and not be able to use it to put this guy away."
He stepped off the porch and glanced around at the neighborhood before following the walk past bay windows landscaped by azaleas and red-tipped photina to the four-car garage at the side of the house. Sherman followed. Frank went to the second door and, using his left hand to shade the glare, peered through a narrow pane into the garage. The first two bays were empty. A burgundy Mercedes E-320 sedan gleamed from the third berth, looking, Frank imagined, much as it did on the showroom floor. The final part of the garage served as storage for tools, yard care equipment, assorted cardboard cartons with unknown contents, and a golf cart. Frank wondered why Rankin would need a golf cart. When he felt Sherman beside him, imitating his spying, he mentioned his question.
"Lot of these old guys follow the pros around the course in carts," Chad offered. "Vicarious exercise, I guess."
Frank turned his back on the garage, shoved his hands in his pockets and stood thinking. His cell phone interrupted his thoughts. He walked to the edge of the driveway and took the call, teetering on the lip of the concrete, the toes of his shoes bobbing over the shredded cedar around the euonymus shrubs. When he snapped the phone off, Sherman was still surveying the inside of the garage.
