Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series)

by Harry Hoge

  He tried to reach Pauley by phone and drew a blank at both the mall and their apartment. Her cell phone was out of service. He decided to plant the devices before he went home to the empty apartment.

  After turning on Fowler, he drove past Gerry's townhouse, scanning the bushes and any place he thought someone could possibly be concealed. Not that he expected anyone to be watching him, but it paid to be careful, and also, he wanted to have a comprehensive knowledge of the area for future reference.

  He parked the cruiser at the end of the block facing in the opposite direction and sat in silence, memorizing each nuance of the neighborhood. He pulled a plastic shopping bag from the back seat, fished into the bag and found the roll of electrical tape. Another look around told him it would be safe to open the door without anyone noticing the interior light. He did it quickly, depressing the switch with his foot while he pulled off strands of the tape. It took pressure and care to ensure that the tape would prevent the light from coming on. He climbed out and eased the door closed without allowing it to latch, waiting several minutes to see if the tape was going to hold. Convinced, he crossed to the side of the street where Gerry's entrance was located and strolled toward the townhouse with his hands jammed in his pockets, the plastic shopping bag looped around his wrist and dangling at his knee.

  Frank had no trouble recognizing Gerry's new digs. He stood in the shadow of a large oak tree and listened to the noise from the freeway, filtering out that background the best he could, to rune into any sound that came from the neighborhood. Satisfied no one was about he picked the lock and let himself into the family room and kitchen area. The cartons and clutter he had seen during his first visit were gone, either put in their proper place or hidden away in a closet. Frank assumed the latter to be the case, since Gerry hadn't had enough down time to do much housecleaning.

  He surveyed the lower floor and decided to install a standard audio bug in the hall. Shawn Worley had convinced him the microphone would pick up voices from a distance farther than either the family room or kitchen was from the hall. He also planned to place a phone-activated bug in the downstairs telephone. He climbed the stairs and found an ideal spot for a traditional bug that should cover voices from either bedroom. Once these devices were in place, he retrieved the final apparatus from the shopping bag. It looked like one of those toys consisting of numerous small magnets that can be arranged into odd shapes by bouncing or jiggling, but its form was solid. It was a fake. Shawn Worley had sold him this listening gizmo in the conviction that anyone sophisticated enough to sweep the house for bugs would use a magnetic detection device. This "toy" would not alert anyone's suspicions and would work better than any other type of bug. Frank smiled, remembering the ex-con's pride in his own invention as he placed the jumble of metal on the table beside Gerry's bed.

  He completed the wiring and tested each bug. They were all voice activated and designed to transmit to a portable receiver and recording system no larger than a hand-held cell phone. That receiver needed to be within 30 yards of the house, but it had a built-in relay that linked to his phone, and he could retrieve the message from anywhere within the local cell. He hid the receiver in a half whiskey barrel filled with camellias on a small patio off the kitchen.

  Once the bugs were in place, Frank frowned at the third level. The loft was probably not a place where the killer would try to harm Gerry. It was too far from the bathroom and too difficult to transport a body, living or dead, up and down the stairs. He decided to take that chance and left the loft without a listening device. He took a last look around to insure he had cleaned up any evidence he'd been here, and let himself out the front door.

  Frank drove to a service station and deli on I-10, telling himself since he had done an illegal act by bugging Gerry's house without permission from anyone, he needed to dispose of the evidence. He said to himself, "You know that there are numerous ways to get rid of this shopping bag without going to a business that sells alcohol." He had already broken an age-old dictate not to drink on duty by having beer at the Ha Ha House. "But I wasn't officially on duty. I went to catch the new act." That rationalization wouldn't wash. He told himself he had chosen the stop to buy enough beer to replenish the supply he had depleted with his self-indulgence the night before. He wouldn't drink any of the stuff tonight, but have it on hand for later.

  He emptied the shopping bag by hand, distributing scraps and wires throughout the dumpster. When the bag was empty, he tore it in shreds and shoved it into a greasy cardboard carton that had held potato chips and been used to dump the scrapings from the hot dog rotisserie. He went inside the store and directly to the restroom to wash his hands, telling himself as he passed the beverage display, he wouldn't buy beer. On the way back to the front, he snagged a 12-pack of Keystone and paid the cashier. This will last me more than a week. Yeah, Right!

  When he pulled into the parking spot for his apartment, he was astonished to see Pauley's car parked in her usual spot. He glanced up at the window and determined the lights were indeed on. She was there. Damn! I don't think I'm ready for this right now.

  Chapter 20

  Gerry finished her second performance and made her way to her dressing room. Before she finished removing her makeup, Roger rapped on the door and let himself in.

  "Good show," he grinned.

  "Thanks. I thought it went better than the first try."

  "Ready to head for our new digs?" Gerry rolled her eyes. "It's still raining, so bring your umbrella," Roger continued. "I'll meet you out front." He smiled and left, closing the door with care.

  Gerry completed removing her stage self and then applied her Bea Black offstage face, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. I wonder how long I'll need to go around looking like this? She shrugged. Anything for the Company. She grinned and turned off the lights surrounding the mirror.

  Roger was waiting between the back-stage door and the bar with his hands shoved into his pants pockets. The casual slouch exemplified his masquerade. If Gerry hadn't known him, and was seeing him for the first time, she would have taken him for an agent or a pimp. She would never have believed he was a cop.

  She walked close and suggested, "Let's have a drink before we go. Maybe we can learn something." He nodded.

  "Good show," The Grinch exclaimed. "What'll you have?"

  Gerry ordered gin and tonic, and Roger settled for a glass of white wine. Gerry grinned at him while they waited for the bartender to bring the drinks, knowing that he seldom drank anything but beer and was trying to remain in character. She doubted agents or pimps drank white wine often, but he was doing his best.

  "Figured you might want champagne," The Grinch commented when she delivered the glasses. "Your debut went well tonight."

  "Why, thank you," Gerry responded with her Bea Black smile. "I hope I never reach a point where I want to drink champagne." The Grinch lingered, wiping the counter with a bar towel. Gerry took a sip of her drink. "We haven't met, but I understand you're called The Grinch."

  The Grinch made a face somewhere between a grimace and a smile. "Yeah, Rankin laid that one on me and it stuck. My name is Gretchen. Gretchen Sullivan. Maybe Grinch is better."

  "I'll call you Gretchen. My real first name is Beatrice, but if you call me that, we're gonna fight." She smiled and took another sip of the gin and tonic.

  Marsha Meyers came from the women's room, but when she saw Gerry and Roger at the bar, she swiveled quickly, turned her face toward the stage area and walked past without any glimmer of recognition. She went to the dressing room area and disappeared behind the door.

  "Don't pay her any mind," Gretchen joked. "Sometimes I think she's not carrying a full load."

  "We were talking earlier, and when I asked her where she was from, she got offended."

  "She's like that, very private about a lot of things. She claims she was born in Houston, but she sounds like a Californian."

  "Well you don't. You're an East Texas girl for sure."

 
"Yeah. I come from Vidor." "Vidor! Do I need to watch my back?" The Grinch actually smiled. "No. I left there and entered the real world when I was a cub. Been in Houston since junior high school and worked cafes and bars ever since. If I were still a bigot, I would have left this kind of job a long time ago. Besides, everyone in Vidor ain't in the Klan. That's sorta a bad rap."

  Gerry decided to change the subject. "You worked for this Rankin long?"

  "Too long, some might say."

  "What's he like to work for? He seemed right personable this afternoon."

  The Grinch grimaced. "My first husband was in the Navy. We lived in Corpus Christi, Pensacola, and Norfolk during the first three years of our life together. Those towns relied on the Navy for a big part of their economy and hated every minute of it. You know how people tend to resent dependency? Well, that's the way it is here. I married Reuben's brother and now we both work for him. I've got no regrets actually; I simply resent owing my livelihood to a relative."

  "Your name is Sullivan and you're married to Reuben Rankin's brother?"

  Gretchen chuckled. "Reuben's original name is Sullivan. He chose Rankin as a stage name years ago. He thinks it would be too confusing to go by his given name now. He's right."

  Gerry sipped her drink as she considered this piece of information. She dared a look at Roger, but he was chatting with a woman who had come to the bar on his right. She's drop dead gorgeous, Gerry thought. Am I jealous?

  It was about time for the club to close, yet there were people still hanging around, reluctant to go home. Gerry had noticed the same behavior in other bars. A club was often a place where people felt comfortable. For whatever reason, there were those who did not like to leave; some were traveling sales people who didn't want to go back to an empty motel room, some were single people who would do anything to postpone going to bed and waking up to another boring day at work, and then, there were those trapped in an unhappy relationship who didn't look forward to the reception at home.

  Gerry understood these situations, but she was so comfortable in her own skin that she enjoyed being alone. She had diverse interests and an insatiable curiosity, so she never felt lonely or lacked for things to keep her amused. Like now, she keened to get back to her new townhouse and continue settling in. She wanted to putter with arrangements of furniture and experiment in placing knick-knacks. The kitchen needed organizing and the bedrooms were cluttered. But when she and Roger left, it would be for a motel room. Being under cover was a full time job.

  "Well, I'd best be getting home," she remarked. "I want to work on my routine. Every audience has a different personality, and now that I have a better idea of the customers that come here, I can improve my delivery. Thanks for the conversation, Gretchen. If I can pry my agent away, I'll have time to get ready for tomorrow."

  Roger turned away from the woman immediately, telling Gerry that he hadn't missed any of her conversation with Gretchen Sullivan. "I'm ready," he grinned.

  They left by the front door and walked around to the back of the club where their car was parked. HPD had assigned a white Ford SUV confiscated in a drug bust in the fifth ward. The intent was that this would be completely different from a police car and would look like a vehicle an entertainer would drive without appearing too flashy or expensive.

  Once they were under way, Roger stated, "So, Rankin's real name is Sullivan."

  "Oh, you heard that? 1 thought you were so engrossed in that chickpea that you were shut off from the rest of the world."

  Roger smiled. "Her name is Arlene. Believe it or not, she's an attorney. Works with a law office up in the Woodlands. They do corporate contracts and such. No criminal cases."

  "Whatever."

  "You're jealous. I'm flattered."

  Gerry glanced at the side mirror and asked herself if she was jealous. Maybe a little.

  "I'm juggling a lot of different emotions right now, Roger. We're on our way to hole up in a motel room at the same place Laurie Lowe was staying when this perp gaffed her up in the shower. I just finished two lack-luster performances on stage after more than a year off. My partner's being shunned by everyone in HPD and is balancing his job with a crisis in his personal life. People are being murdered. There's some white bitch calling herself Shaman Lily pushing weird narcotics all over the city. My bowels are gurgling and grinding because of stress. My boyfriend is having sexual fantasies over some white woman with a law degree and there's an expensive, dark sedan behind us that's been following every move we make since we left the Ha Ha House."

  "I noticed that. I can't make the color, but it looks black or dark red. I think it's a Mercedes."

  "Frank said Rankin owns a burgundy Mercedes, but he has trouble driving himself. Gus usually does the driving."

  "I can only make out one person in the car, but it's dark. There could be more."

  "Let's drive straight to the room. Pretend to settle down and see what that car does."

  The motel was on Allen Parkway. They exited to the right and made a U-turn across the freeway to the access road, heading back the way they had come. Two cars followed them off, making it difficult to see the Mercedes. Gerry felt certain it had left Allen Parkway, because she couldn't see it when they drove over the bridge.

  A steep drive off the access road led to a parking lot in front of the motel. Arrows directed them to a lane leading past the office to the rooms. Gerry figured if the car followed them up the incline, it was coincidence and it was going to the same motel, not really following them. If it went past the motel, it could be a tail or not. Am I paranoid as well as tense? Maybe it was a tail and only wanted to see where they were going. That would eliminate Rankin. He already knew where they were staying. It had been on the contract they signed. Roger drove up the ramp to the motel at a slow pace while Gerry watched the Mercedes. The suspicious car slowed but didn't follow them.

  Their room was on the first floor in the back. Roger parked and they forced conversation, trying to act natural in case anyone was watching or listening. Once inside the room, they looked at each other and began changing clothes. Roger stripped off his suit coat and tie and strapped on his service revolver. Gerry pulled her dress over her head and pulled on nylon ski pants and a sweatshirt. She checked the works of a 380 automatic and stuck it her waistband.

  "I'll go first," Roger volunteered. Gerry nodded.

  He turned off the lights and slipped out the door. Gerry forced herself to wait a full two minutes before following. She saw Roger's shadowy figure near the comer to her right in the direction they had driven into the motel. His bulk was unmistakable in the dim light. She eased along the wall to the left, moving as quickly as she dared while tuning her senses to her surroundings. The motel appeared to be more than half full of boarders, all asleep behind dark windows, curtains drawn. Trees and shrubs cast long shadows on the wet pavement. The only light came from occasional tall poles in the back parking lot. Rain fell in a light steady rhythm. Gerry could hear herself breathing.

  She came to the corner and stopped, her back to the wall.

  She glanced to the other end of the wall. She could no longer see Roger. She assumed he had rounded his side and was still looking for anything suspicious. She took a deep breath and slipped around the corner. The sound of traffic on Allen Parkway and the lights of the cars filtered through the growth of pine trees and ligustrum bushes. One spotlight attached high on the motel wall flooded the ground and cast dancing shadows in corners and under the shrubbery.

  She waited. It was still. Air conditioning units hummed away, making listening difficult. Then she heard it - the sound of a car idling. A steady, gentle purr. A diesel. She drew the automatic from under her sweatshirt, and crept toward the sound, staying concealed in the shadows the best she could.

  As she approached the corner leading to the front of the motel, the engine stopped. She stopped too. Listened. Heard nothing. A trash can sat at the corner. She crept forward and flattened herself against the wall. She peeked around
, bending over the trash can. She saw it - a big burgundy Mercedes, its sleek wet chassis reflecting the motel sign and the lights of the parking lot like a metal mirror. It was parked at an angle that allowed Gerry to read the license plate with ease. She committed it to memory. RRCLO. How could anyone forget that?

  A noise to her right startled her. She could make out the sound of someone running through the bushes. She dropped into a crouch and hurried, crossing the parking lot toward the sound, holding the automatic in both hands stretched out in front of her. When she reached the bushes where she had heard someone moving, it was quiet. She remained crouched and let all her senses survey the area. At first nothing, then someone knocked over the trash can behind her.

  She spun, still in a crouch, and brought the automatic to bear on the corner. Nothing. She heard the roar of the engine and ran back across the lot. She got to the corner just in time to see the taillights of the sedan brighten as the driver touched the brakes at the bottom of the incline to turn right onto the access road. The car was out of sight in seconds. The sound of someone else running came from her left. She swung the gun in that direction and immediately recognized Roger coming around the motel from the opposite direction. He too had his revolver drawn and ready. They looked at each other briefly, then turned and went back to their room.

  "What do you make of that?" Roger asked.

  "No way it was Rankin. The car was empty when I first saw it, and then someone ran from the bushes, jumped in and sped away."

  "How many burgundy Mercedes do you see every day?"

  "Oh, it was Rankin's car all right. I saw the plate. RRCLO. I reckon that stands for Reuben Rankin Clown."

  "Gus?"

  "Or Gretchen."