Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (22 page)

"No need for that, Mr. Rankin."

"I thought it routine for a murder suspect,"
Rankin said.

"It's my call, and I don't think it's necessary."

Rankin nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly,
looking down at his hands in his lap.

Frank closed the door and looked at the wheelchair, trying
to discover how to collapse it and store it in the trunk.

Rankin knocked on the window and motioned Frank to open the
door. He was holding a leather key pouch up so Frank could see. "That's my
stay-at-home chair. It doesn't collapse. Take these keys. There's a more
portable chair in the Mercedes."

Frank glanced toward the garage where the big car sat in
front of the closed roll-up door. He turned back to Rankin and nodded, taking
the keys. He closed the patrol car door again and walked to the Mercedes,
inserted the key, and popped the trunk.

Suddenly, everything changed. Congeniality gone. The
beautiful evening turned cold. Frank clenched his teeth as he stared at a body
curled up in the trunk dressed in a clown suit, pink and white polka dots on
one half, and yellow and red stripes on the other. Despite the broad smile
painted on the face, Buddy Bigley was stone cold dead. Frank could see the
jagged hole under his jaw and dead, fish-gray eyes staring up at him.

Staring down at the deceased, Frank's body language must
have communicated something to Sheridan Barker, causing her to walk to the back
of the car and look over his shoulder. She gasped, not from horror, Frank figured,
she had seen many corpses in her career, but from the shock of finding a murder
victim at this particular time in this particular place.

"Jesus H. Christ on a cross," Frank muttered. He
forced himself to stop staring at Buddy Bigley and looked around the concrete
of the driveway. He spotted what he was searching for immediately, no more than
seven feet away from the Mercedes. A small puddle of transmission fluid
glistened in the lights anchored under the eave of the garage roof.

"This complicates the situation," Sheridan
grunted.

Frank glanced at her and caught motion out of the corner of
his eye. Rankin was waving through the window of the patrol car mouthing
something, his expression caught between curiosity and dread. His cell phone
buzzed before he could register how he should handle this new development with
Rankin. It was one of the uniforms calling from the street.

"Got a civilian down here who's insisting he should be
allowed to come up the drive. Claims he's Mr. Rankin's lawyer."

Frank glanced toward the street where the patrol car blocked
the entrance of a Lincoln Town Car.

"Send him up," Frank ordered. He closed that call
and dialed Olivia Stanton's number.

"We've got a problem up here," he said. "Call
CSI, and the task force room, then come on up." He closed the phone and
walked to the patrol car, arriving at the same time as Rankin's lawyer. He
opened the back door of the car so he could talk to Rankin.

"What's wrong, Frank?"

Frank didn't answer.

"If something happened here, I have a right to know.
That's my car. This is my house. Talk to me, Lieutenant."

Frank turned to face Rankin's lawyer.

"Sorry I'm late," the lawyer said. "My name
is Cedric Oliver Stiles, C.O. for short. Have you read my client his
rights?"

"I was waiting for you to show up before I Marandized
him," Frank responded.

Sheridan pulled Frank aside. "Surely you don't intend
to go forward with the arrest now?" she asked.

Frank shot her a look. "Why not?"

"Sheridan, what's going on?" Reuben shouted.

She ignored the question, directing her comments to Frank.
"Reuben obviously had nothing to do with this new victim's death, and it's
the same MO."

"Ms. Barker." Frank's voice was stern, official.
He had never addressed Sheridan as "Ms. Barker" before. "You've
compromised this whole damned investigation from the beginning. You can hardly
approach any of this with objectivity, and if you were in my place, you would
probably be considering yourself seriously as an accomplice." Frank
paused. His voice softened. "Uh, Sheridan, I'd appreciate it if you
wouldn't say anything to either your father or his lawyer about us finding
Buddy Bigley."

They stood, searching each other's eyes, each recognizing
the strong commitment of the other. Sheridan surrendered first. "You're
right, Frank. Okay. This is how my father wants to play this out. But, remember
when it's over, I was right."

Frank watched her until it was clear she had said her last
words to him, then studied the toe of his shoe, thinking. He didn't move until
the other two police cars came up the drive and the officers got out. Chad
Sherman busied himself by hanging "Crime Scene" tape around the
approach to the garage, and Olivia Stanton came to report to Frank.

"Phyllis Aquilla has the duty," she reported.
"She's on her way with the lab techs. George Foster's coming too. He
thought it best to keep Grisham and Fox at headquarters and busy."

"Good. I'll wait until Foster gets here, then I'll take
Rankin in and book him."

Olivia looked in the trunk of the Mercedes. "Looks like
the same MO, but this is the first one I've seen first hand."

"It does look the same, but let's treat it carefully.
Things aren't always what they seem." He heard the CSI team coming, the
sirens a cacophony in the surreal silence of the high-class residential area.
George Foster came directly to Frank. Frank briefed him and turned the duties
over to him. He walked back to his patrol car and beckoned C.O. Stiles, who was
in a whispered conversation with Sheridan. The lawyer excused himself and
strode to the car.

"I wanted you here when I read Rankin his rights,"
Frank said. He turned to the car and began the ritual. Reuben mouthed the words
as Frank recited, seeming as familiar with the routine as Frank.

When Frank finished, Reuben stated, "I've never been
arrested before, but I've heard and read that spiel so many times I can say it
in my sleep."

Frank turned to the lawyer. "Do you have anything
further to say here?"

"No."

"You can follow us in your car. We'll meet in the back
parking lot." He turned without waiting for a response, went to the
driver's side of the car, got in, started the motor and maneuvered his way down
the drive to the street.

Bea Black ended her routine to enthusiastic applause and rushed
off the stage. She couldn't believe the audience had liked the mish-mash she
had delivered. She couldn't let her mind get hung up on her performance for
long; she had to get to Roger and tell him about Sumbitch. lona Carr bumped her
as they passed and mumbled, "Wow! You were great!" She could see
Roger towering over a smaller man with white thinning hair and a three-piece
dark suit. The man was smiling and had his hand outstretched. She shot Roger a
plea for help, but the man was already talking.

"Miss Black, I'm J. P. Schwinn. I have clubs all over
Houston and on both coasts. Reuben called me and told me he had a star down
here, and I came to catch your act."

"I'm pleased, Mr. Schwinn, but I can't talk to you
right now. Sorry, but I have something urgent to take care of."

"Excuse me," Roger interrupted. "I'm Miss
Black's agent,"

he volunteered in his deep baritone, as he shook Schwinn's
hand. "If you'll meet me at the bar in five minutes, we can discuss your
offer."

"Of course, but I really want to talk to Miss Black
before I leave."

"That can be arranged," Roger agreed, and flashed
a broad smile. "Five minutes, please."

Schwinn waddled off and Gerry grabbed Roger's arm, guiding
him toward the dressing room. "Thanks for bailing me out. I've got to tell
you something I discovered this afternoon.'' They went into the dressing room
and shut the door. Gerry told him about the picture and her dread about the
breach of security in the department.

"That's very interesting. I thought I had news for you,
and I guess I do, but it's probably all related. Reuben called Frank this
afternoon and offered to surrender. Frank was supposed to go to Rankin's house
about the same time you went on stage. Your boss should be in custody by now
and tucked away at HPD."

Gerry was still gaping at that news when a soft tap came at
the door and it opened.

Marsha Meyers poked her head around the door. I've got your
glass of wine here, Bea. Am I intruding?"

Roger answered. "No, Mars. I was jus' tellin' Bea how
she blew the house away. I got an appointment with a gentleman at the
bar." He turned to Gerry. "I'll be back in a little bit, before your
next show. Get some rest." He smiled at Marsha and eased past her, closing
the door behind him.

"Thanks for not forgetting the drink, Marsha. I can
really use it right now." Gerry sipped the wine, and then took a gulp and
another sip before setting it on the dressing table. Marsha was gushing about
Bea's routine, all smiles and giggles as she repeated some of the jokes Bea had
used.

"I must say, Bea, I owe you an apology. You're even
better than promised. I thought you were just one more down and out clown with
an overblown portfolio, but..."

Bea reached for the wine glass and knocked it over.

Marsha remained seated, but she leaned forward with her
elbows on her knees and studied Gerry.

"Are you all right, Bea?" Her voice sounded
concerned.

"I can't seem to control my arms, and I'm a little
nauseous." She tried to turn and stare at Marsha, but she found her head
moving as if in slow motion. Her vision was blurry and when she tried to talk,
it came out in a mumble. She had tried to say, "You put something in my
drink, you little slut," but all that came out was a garbled groan. Her
brain was working, but the rest of her body was totally out of control. She
felt herself slipping out of the chair.

Marsha got to her before she fell, and pulled her to her
feet. Gerry realized the girl was much stronger than she looked.

"Do you like flowers, Bea? I do. My favorite flower is
the Lily. I'm particularly fond of one that grows wild in California, Veratum
californium, sometimes called the Death Camas. My daddy grows some of the best
in Texas. But, don't you worry none. You didn't ingest enough to kill you, just
slow you down. A little fresh air and you'll be fine. Come on, you can walk.
There's an outside door off Reuben's office."

Lily?

Death Camas?

Shaman Lily?

Gerry tried to resist Marsha's efforts to force her through
the door and into the office, but she found she could do nothing except loll
her head around and go along. When they reached the office door, she managed to
glance toward the bar, hoping Roger would see what was going on, but people
were three deep around the bar, buzzing and calling for drinks before the next
act was introduced. She heard the office door open and close, her feet
shuffling on the carpet. Marsha leaned her against the wall. She thought she
was going to vomit. She heard the outer door slide open, felt the cool night
air rush over her, easing her affliction momentarily. Before she could take
advantage of the moment, Marsha grabbed her again and pushed her out the door
and into the arms of a hulking form of a man who smelled like gin and wore a
silly pigtail.

Gus pinned her arms, hustled her roughly into the back seat
of a maroon Honda, and slammed the door. She heard both front doors open and
close, and the car began moving with a rattle of the transmission. She was
suddenly very sick and bent over, hurling the contents of her stomach on the
floor. After a bout with the dry heaves, she rolled over on the seat and began
to drift away. The last voice she heard before passing out, was Gus saying,
"You better get this transmission looked at. The seal must be leaking like
a garden hose."

A uniformed officer was waiting when Frank drove into the
parking lot at HPD. He took charge of unloading the wheelchair and helping
Rankin haul himself out of the patrol car and into the chair. Frank escorted
Reuben down a corridor to an interrogation room, C.O. Stiles huffing along
behind. Frank noted that Rankin had fallen into a sullen mood since the
discovery of Bigley's body in his car. No one had informed either Rankin or his
lawyer of the nature of the find, and Reuben's attitude puzzled him.

They entered the interrogation room, dimly lit with a long
table with chairs on either side and an observation area mirrored off along the
left wall. Frank indicated that Rankin and Stiles should sit on the right side
of the table facing the mirror. He stood in front of a chair on the other side
and opened his briefcase. He removed a tape recorder and placed it near the
middle of the table. While he was flipping through his notebook, Aaron Fox came
in and nodded as he closed the door. Fox leaned against the door, his arms
crossed over his chest. Rankin didn't miss anything, silently observing the
procedure.

Fox's presence told Frank that Captain Holloman and the ADA,
Molly Shapiro, were in place in the observation room. He looked at Rankin and
Stiles, asking silently if they were ready. Both men nodded.

Frank turned on the tape recorder and stated the time, place
and date. "This is the interrogation of Mr. Reuben Rankin, aka Reuben
Sullivan, concerning the death of Nguyen Qui Mang and Miss Laurie Lowe, both in
the employ of Mr. Rankin immediately prior to their deaths, and other possibly
related cases. Mr. Rankin has been informed of his rights by law, and his
lawyer, C.O. Stiles is present at this hearing. Mr. Rankin is here at his own
request subsequent to the issue of a warrant for his arrest.

"Mr. Rankin, do you have any additional questions or
statements before this interview begins?"

"No," Rankin responded without looking at Stiles.
"I'm eager to cooperate in any way I can, and to clear away this mystery
as quickly as possible."

"Let the record show," Stiles stated, "that I
have advised my client not to make any incriminating statements, but that he
has directed me to not grossly interfere with his comments."

Frank turned off the recorder. Aaron Fox stepped forward
and, with Rankin's help, filled out the release forms allowing Rankin to
signify that he had been informed of the seriousness of the charge, that he
understood his rights, and that he had volunteered to the interrogation. Frank
turned the recorder back on.

"Mr. Rankin, did you invite me and Officer Chad Sherman
to your home prior to this interview for the purpose of observing your atrium
and private living areas?"

"Yes I did."

"Do you feel that either Officer Sherman or I abused
that privilege in any way?"

"No, I do not."

"Mr. Rankin, do you have any information about the
deaths of Nguyen Qui Mang and/or Laurie Lowe?"

"Yes I do, in both incidences. Mr. Nguyen Qui Mang was
in my employ, and an outstanding young comedian on his way up. I thought of him
like a son. Miss Lowe was hired as a one-night entertainer because I knew of
her from previous business transactions. Both Nguyen Qui Mang and Miss Laurie
Lowe were murdered in a horrific manner while they were under contract at my
place of business."

"Define 'horrific manner,' Mr. Rankin."

"As I understand, they were poisoned and hung up in
their apartments to remove trace evidence, dressed in clown suits and dumped in
parking lots around the city."

"Are you familiar with the deaths of..." Frank
checked his notebook and rattled off names of the people that had been killed
in a similar manner out of state.

Rankin looked shocked. Stiles advised him not to answer the
question. It was obvious to Frank that neither man had anticipated the
question. Rankin quickly recovered his composure and nodded.

"Let the record show that Mr. Rankin nodded in response
to my question. Mr. Rankin, did that gesture indicate that you are aware of the
deaths of those people I mentioned?"

Rankin was wringing his hands.

"You say these people, Nguyen Qui Mang, Laurie Lowe and
the others were poisoned. Do you know the nature of the poison?"

"Yes, the poisons are all from natural plants I grow in
my arboretum."

"Can you be more specific?"

"My hobby is collecting and caring for plants that are
not restricted and that can be used in medicinal and/or deadly doses."

"Such as?"

Rankin listed several plants including Cinchona ledgeriana,
the cause of death for Nguyen Qui Mang.

"Do you have access to peyote in your arboretum?"

Rankin was obviously confused by the question. "As I
told you earlier, I do not grow peyote because it is a restricted botanical.
But I have easy access to the plant."

"From where?"

"I know a man in Arizona, Senor Alfonso Rainwater. All
I need to do is make a phone call and he can deliver all the peyote I
want."

Frank glanced at Aaron Fox. The detective nodded and pulled
his cell phone as he stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. He was
gone only a few minutes. Frank waited for his return.

"Now, Mr. Rankin, do you know who administered the
poisons to the victims we've been discussing?"

"Yes, I do."

"Would you state that name please."

"Of course. I did it. I killed them all."

Gerry tried to fight unconsciousness from the time she
swirled up from the fog in the back seat of the car, through being manhandled
and dragged into a building and up an unending flight of stairs. She thought
the top of her head would explode. Sweat poured off her, soaking her clothes
and causing chills in the night air. Sickening aromas of vomit, urine and feces
gagged her. She knew she had soiled herself. Her arms and legs were useless,
limp anchors, impeding her motion, more a burden than an advantage. Finally her
body became still. None of the sickness or pain stopped, but she was no longer
moving. Despite the ache in her shoulders and back, and the throbbing in her
head that weighed more than the rest of her body as it jerked forward until her
chin touched her chest, she relapsed into an unreal euphoria of
unconsciousness.

The room remained silent after Rankin confessed. Frank
studied the comedian's face, aware that Stiles had not registered surprise and
was watching him, not his client. For the first time since he had drawn up his
profile for the killings, Frank doubted he had the right man. He pushed the
thought away. Too many pieces of evidence pointed to Rankin. This was not the
time to have second thoughts.

"All right Mr. Rankin. Let's check out the
details."

"What more do you want to know?" Rankin asked.

Frank knew they had already established opportunity and
could link the exotic poison in the first murder. He decided to tie in motive.

"Let's begin with Nguyen Qui Mang. He was a headliner
at your club and had landed a contract in Las Vegas. Why kill him? He seemed to
be a poster boy for what you told me was your main reason for running the
club."

Rankin could not hide his sorrow when he thought about
Nguyen. He swallowed air and clasped his hands on the table. He didn't look at
Frank as he talked.

"It all goes back to when I was in Vegas...before Gus
got into all that trouble and shot me." His eyes met Frank's momentarily,
no more than a flitting glance before returning to his writhing hands.
"That was all about drugs, you know. I was deeply involved in all
that."

"All what?" Frank asked. Rankin's right hand flew
into the air. Like he was waving off the importance of the details.

"You know. Buying and selling drugs. Las Vegas is a
land unto itself. It makes up its own rules...an unreal world that thinks of
itself above the law. Of course there are officers there that still try to
enforce propriety. They were closing in. When Gus shot me, I saw an opportunity
to throw the heat off me and get out from under. I capitalized on that, and if
Nguyen went to Vegas, he would eventually uncover my sordid past. I couldn't
risk the scandal of having that all dragged up again. So, I decided to prevent
the inevitable. I murdered him and made it look like a macabre serial
killing."

"And you used poison?" Frank checked his notes.
"Cinchona ledgeriana."

"That's right. Cinchona bark. The poison is quinoline,
a medicinal chemical when used properly. If you recall my rating system, it's a
four."

"A choice that requires hours to kill, miserable hours
of suffering before cardiac arrest. Why choose quinine when you had hemlock and
other fast acting toxins growing in your garden? Hemlock would have been much
quicker and certainly more humane."

Rankin didn't answer immediately, staring at the table,
obviously in anguish. When he looked at Frank, there were tears in his eyes.
"It was a horrible mistake. That's why I used peyote on the others."

This was a detail that had not appeared in the media. The
string of corpses from Las Vegas to Houston had never been mentioned outside of
HPD. Rankin was either guessing because of Frank's comments, or he indeed had
killed those people outside the city.

"Before we move to the others, let's follow up with
Nguyen Qui Mang. How did you inflict the poison?"

"We had planned a celebration at the Ha Ha House, a
party to send Nguyen off with a bang. I convinced him that I had a special gift
and wanted to give it to him in private. I mixed the ground up bark in a trail
mix concoction and persuaded him that it was symbolic of his new
adventure..." Rankin's voice broke. "We were in his apartment. He
took it with a smile, trusting me as a friend. It was... it was awful."

"Then what did you do?"

"I used a pulley to hang the body over the shower head
in the bathroom and cleaned up all the trace evidence, then stowed him in the
trunk of my car and took him to the parking garage and dumped him."

"Why the clown suit?"

"It was Halloween. I thought it would be written off as
some bizarre cult killing."

Rankin was looking at Frank, waiting. Frank stared with his
most penetrating expression. Neither man spoke. After a long silence, Frank
flipped through his notebook.

"You followed the same routine with Laurie Lowe?"

"Yes. She knew me from before, back in Vegas and other
trips here. She got wind of Nguyen Qui Mang's death and put two and two
together. She tried to blackmail me. I was desperate. I decided to make it look
like a serial killing."

"Nguyen Qui Mang lived on the fourth floor," Frank
stated as he studied his notes. "Laurie Lowe was killed in her motel room
on the second floor." He looked at Rankin again. "I've seen you
manage some remarkable feats with your disability, but it doesn't seem possible
you could have completed what you've described without help. Not from your
wheelchair. Who helped you?"

"I won't answer that question. I'm the only one guilty
of any crime."

"Was it Gus?"

No answer.

"Buddy Bigley?"

Rankin looked at him, surprise showing on his face at the
mention of the comedian's name, but he didn't say anything.

"I found Buddy Bigley in the trunk of your car this
evening. It looks like the same MO as Nguyen and Lowe. Is he the one who helped
you and then you needed to silence him?"

Rankin was quiet for moment and then answered,
"Yes," in a hushed voice.

"Okay, Mr. Rankin, we're almost finished here. Tell me
about the others you killed outside of Houston."

"They were like Lowe, people who knew about my dealings
in Las Vegas and wanted to blackmail me."

Frank shut off the tape recorder and stood, beckoning to
Aaron Fox. "Get a Uniform and escort Mr. Rankin to the holding cell. I'll
want to talk to him again later."