Icy Blue Descent jlm-4 Read online

  "I don't know, this is so unexpected." The sparkle danced in her bottomless eyes. "I'd have to go to B.J.'s and pack…I don't know."

  "Skinner will run you down. You can be back in an hour. I'll hold the plane."

  She looked deep into my eyes. "I don't promise anything, you understand?"

  "Sure."

  Karl Strange and his son, Will, volunteered to drive us to the airport. We said our good-byes to Bobby, thanking him for the lunch. Skinner agreed to see that Kathy got to the airport.

  We arrived at the small terminal building just as Glossman's plane was landing. Windom was flying. After our greetings and introductions, I asked him if he'd mind stopping through Nassau on the way back. There was some important business that needed taking care of; the room was still rented at the Paradise Island Hotel, Glossman's ten thousand in cash, minus a few hundred, was in the hotel safe, and Gus' car needed to be returned. He said that some changes would have to be made to the flight plan, but it wasn't a problem.

  Telling Windom that there would be a slight delay waiting for a third passenger, he frowned, and looked at me. "Well, I hope it's for a pretty lady."

  Skinner drove up in a taxi a short while later with Kathy. He brought her bags over to the airplane. Windom looked at me and shook his head.

  Young Will came up to where Dave and I were standing. "Mr. Dave, Cop'um Jay. I just want to say there ain't no way to repay you for what you did. I see the light, now. I want to thank you. If you ever down here and need anything, you let me know."

  Dave put an arm around him. "Forget it, Will. We've all got to learn, and you've had a hell of a lesson. We know you won't let your Pa down. We'll see you on our next trip across."

  The boy had tears in his eyes. I shook his hand, but didn't say anything. It was Dave's show, not mine.

  The flight over to Nassau was short. Kathy and I took a cab out to the hotel while everyone else waited at the airport. On the way, we stopped by the market place and Kathy bought two hand-carved teak statues that she said reminded her of us.

  At the hotel, I picked up the money, paid for the room, and retrieved Gus' car. Pulling up at the marina, I found Gus a little more than irate. After belittling me for a good sixty seconds, he noticed Kathy standing nearby with a bemused expression.

  "Gus, this is Kathy."

  "Ah, hell, lassie, don't pay no attention to an old son of a sea dog like me. I been fussing at this young tar going on twenty years. I was simply worried about him."

  Kathy leaned over and gave him a kiss. He dropped his cigar.

  "Come on, Gus, we need a ride to the airport."

  I asked Windom to fly back over Abaco Island. I wanted Kathy to see the whole chain from altitude. During the climb we turned north, passing over Paradise Island and the hotel where Howard Hughes secluded himself for several years in a codeine-induced haze, never seeing the intense beauty around him. Approaching the south end of Abaco the sky was absolutely clear and tinted a light blue so delicate you knew that if one threw a baseball far enough and hard enough it would shatter the sky into tiny hot shards. The combination of colors in the shallow waters around the cays, the blue and purple of the Atlantic Ocean with its sparkling field of diamond-topped waves was breathtaking.

  "Jesus," Kathy murmured softly. It was all she said. It was enough.

  Turning back to the west, we were high enough to see all the way north, past Green Turtle Cay, to Walker's Cay, then we could see Grand Bahama Island with the towns of Freeport and West End. Abeam Freeport, the Florida coast was visible.

  Over the cabin speaker Windom announced we were currently passing through thirty-five thousand feet enroute to our cruising altitude of forty-one thousand and that our estimated time of arrival at Jackson International Airport was one hour, forty-two minutes and thirty-three seconds. Then he asked that I come up to the cockpit.

  The aircraft was one of the new Falcon Fifties which have three engines. It was an airplane I was unfamiliar with and equipped with the latest state of the art flight guidance and controls, much more automated than the aircraft I'd flown on preciously. Windom got up out of the left seat and offered it to me. "B.W. will give you the fifty cent tour. I'm going back and flirt with that pretty lady."

  We were at cruising altitude crossing the Florida coastline. To the south we could see the keys, all the way to Key West, lying in the blue water like pearls dropped by a child. Having worked a lot out of this area of the world, it brought back memories of flying that I sometimes missed so desperately that it hurt, and others I hope never to experience again. Thanking B.W. for his patience and answers to my many questions, I went back to the cabin.

  Landing at the precise time predicted, we all applauded the crew. Taxing around to the Fixed Base Operation, we parked next to the terminal and remained aboard until the Customs agent arrived. It was after hours and we must have interrupted his dinner as he gave us all a hard time. Drugs are transported into the U.S. aboard aircraft, but on board a thirty million dollar corporate jet belonging to one of the most prominent men in the state? Customs is a hard job, I guess.

  We retrieved Dave's car and drove to my house. I put Kathy's bags in the guest bedroom, and took a quick shower. Then we went to Dave's home. He'd called Sally from the plane and she had the steaks grilling when we arrived. It was a relaxing evening.

  After dinner, Dave offered me a cigar and we walked out back and sat beside the kidney-shaped swimming pool and watched the automatic cleaner sweep along the bottom like some giant worm. Kathy and Sally were finishing up in the kitchen and would join us later.

  "It's a terrible thing, what happened on Sanchez's boat."

  "Let's not speak of it again."

  "Agreed."

  "I guess you are wondering what I did with the last ten kilos of cocaine?"

  "I'm glad they weren't on board the Falcon when we went through customs."

  "I took it over to Doc's place. He mixed it with cow manure and fertilized his tomatoes. Ironic isn't it?"

  "I'd like to see how the tomatoes turn out."

  Dave reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me.

  "What's this?"

  "Fifty thousand in cash. I found a hundred thousand under the cabin sole on board the Sun Dog when I was opening the sea cocks."

  "It's dirty money. I can't take this."

  "It's payment for services rendered to Billingsly Investigations. I'll even write you a receipt if you want to share it with Uncle Sam."

  It was no use arguing.

  "Something else on your mind?"

  "You read Max Renoir's Will. What was the story on Rene?"

  A thick forearm and a wide, knotty hand reached up and slicked back wavy, graying hair, muscles rippled in the hinges of his jaw, his eyes danced all around me. "I don't remember a thing about that part of the Will."

  "You're lying."

  His thick eyebrows arched up and seemed to hold a secret amusement. "Alright, hot shot, but you didn't get this from me."

  When he was through, I watched the giant worm slowly work its way up the side of the pool, and said nothing.

  Kathy and I left around midnight and drove back to my house. She slept in the guest bedroom. I dreamed of making love to her on Family Beach with sand fleas and flies biting me, my feet bleeding, but I didn't care.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The red digital numbers on the clock beside my bed glowed 4:30 a.m. I tried to drift back to sleep, but gave up at five o'clock and eased out of bed. When my feet hit the floor the coral cuts rudely reminded me of the past few days.

  Trying not to make noise, I padded to the bedroom where Kathy slept. The door was open and the outline of her small, compact body showed under the sheet. Her breathing was slow and regular. I stood watching her, thinking of Lynn Renoir and how two such wonderfully beautiful women could be so different.

  Quietly shutting the door, I went to the kitchen and made coffee. Morning was breaking in the east like fresh paint. T
aking a cup of the strong brew out back, I sat on the patio and listened to the birds. The early feeders were easily recognized by their chirps. There were cardinals, tufted titmice, blue jays, and mockingbirds. It was a peaceful time of day.

  The sky brightened and the colors above the tree line changed from black to gray to blue in a matter of minutes. At the top of a cottonwood tree a squirrel ate seeds from the blooms. The rapid pulse of a strobe light and a faint contrail high up among the cirrus clouds painted a silent picture of an airliner ghosting its way to New Orleans. A dog barked in the distance, and downtown, at the railroad yard, the heavy clanging of a switch engine cried urban life.

  It was going to be a clear, cool day, a good day to travel to the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. Joe Glossman was expecting me. Kathy and I would drive down. We planned to spend a week aboard Guy Robins' sailboat, Picaroon, exploring the offshore islands.

  Going back inside for a refill, I found Kathy standing at the kitchen counter wearing one of my robes, pouring a cup of coffee.

  "Good morning." She flashed a smile and pointed to my empty cup with the coffeepot.

  "Yes, thank you. Hope I didn't wake you."

  "No."

  "Let's go out back."

  "You don't mind me wearing your robe?"

  "Consider it my contribution to the modesty of the feminine gender."

  We sat on the patio drinking the hot coffee, thinking our own thoughts. It was light now, and I could see the individual spiny leaves of the pine trees against the cobalt sky. This was spring in the south and, except for early fall, the most pleasant time of the year.

  "You thinking about the Renoir woman?"

  "Yes."

  "You want to talk about it?"

  "No."

  "Do you think it will take long to finish?"

  "It should be over tomorrow morning."

  She sat in the patio chair, her feet curled up, and the shiny black hair a sharp contrast to the white robe. She was truly a beautiful lady.

  "I'm looking forward to sailing to the barrier islands. That fort you told me about, the one twelve miles off the coast, it should be interesting."

  "Fort Massachusetts on Ship Island."

  "Right."

  A friend who owned a rental car agency had two Gulfport cars, a sedan and a Mustang convertible. I took the Mustang. It would be doing him a favor returning the car to the coast, it afforded me free transportation, and I could retrieve my airplane from McDonald Aviation.

  The sun warmed and we made the trip with the top down. The drive took three hours. We called Guy Robins from Lil' Ray's seafood restaurant. He would meet us at the marina in an hour.

  Joe Glossman's secretary confirmed the meeting was on schedule for three o'clock this afternoon.

  We arrived at the Broadwater marina; slip 117, at the same time Guy Robins drove up. Kathy and he seemed to hit it off. We went aboard Picaroon. He gave me the keys to the engine and hatch cover.

  "Come, Kathy. Let me show you around the boat. Jay knows the layout, hell, he taught me how to sail her."

  Settling in the portside of the cockpit, I watched the people walking past admiring the boats docked in the marina. Several charter-fishing boats were returning from half-day trips loaded with their catch of red fish, snapper, and speckled trout.

  Rubbing my hand along the combing, I remembered the day Guy bought Picaroon from the original owner. He did not like the name of the boat, but it is unlucky to change it, so he didn't. Guy was superstitious. She was a well-founded forty-foot, double-ended, steel-hulled, Colvin Archer design with a full keel, and sloop rigged. A strong and seaworthy, bluewater boat, she was a true pleasure to sail.

  "It's a lovely vessel," Kathy said as they emerged from below. "There's so much room."

  Guy looked at me. "Our house tonight, eight o'clock. We'll blacken some redfish."

  I looked at Kathy, she nodded. It was settled.

  Guy left to return to work. We stowed our gear aboard Picaroon.

  "He seems like a nice man. He admires you, Jay."

  "Yes. We've been friends a long time. You'll like his wife. I was in love with her once, but it was a long time ago."

  She gave me a sly grin. "I may be jealous."

  "You'd have no reason. My meeting is at three o'clock. It should not take over a couple of hours. Will you be all right, here, alone?"

  "I'm a big girl, Mr. Leicester. Picaroon and I will get acquainted in your absence."

  "If you need anything the phone has Guy's number on the speed-dial."

  "Yes, he showed me. Don't worry, I'll be fine. Hurry back."

  Driving east toward Ocean Springs and Glossman's office, I did not notice the new casinos and huge hotels recently built along the highway, or the heavy traffic, or the for sale signs on old, columned mansions with giant water oaks in the front yard, or any other of the terrible things dockside gambling has brought to this once peaceful coast. My thoughts were about the unpleasantness that had to be dealt with in this meeting.

  It was close to five o'clock before we finished with everything that needed to be discussed. Plans were made to resume the next morning at nine a.m. Lynn Renoir would be there and arrangements were made for other persons involved to be present. Glossman said he would send a plane to pick up Lynn. The agenda included a final report from me on the death of Rene, and then the signing over of control of the Renoir Company and its vast holdings to Lynn. It would make her a rich and powerful woman. This was a meeting for which I would not be late.

  Arriving back at the marina, I found Kathy sitting in the cockpit sipping champagne.

  "How did it go?"

  "It ran longer than expected. I hope you weren't bored?"

  "On the contrary. I've had two offers to sail to Florida, an overnight fishing trip to somewhere called Cat Island, and one I cannot mention in mixed company."

  "You weren't tempted?"

  She laughed. "Maybe on the Cat Island thing. He was a good looking guy."

  We sat, sipped the champagne, and watched darkness descend swiftly on the quiet harbor. The only distraction was the ever present humming of highway traffic, blowing of car horns, and squealing of brakes.

  Shortly before eight, we secured Picaroon and drove to Guy Robins' house. Kathy and Mildred Robins were fast friends ten minutes after they met. Guy and I went out back to cook. He worked his magic blackening the red fish. The entire evening was pleasant. Dinner was superb with a lightly chilled 1998 Soave Classico superior from Verona, Italy. We stayed until midnight.

  We drove back to Picaroon and parked in one of the spaces reserved for slip 117. The headlights from the car illuminated the stern of the boat and something else, a man trying to get into the hatch. He didn't seem to be concerned about the headlights.

  Telling Kathy to stay in the car, I cut the lights and reached for my trusty old. 357 magnum. It was not there. Then I remembered putting it below with my gear this morning. Easing out of the car, I walked to the edge of the pier. The figure still had his back to me, oblivious to the world around him. Jumping into the cockpit, and grabbing the man, I felt the cuts on my feet open up.

  He was an old man smelling of gin and cigarettes. His blurry eyes looked at me with little understanding. He had wet himself.

  "It's okay, old timer. You're on the wrong boat."

  "By God, laddie, I might be. My boat is the Gin Mill. Would you point me that way, kind sir?"

  "What slip number?"

  "I believe it is 121."

  After getting the drunk settled aboard his boat, I returned to Picaroon. We opened all the hatches and portholes to let the gentle breeze cool the cabin. Taking off my shoes, I saw that the cuts had not bled much, which meant they were healing.

  "Jay, I'm going to bed. I know you have a rough day tomorrow."

  "Take the Vee-birth. I'll see you before I leave."

  She kissed me gently, softly, and went below.

  An hour later, I eased down the companionway ladder and lay quietly on the
portside bunk. Kathy was snoring softly; the accordion door separating the cabins half closed. The boat gently rocked on its mooring. I slid into a restless sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A warm hand touched my face. Half asleep, I turned into it as one does a lover's caress. Then I bolted upright, grabbing the arm roughly and twisting.

  Kathy rolled with the motion, went from a grimace to a smile as I lessened the grip. "Remind me never to wake you again. Coffee is ready." She rubbed her wrist, brushed a hand through her hair, and smiled with an expression that held secret amusement.

  "What time is it?"

  "Seven-thirty." Her mouth formed a sensual shape that reminded me it was good to be alive. "Would you like some breakfast?"

  "Thanks."

  Saying good-bye to Kathy, I left for Ocean Springs. Traffic was horrendous along the four-lane highway. Giant casinos were built on almost every available foot of beachfront property, some of the hotels bigger than those in Las Vegas and Atlantic City. One bragged of seventeen hundred rooms, the sixth largest hotel in the nation.

  Dockside gambling, something I've never understood the definition of, had saved the economy on the coast, but it brought with it the evils inherent to the industry; the Mafia, drugs, prostitution, corruption, inflated real estate, and violent murder in all its hideous forms.

  Passing by the Biloxi lighthouse, I could see Moran's Art Studio off to my left. The sun was blinding as I crossed the Biloxi Bay Bridge that withstood, for the most part, the ravages of Hurricane Camille in nineteen sixty nine.

  Pulling into the parking lot of Joe Glossman's office, I sat for a moment enjoying the fresh, salt-tinged morning air, listening to the ping of the car's engine as it cooled. The building was in a trendy, rehabbed district, where the exteriors of old homes were converted into cafes, artist's studios, and shops. Down the block was the museum hosting the works of Walter Anderson, located next door to the community center where his infamous murals have been restored and revered. Taking my files, I got out and walked into a moment I'll never forget.