Icy Blue Descent jlm-4 Page 3

  The next half-hour was spent reading over the parts of the documents excerpted from Max Renoir's Will. There were the usual business transactions, disbursements to faithful employees, disposal of certain properties, the normal things that occur upon the death of the owner of a company. However, the most interesting and complex part of the Will was the way Renoir set up how he wanted his two daughters to share in the inheritance of the estate.

  In essence, Rene was to get nothing, except for a small monthly allowance. If Lynn wanted, she could give Rene a job in the company, but one that would never allow her to advance into management. In other words, she was at the mercy of her sister who was instructed to keep her subservient.

  "This will take some time to absorb."

  "That's your copy. Don't lose it."

  We were through. Lynn, who had said nothing during this exchange, stood, smoothed her skirt, and announced she was having lunch with Glossman.

  No one at Glossman Enterprises invited me for lunch. Fisherman's Wharf beckoned with a bowl of the best gumbo this side of the French Quarter. The ten-minute drive from Ocean Springs to the restaurant gave me time to reflect on some of the information in the report. The big question was what could a fourteen-year-old child have done to cause her father to treat her with such severity in his Will? This was important, and it was not going to come from Glossman or Moran. Maybe Lynn? If only I could convince her it may help in finding her sister. Thinking for a moment, I came up with a plan. By leaving my airplane in Gulfport and riding back to Jackson aboard Glossman's jet, I could talk to Lynn, try and explain how important it was to know why Rene's fall from grace with her father was so necessary for me to know. I would call T. Windom, Glossman's Vice-president of Transportation, as soon as I got back to the airport, see if he'd allow a hitchhiker.

  Crossing an unguarded train track a few blocks from Glossman's office, I was deep in thought. A fast moving freight train missed me by millimeters. If Guy had not washed his new Jaguar that morning, the train would have hit me. It scared me so that I lost my appetite. Shaking, I drove slowly to his office.

  Guy dropped me off at the airport where I called Windom.

  "Greetings, Jay. Mr. Glossman said you'd probably call. Come on by and we'll kick over old times."

  "Nothing would give me greater pleasure, but not now. I need a favor, though."

  "Sure. Anything."

  "One of your aircraft is scheduled to return the Renoir woman to Jackson this afternoon. I'd like a seat on that plane."

  "Not a problem. In fact, I'm giving one of our pilots a checkride on the deadhead leg back to our airport. You remember B.W.? He flew a Lear 24 for our competition. You gave him a recommendation when we hired him."

  "Great. Can you pick me up in Gulfport at McDonald Aviation?"

  "No problem. It will give us an additional approach. B.W.'s upgrading to Captain on the Falcon Fifty. He needs the work. We'll land there around two fifteen."

  "Thanks. I owe you one."

  Glossman built his own airport in Ocean Springs. It had more landing aids than O'Hare International. It was an imposition for them to land in Gulfport to pick me up. I appreciated it.

  Calling the private school in Wiggins, I told the principal it would be a couple of days before I could get down. He inquired about Rene. There was nothing to give him.

  Glossman's airplane taxied up to the FBO at exactly two fifteen. My old friend, B.W. was in the left seat. He motioned that they would leave the engines running. Windom opened the cabin door and I jumped aboard. Lynn glared at me, but said nothing. Easing up to the cockpit, I shook hands with both men.

  "Jay, it's good to see you. How long has it been? Four years? Listen did I ever thank you for the recommendation that got me this job?"

  "You don't have to thank me, B.W., but don't screw this flight up or I'll cut you out of my Will."

  As we started to taxi to the runway, I went back and sat down in one of the club seats in front of Lynn. "My plane broke down. The crew was nice enough to give me a ride home. You mind the company?"

  Her face with the sharp planes, aqua-blue eyes, and long, blond hair held the firmness of glacier ice. "You are a liar, Mr. Leicester. You arranged this so you could try and find out what my sister did that was so bad as to have her father cut her out of a share of the estate."

  So much for my brand of deception. Lynn was an intelligent young woman.

  "You are withholding vital information. It could be dangerous."

  She looked blankly out the window at the scattered clouds passing swiftly under the aircraft. Slowly she turned and looked at me. Her face wore a drained expression, no amusement, no antagonism, and a look of resignation. "You remember Mr. Glossman saying you would not be allowed access to some information. Well, you won't, Mr. Leicester. I only learned the details on my twenty-first birthday. I was put to work in the bank to administer my father's business accounts. They wanted me to learn how the company was being run. I've been groomed to take it over for six years. Mr. Glossman and Mr. Moran taught me everything. I'm ready for the challenge. Rene's disappearance simply delays it. But what's most important is that my sister be found alive and unhurt. I'm sorry that I cannot tell you what you want to know. You'll have to work without it."

  Without saying a word, I went back to the cockpit. "We can land anytime, guys."

  Windom grinned. "Losing your touch, old boy?"

  Ignoring the comment, I asked B.W. where we were.

  "White Pigeon," he replied without cracking a smile.

  Laughing out loud, I went and sat back down. It was an old joke.

  After landing in Jackson, I walked Lynn to her car in the parking lot of the Fixed Base Operation. "Glossman wants me to report directly to him, but I'll call you every day, like we agreed, if you want?"

  She stopped for a moment, looked at the pavement. "I'd appreciate it, Jay… can I call you Jay?"

  "Sure."

  "I care for Rene. Please find her. Don't let any harm come to her, and tell her that I love her dearly."

  There was genuine concern in her voice.

  Back inside the FBO, I checked with Delta Airlines. They had a flight leaving for Miami in an hour. I booked a first class seat. After calling Steve Henderson and telling him I was headed his way, I went to the airport bar and ordered a snifter of Martel cognac. It was time for some serious thinking.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After a two-hour layover in Atlanta, I finally boarded a Delta Airline Boeing 767 bound for Miami. While sitting in the mostly deserted terminal waiting for my connection, I used the time to read the report Moran had prepared on Max Renoir's estate. It was a vast holding.

  Renoir was a self-made man. Educated as a geologist, he saw a great potential for oil and gas in the swamps of coastal Louisiana and Mississippi. He bought up as much of the marshland as he could. Soon he had a producing oil well. This enabled him to buy more land. Eventually there was an oil well and a gas well on every forty acres of the thousands that he owned. It started to make him a lot of money. By the time he died, he had diversified into many other businesses.

  Being a man of vision, Renoir saw in Joe Glossman a friend who would see to the welfare of his family and business in the event that something happened to him. He'd been right. Glossman took over the management of Max's holdings as if they were his own. He made it into a multi-billion dollar empire, and also carried out his last Will and Testament to the letter of the law. Except for normal operating expenses, Glossman had not kept one red cent for his effort. There had been many opportunities for him to do so.

  Glossman took it upon himself to teach Lynn the entire operation of the company so that when she reached the age stipulated in the Will she could step in and take over without any delay and with full knowledge of how to run the business.

  The world needs more people like Joe Glossman.

  Boarding the Miami flight, I found only one other person sitting in first class. It was dark and quiet and gave me time to reflect b
ack over the last twenty-four hours. At least this was turning into an interesting case. Missing persons rarely are anything other than drudgery and boredom, certainly not what I'm used to dealing with as an aviation consultant.

  Rene Renoir was a week overdue from her two-week vacation. There was some horrible thing she did while still a teenager that caused her father to virtually cut her out of the family fortune. But what? Did she deserve to be punished for the rest of her life? There were many interesting questions and most of them could be answered by finding Rene.

  It was a clear night. The Kennedy launch facility was visible out my window on the left side of the cabin. I couldn't help but think about the horrible loss of the shuttle a few years ago, and the seven-crew members. All because an 'O' ring wasn't tested for operation in freezing temperatures. It was a terrible waste of human life.

  As we started our descent into Miami, I could see the outline of the coast from Ft. Lauderdale to the Keys. Henderson was going to meet me at the airport. It would be good to see him again.

  Deplaning, I spotted him up the corridor leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, and grinning from ear to ear. He looked as big as a bear.

  "Jay, how you doing, Amigo? Welcome to Miami, home of the free, the brave, and the Cubano."

  "Hello, Steve. Good to see you."

  He locked me in a hug that squeezed the breath from my lungs and made my ribs ache. He was a powerful man, and looked the part. Broad shouldered and muscled arms with a slim waist leading to thighs the size of a running back. He weight trained every day. We were the same age, but he looked younger because he kept in better shape. His hair was still slick black with no gray, and the eyebrows were thick and bushy. The brown eyes could look at you and seem to stop a foot short, or pierce into the backside of your soul and frighten you to your knees, or look through you as if you didn't exist. One could rest assured, though, that those eyes did not miss a thing.

  Steve Henderson was one of the most intelligent men I've ever known. Well-schooled, well read, and street-smart, he was a man to have on your team, regardless of what game you were playing.

  He stepped back, cracked a one-sided grin, "I got your girl."

  Stopping in mid-stride, I said, "You found the girl? Rene Renoir?"

  "You asked me to find her, didn't you? You want to see her?" His face formed finely drawn lines that raised the corners of his mouth into a hint of a wise, sardonic grin.

  "She's alive?"

  "She's beat up pretty bad, but she's alive. You're not going to get much out of her. She doesn't know who she is, where she is, or how she got there."

  "But how?"

  "We got an anonymous phone call saying she was being put aboard a Chalk Airline flight from Bimini. We met the plane. She had a purse with I.D. and three thousand in cash. She was transferred to Miami General. I'll take you there."

  "That's all you got? Someone put a beat up woman on board an airplane then called the Miami Police Department? Why would Chalk Airlines haul a passenger in that kind of shape?"

  "Wake up, Leicester. You know they will haul anyone or anything for the price of a ticket. Times have changed since the old man died. The 'Wise Guys' own it now. They're putting money into it. Given time it will be a first rate operation, but for now it's business as usual."

  "I still don't understand…"

  "Look, I'm not going to do all your work for you. I found your girl. What else you want? Christ, you could at least say thank you."

  "Thank you. Now let's get to the hospital."

  As we drove through the dark streets of Miami, I asked Steve about the Cuban situation.

  "It's a powder keg. With the Soviet Union gone, Castro's already suffering economy is in dire straits. It can't survive. We've got factions throughout the Miami area already in training, planning well-orchestrated moves at the first sign of civil uprising in Cuba."

  "Our government has a lot of bleeding hearts. If they open up the embargo, Castro wins."

  "That, my friend, will never happen."

  "Well, you know my position."

  We pulled up and parked in front of the emergency room door. Steve flashed his gold shield, waving away the uniformed guard starting toward us.

  Rene had been moved from the emergency room to ICU. When we finally found the attending physician, he informed us that, though she'd been raped and severely beaten, there didn't appear to be any life threatening injuries. What concerned him was the amount of drugs in her system. The drug scans were not back from the lab, but from his experience she'd been given powerful sedatives and hallucinogens. They were playing havoc with her ability to breathe and to think. He was worried.

  "Can we talk to her?"

  "No. She's not coherent. Why don't you come back tomorrow? There are several things I want to try in order to counteract the effects of the drugs. I'll know much better how to deal with this as soon as the report gets back from the lab."

  "Take us to where we can see her. We want to be sure it's our missing girl."

  We followed the young doctor to the brightly-lit ICU. IV lines, breathing tubes, monitors, and God knows what else were attached to every part of her small body. Even with the swollen face and the bruises there was no doubt that we were looking at Rene Renoir. Her nose appeared to have been broken and there were fresh stitches along the hairline. She looked so vulnerable and so innocent.

  With nothing else to do at the hospital, I asked Steve to take me to Chalk Airlines. Maybe the pilots could tell us something that would help in finding out what happened to Rene. Surely someone had to assist her on board the plane in Bimini.

  "They are closed. VFR, daylight only operations. Remember?"

  The clock above the nurse's station read nine-thirty.

  "Come on, we'll stop by Forge's. I'll buy you a bottle of good wine and feed you some fresh seafood."

  There was no argument from me. It had been awhile since I'd eaten. Forge's is one of my favorite places for gourmet dining in the Miami area. It's their wine cellar that intrigues me, a two hundred and fifty thousand-bottle cellar dating back to the turn of the century and the New York mobster who opened the place. The legendary bronze door to the wine vault and the life-size, partially nude female statue at the entrance makes the visit worthwhile. It's a popular place and three-hour waits are not uncommon, even with reservations. Steve was given a table immediately to the chagrin of some long waiting diners.

  The meal was superb, as was the wine. A plate of Stilton cheese and a bottle of 'sixty-three Dow Oporto was overkill, but worth it.

  Glossman needed to be told about Rene, but it could wait until morning. Maybe her condition would be improved. The attending physician was worried about her, and this was a man used to dealing with drug addicts and over dosed patients.

  Steve arranged a room for me at the Fountainebleau Hilton, out on Miami Beach. They worked a deal with the police department and let them have 'comp' rooms whenever they needed them.

  He gave me a telephone number where I could reach him in the morning. A good night's rest was in order.

  After a quick shower, I called room service for a double cognac. Opening the sliding glass doors, I stepped out on the balcony. A cool wind was blowing and the fresh air filled my lungs. Returning inside, I rummaged through my ditty bag retrieved from my airplane before departing Gulfport. I keep one on board packed with a few essentials for contingencies such as this. Opening a small wooden box, I took out one of my Miami made El Creditos cigars, picked up a pack of matches from the table and lit it. The cover of the matchbox read, "Fly Eastern." They'd been out of business for years.

  A full moon was rising out of the Atlantic, hidden at times between giant battlements of cumulonimbus clouds boiling out over the Bahamas. Jupiter sparkled like the Hope Diamond in the southeast. A sea breeze wafted gently ashore, bringing a salty, wonderful smell to the night air. Down below, people walked along the boardwalk. Out on the Gulf Stream, almost out of sight on the horizon, the ever-present parade of
freighters sailed both north and south. Just off to my right, a steady stream of passenger liners glided slowly out of the Miami ship channel. They appeared to be floating hotels.

  It was a beautiful night. The cognac acted like a sleeping pill. I fought it for a while, but the alcohol won. Leaving the Charlemagne cigar to die an honorable death in the ashtray, I went inside to bed. By the time my head hit the pillow, I was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The phone rang and kept on ringing, sounding like a worn out Chrysler automobile on a cold day. Picking up the black receiver, I growled, "What is it?"

  "Rise and shine, ole son. I've got some bad news for you. The girl died about half an hour ago. They just called me from the hospital. I'll pick you up in an hour."

  Scratching the stubble on my chin, and trying to wake up, I asked, "What do you mean, she died? She was banged around a little. How could she be dead?"

  "Now you have a reason to talk with the doctor. Meet me out front, we'll get some breakfast, then go find out what happened."

  The clock on the nightstand glowed five-thirty a.m. Rubbing my eyes and temples, I sat on the side of the bed, thankful for not calling Lynn or Glossman last night.

  Taking a quick shower, I shaved, dressed, and was standing in front of the hotel when Steve arrived.

  We pulled up at the hospital just after seven a.m. The doctor we'd met last night awaited us in his office. He looked the worse for wear.

  "You up all night, Doc?" Steve asked.

  "It's been a long one, but then they all are. Miss Renoir started to go sour about three a.m. She arrested and we couldn't get her back. I did everything chemically possible. We tried for over an hour. I'm sorry."

  "Can you explain what killed her, in layman's terms?"

  He nodded, sighed deeply, and clasped both hands as if starting to pray. "I think she had heart failure due to all the physical abuse and the drug infusions she'd been getting. It's not complicated. The human body is resilient, but it has its limitations. She just suffered more than her heart could stand."