Icy Blue Descent
( Jay Leicester Mysteries - 4 )
J. C. Simmons
J. C. Simmons
Icy Blue Descent
PROLOGUE
Three Weeks Earlier
The three men viciously and repeatedly raped the young woman, their grunts animalistic, the laughter, maniacal. She felt the pain, heard the horrible sounds through the veil of drugs pumping through her veins. Her treatment was something no human should be forced to endure. The torture lasted for two days. Her last conscious thought was of her sister…why?
The men had their orders. Do what they wanted with her, keep her drugged, then feed her to the sharks.
CHAPTER ONE
It was a cold, misty, overcast day. It was Monday, and I was hung over from two days of heavy drinking. At least I wasn't toxic, just lethargic and shaky. Self-induced alcohol toxemia is pathetic and stupid. Today I wasn't pathetic, just stupid. There's an extremely thin line between the two.
The last thing I needed was a new client. The current ones were being sorely neglected. However the Gods, angered at my weekend indiscretions, sent one through the door at nine a.m. She didn't bother to knock, simply walked in and sat down in the chair in front of my desk without saying a word, silent, staring.
We looked at each other as if across an interplanetary distance, both defiant, stubborn. Finally, conceding the game, I said, "There is some reason you're here?"
"There is if you are Jay Leicester."
"Who sent you?"
"Are you Jay Leicester?"
"It says so on the front of the door, right above the sign that reads, "Knock before entering."
She stood suddenly, tears welling up in her blue eyes, wheeled and walked out as fast as she'd walked in.
Leaning back in the chair, I laced my fingers behind my head, and closed my eyes. That was certainly no way to treat a lady, especially one so beautiful as her. She stood around six feet, blond hair, aqua blue eyes, and those stark features that cause men to do things they never quite fully understand. There was little makeup, maybe a hint of coloring on the high, sharp, cheekbones. A perfume, one I did not recognize, a musk oil of some kind, overwhelmed the small office.
Her clothing was expensive, but not flamboyant and the skirt hugged the finest set of legs I've seen in a long time. There was no jewelry, no wedding band. She couldn't have been over twenty-five, give or take a few years either way. Her blond hair seemed to float around her, and the light growth of hair on her arms made them appear veiled in smoke.
The musk oil continued to slowly envelope me, causing a flood of pleasant memories to come drifting back.
When I opened my eyes, she was standing in front of my desk. The look on her face was one of defeat, and yet of an odd, cynical cunning.
"I must talk to you. It's extremely important."
Motioning to a chair, I said, "Please have a seat. I'm sorry for the rudeness. It's not a good day for me. Jay Leicester, at your service."
"Lynn Renoir." She extended a hand across the desk. "Dave Billingsly sent me."
She had a firm grip, but her hand was icy cold.
"Billingsly?"
"Yes, he said to tell you he had to leave for Abaco Island and could not take my case. You were the only one he would recommend who could help me."
"Well, that was certainly nice of him." Picking up the phone, I dialed his office number. While the phone rang, I thought about Dave Billingsly. He was a good man. We were close friends, and had worked some dangerous cases together. He ran a private investigation firm and was widely respected throughout the south. He handled business security, polygraphy, high-tech surveillance, missing persons, divorce cases. The firm employed retired cops and senior citizens who wanted to do something worthwhile in their old age.
While I held a private investigator's license, my business was as a consultant, dealing only with things relating to aviation. Companies would hire me to set up flight departments, determine their aircraft needs, buy the planes, hire the crew and the maintenance personnel, and see that they were trained. Recovery of stolen airplanes or those finance companies wanted returned due to defaulted loans was a big part of my work. I sometimes helped companies whose pilots were alcoholics or drug abusers get them into rehab before some terrible tragedy occurred. Then there was some work for the government with drug running operations and finding out who the bad guys were, what aircraft and what routes they were using.
Dave's wife, Sally, answered the phone. "Jay, good to hear from you, you old…" She let loose a string of four letter words. Sally always talked like a twenty-year Chief Mate on shore leave to people with whom she was close friends. To everyone else, she was Dr. Sally Billingsly, Ph. D., University of Mississippi, class of '59, with the manners of a true Southern Belle.
"Good to hear your educated voice, Sally. Where's Dave?"
"She's there, is she? Thought you'd like that. Wouldn't have sent her, myself, but Dave felt a little charity would be good for his soul."
"Needed to be sure she was on the up and up. Why send her to me? You didn't want Dave to get close to this tall blond?" Lynn Renoir cut her eyes at me with a hard, glaring stare. I dropped my head. "The lady says Dave went to Abaco. What's going on in the islands?"
"Karl Strange called from Marsh Harbor, asked Dave to come down immediately. Seems that Karl's oldest boy, Will, is involved with some Snowpowder being run up from Nassau. The boy bit off something he can't chew."
"That's too bad. Karl's an okay guy. So was little Will the last time I saw him."
"You know what Dave thinks about Karl. He'd do anything for him after the Sand Cay Reef thing. If it had not been for Karl, Dave would be dead."
"I was there, Sally. Remember?"
"Oh, that's right. It seems so long ago. I keep trying to forget. It was a rough one, Jay."
She was right about the Sand Cay Reef thing. It had been bad.
"You know anything about this?" I asked, referring to the lady sitting across from me.
"No. She talked with Dave. We didn't make a file on her. He seemed sure you'd want to work the case. Good luck."
Hanging up the phone, I looked at Lynn Renoir. She stared incredulously, as if for a moment in shock at being in my company.
"Is that what women are to you, Mr. Leicester? Tall blonds, short redheads, skinny brunettes? Are all women stigmatized to you in some way?"
Her controlled anger made me smile. "My apologies. I did not mean to offend you. Now how can I help?"
"It's my sister, I want you to find her. I'm afraid something terrible has happened. She's been gone for three weeks. No one has heard from her, only a card sent to me. She should have been back at her job this past Monday."
"Miss Renoir, there has been some mistake. I'm an aviation consultant. I don't work missing person's cases."
Lynn Renoir ignored my statement.
"My sister teaches at a private academy down in Wiggins. When she didn't show up for work, her school principal called to see if I knew her whereabouts. When she would not answer her phone, he had the police check her apartment. It had been broken into and ransacked. I went down Tuesday and looked through it. As far as I could tell, nothing was missing except for her luggage and a few personal items."
"Miss Renoir…"
"I guess she's only been missing a week, really. She was taking a two-week vacation, a cruise through the islands. She mailed me a card from Miami just before she boarded the ship. I called the Cruise Ship Company. They said she didn't reboard after a stop in Nassau. No one has heard from her since."
For some reason Dave thought I'd be interested in the case, and I guess I owed him one, so I made a decision. "What was the name of the ship?"
"
The Stede Bonnet. Out of Miami."
"Miss Renoir, why don't you let the police continue to look for your sister? They do a good job with this sort of thing. They have the manpower and good communications with other agencies. Why would you need a private investigator? The police can do anything I can and they do it for free."
Her blue eyes went slowly from stillness to a strange expression of knowing that reflected much more than they said. "Because the police can't work in the Bahamas. They call over to Nassau and say there's this missing girl, and ask the 'Lyndon Pindling Gestapo' to do something. If you don't send ten thousand in cash along with the request, nothing gets done. That's why I need you. Money is no object. I mean I have a little saved. I can borrow if it's necessary. I have a good job, in a bank, here in Jackson. I've worked there a long time. I can get your money."
She knew a lot more about Bahamian politics than she should. It made me wonder.
"I get eight hundred a day, plus expenses, and I'll need a twenty-five hundred dollar advance. We'll give it a week, if nothing shows up in that time, we'll call it quits. Agreed?"
She nodded. Her smile was one of secret amusement, and an infinite bitterness. "Agreed."
"Good. I'll need her name, a recent photo, and the card she wrote. How can I get in touch with you? If the need arises, I want to be able to contact you any time of the day or night."
"I'll be staying at the Paradise Island Inn on Nassau," she said, matter-of-fact, throwing her blond hair to one side with the flick of her head. "I don't know the room number, but I'll let you know after I check in."
"You're not going to be anywhere near the Bahamas. You are going to be at your job in the bank if you want me to find your sister."
"Please, I just…"
"No. That's the way it is."
A jerky smile broke in the corner of her mouth; her face held a sadness and a grave look of acceptance. "You will notify me immediately if you find out anything?"
Handing her my standard form, I said, "You'll need to sign this contract."
She did so and wrote me a check without hesitation.
Lynn Renoir left, saying she would return sometime after lunch with the card and a photograph of her sister whose name was Rene. Lynn said Rene was two years younger, and that they looked a lot alike, enough so to be mistaken for twins. If that were true, I would not mind finding her.
The way I figured it, Rene, a young innocent type, met someone on board the ship or in Nassau and decided to string out her vacation without telling big sister. Maybe a rich man with a yacht or airplane invites the young girl for a week of fun in the sun and doing things she would never be able to afford. The week turns into two, and such a good time is being had, the pretty girl forgets the real world. By this time some sleaze ball private investigator has spent several thousand dollars of family money locating her. If he's really a crook, he'll find her in a couple of days and then milk it for all that he can. It's sad, but true more times than not.
There were office chores that needed clearing up before devoting full time to finding Rene Renoir. What a day for a hangover. Rubbing my temples gently with my fingers, I thought, you'll never learn, Leicester. Forty-four years old and still think you have a teenager's liver.
There was a lame effort to stay in shape. At six foot two, two hundred and forty pounds, I could still go three rounds at the local gym. Eddy Brown, a friend and retired professional fighter who had once fought for the middleweight title, trained me three times a week when I wasn't working a case. His workouts were punishing, but he never truly hurt me. He wanted the lessons to be remembered, and they were. The effort had saved my life on more than one occasion, so I did not mind the punishment. At times the pain would start to feel good. I mentioned this to Eddy. He looked at me in a strange way and said, "Yeah, man…yeah. It feels good." He turned and walked away. I never brought it up again.
Lynn Renoir returned to my office at three o'clock with the photo and card she had received from Rene. It was postmarked in Miami on the day she boarded the Stede Bonnet. In the photo, Rene actually looked older than Lynn, with a slightly protruding, hooked nose, not ugly, but enough so one would notice; a plastic surgeon's delight. Except for this small difference, the two could pass for twins. Beautiful twins.
"What about your parents?"
"Our mother and father were killed in an airplane crash out at Chandeleur Island when I was fifteen." She made a tightening, sideways movement in the chair as if in some form of pain.
"Chandeleur Island, Renoir, Beech King Air, 1980. I recall the accident. Gene Arnold was the pilot."
"Yes," Lynn said, with a surprised half-smile. "That was our pilot's name. Did you know him?"
"Gene was a good friend. We flew together for a couple of years."
"You're a pilot?" She leaned back loosely, in a manner of polite relaxation.
"Well, let's say I used to be. Now I'm an aviation consultant, however my Airline Transport license is current in case it's needed. Now, my e-mail and telephone number with voice mail is on your copy of the form you signed this morning if you need to contact me. I will be in touch with you daily to keep you informed with any progress. Don't worry, Lynn, I'm sure Rene is soaking up the sun and enjoying life and not thinking about calling big sister."
She stood, shook my hand, and spoke in a low, flat voice, looking down at a spot on the carpet. "Thank you, Mr. Leicester. I'll be waiting to hear from you."
After seeing her to the door, I thought about the airplane crash that killed her parents. It brought back a lot of memories, especially thinking about Gene Arnold again. He was a good pilot. I was also reminded of a twenty-five year career in Aviation. A career I put behind me for many reasons, not the least of which was government bureaucracy and deregulation that caused overcrowding, over booking, and near chaos on every route. Things change, and I hated it.
The week after the Renoir's crash I flew to Gulfport and looked at the wreckage. The NTSB had reassembled most of it in a hangar at the airport. Both the wings and the tail had broken off, but the fuselage remained intact. Gene and the Renoir's died, not from impact, but from drowning. An investigator at the scene said that Gene was still strapped in his seat. The only injuries to him were a broken leg and slight burns on his face and hands. The Renoir's were not wearing seatbelts and, although they were beat up from flying around in the cabin, neither had fatal injuries. This fact says a lot for the integrity of Beech airplanes.
In my mind, there was something the investigation team overlooked. The final report of the cause of the accident said pilot error, flying too low, making a steep turn and impacting the water. This was not the Gene Arnold that I knew and flew with.
Whatever the reason for the crash, it left the two daughters with a billion-dollar oil empire. An article in the paper stated that the interest alone on the inheritance, if turned into cash, would be over two hundred thousand dollars a day. At the time, I thought that these two young girls would never amount to much with such wealth, but both seemed to have turned out fairly well; one teaching school at a private academy, the other working in a bank. However, if they were this rich it would be a strong motive for kidnapping.
Lynn had a tense, cautious quality in the attentive way she watched me. Yet she seemed bright and genuinely concerned about her sister, though enigmatic. Where is the inherited fortune today, and why had she failed to mention such an important fact, I wondered out loud? It was the first thing I was going to find out.
CHAPTER TWO
Max Renoir made his fortune in the oil rich marshlands along the coastal waters of the Gulf of Mexico. The family home was in Gulfport, Mississippi. After the deaths of Max and his wife, the estate had to have been handled by an executor, as the girls were too young. Guy Robins, a close friend and attorney in Gulfport may be of some help in finding out that information for me. Guy's secretary put me through to him immediately. He knew nothing about the Renoir estate, but promised to check around and let me know tomorrow.
&nb
sp; The Principal of the private academy in Wiggins, where Rene taught, agreed to allow me access to their personnel file on her. He had no problem with me talking to the staff if Lynn called and gave the necessary permission.
At seven o'clock the next morning, I was in the office clearing my desk. Guy called at nine a.m. The Renoir estate was currently being handled through Joe Glossman's bank in Ocean Springs, specifically by their attorney, Bill Moran.
Glossman and Moran were quite a team. Glossman owned most of Biloxi and Ocean Springs. He was into banking, oil and gas, trucking, and the fishing industry, owning a fleet of shrimp boats. The bank financed a great part of the shrimping fleet along the gulf coast.
Glossman started with nothing and built a vast empire on his own. He sent Bill Moran to college and law school, then hired him upon graduation. Moran became a loyal friend and was now CEO of the company.
Picking up the phone, I called Glossman's office and asked for Bill Moran. His secretary said he'd already left for the day, a court appearance in New Orleans. I asked if Glossman was there. She transferred me to his office.
"Mr. Glossman is in a meeting. May I have him return your call?"
When I told her my name, she said, "Ah, Mr. Leicester. Wait just a moment."
Joe Glossman came on the line. "Jay, how in the world are you, my boy? It's been a long time, two or three years. What can I do for you?"
"Hello, Mr. Glossman. Guy Robins told me you handled Max Renoir's estate. I'm working on a case involving the two daughters and I need all the background on them, including their financial status."
Glossman was silent for a moment. "Jay, that's about the only thing on God's green earth I can't talk about. It's complicated and has to do with a lot of legalese. I'm sorry."
"One of the girls is missing. I need all the help you can give me."
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