by JC Simmons
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."
"Missing? Which one?"
"Rene, the younger one. Teaches school in Wiggins."
"Yes, yes, I know." He paused. "Bill is in court today. Be in my office at ten o'clock in the morning. I look forward to seeing you, Jay."
Joe Glossman and I went back a long way. I taught him to fly years ago. He decided to buy a company aircraft and wanted to learn to fly in order to better understand aviation and airplanes. It was smart business. He went on to set up an aviation department in his company, hiring me as a consultant to procure the aircraft, hire the flight crew and maintenance personnel, and see that they were trained. One of those pilots is now a vice-president in charge of all transportation for the company that includes a fleet of seven jets, twenty-one pilots, and eight mechanics. He makes more money in a day than I do in a month.
It would be good to see Glossman again. He is a good man, well respected by all who know him. Many a fisherman on the coast owed their livelihood to Glossman. Without his help, they would not have made it.
***
Lynn Renoir was not at the bank when I called. There was no answer at her home. If she went to Nassau, I'm off the case. As I hung up the phone, she walked through the door of my office.
"I came by to see if you'd have lunch with me. There are some things I want to tell you about Rene. You didn't call last night, like you promised." Her face had an accusing smirk, but enough of a smile to let me know she wasn't mad.
"Your billing will start today."
Over lunch, she described Rene. Two years younger than Lynn, they had not gotten along all that well as young girls, at least up until about a year ago. Rene began to make an effort to develop a close friendship with her. Lynn said it had been a wonderful experience, for the first time in ten years they acted and felt like sisters.
When asked why two siblings who lost their parents so young wouldn't be close, Lynn became vague. She said it was too personal to talk about and, in any case, was a long time ago.
After lunch, we went back to my office that is located in a one-story row-shopping complex. It was a small office, but it was in a good part of town and the rent was free.
The owner of the complex allowed me the space in payment for some extremely embarrassing work that I had done for him and keeping it out of the local papers and away from the police. It involved a very married lady and a big, mean, jealous, ugly-tempered husband. The man was grateful.
Lynn called the Principal of the school in Wiggins from my phone. He agreed to help any way that he could.
Typing up a letter giving me permission to see the personnel file on Rene, I had Lynn sign the document. It's always nice to have things in writing.
There was no reason to mention that I talked to Glossman or the fact that a meeting was scheduled with him in the morning.
"Let me go to Wiggins with you. It might help with both the Principal and the school staff." Her sea-blue eyes and upturned nose formed a look of alertness, of eager interest. A look that expected affirmation.
Shaking my head from side to side, I said nothing.
Her face paled white, so that even her lips became a sculptured feature against her skin, but she showed no anger.
"I'm flying down tomorrow morning, and don't have room in the plane, it's a single seat, open-cockpit, noisy little bird."
"How convenient." Her mouth formed a tight little crescent, the petulant mouth of a child. The expression was unflattering on an adult woman. She got up and left without saying goodbye.
This lady had a temper.
There were several concerns about Lynn Renoir for which I needed answers. How did she know so much about the Bahamian police and how they worked? Why did she react so violently to the remark about tall blondes? Why was she working in a bank when she obviously could own it? Why was she so insistent on working with me? Why didn't she ever knock before she came into my office? Then there was still the omission of the inherited fortune.
***
Picking up the phone, I called the Miami police department. An assistant Chief in charge of the Cuban sector is an old friend. Steve Henderson was a Navy pilot at the outbreak of the Vietnam War, but he kept sliding off carrier decks in expensive jet fighters until they made a civilian out of him. We met while we both were flying for the same airline, before Steve decided to go into law enforcement.
The desk sergeant said Steve was on vacation. He was due to call in this afternoon, and he promised to give him my message.
Calling the airport north of town where I kept my little airplane, I asked the line personnel to check the fuel and oil and to put me up front in the hangar as my planned departure was early in the morning before the Fixed Base Operation opened for business. No one would be there to help me move aircraft around. They promised I would be the first out.
There was nothing else I could do on the Renoir case until meeting with Glossman. My plan was to stop in Wiggins on the way back to Jackson.
Outside the office, rain began to fall mixed with sleet. The clouds were low and scudding along the treetops. Dialing the local Flight Service Station brought a forecast of frontal passage by midnight with clear skies and a strong north wind by six a.m. It would be a swift trip to Ocean Springs, but I'd pay the price returning home. One can't have everything.
The phone rang as I started out the door.
"Hello, flyboy. What's going on?"
"Steve. How you doing?"
After our usual ritual, I explained the situation. He promised to make some inquiries and be in touch tomorrow night.
Steve was good at his job. He would stick his neck out for you if he liked you, but it did not pay to be on his wrong side in Dade County, Florida. Not your standard five-foot nine, one hundred and sixty pound fighter pilot, he was six foot one with broad shoulders and possessed the strength of a grizzly bear. Even the Cubans feared Steve Henderson.
The Cuban Mafia was powerful in the Miami area, much more than people realized. Steve said they were using the millions made in the Snowpowder business to expand into legal enterprises. Organized crime had been doing this for thirty years, but the Cubans were making money so fast that they were able to do in ten years what it took other crime families decades to achieve. This made the northern factions quite angry. A lot of blood was being spilled in the streets of Miami. Steve Henderson was acquainted with every drop of it.
Turning off the lights, I locked the door on my way out. At home, I poured a snifter of Martel Cognac and cut the end off one of my favorite Ernesto P. Carrilos, handmade, long filler, fifty-four ring, Charlemagne cigars. They are made in Miam
i on Calle Ocho by Old World Tabaqueros. A beautiful cigar touches all my senses. Cigars are simple yet complex. A good cigar can be differentiated from a bad one by observing the leaf, the color of the ash and the burn rate, and by tasting the smoke for complexity and richness. By doing these things, you will understand the quality of your cigar. You exhale and let the smoke out, and there is great peace in the silence. The cognac and cigar are a combination that helps me think a case through. This was one of those times when I needed to do a lot of thinking.
CHAPTER THREE
Arriving at the airport at six a.m., I found the sky as predicted, a Gulf Stream blue, the air cold and crisp. The line crew left my airplane up front in the hangar as requested.
With today's technology in aviation, nearly all aircraft are capable of climbing above most weather, but small airplanes like mine rarely go higher than ten thousand feet. Flying days like these are to be cherished.
The wind was blowing at twenty-five knots. Taking off to the south on runway 17, I experienced a rough ride up to five thousand feet. After that the air smoothed out and visibility was unrestricted. Leveling at eight thousand five hundred feet, the coastline at Gulfport, the skyline of New Orleans off to the southwest, and Mobile Bay to the southeast was visible. Below, the stark brown of winter fields contrasted with the green of the pine forests. The land seemed to breathe in the early morning sun. Today was a halcyon day for a pilot.
It had been a long time since I'd seen Guy Robins, so I decided to land in Gulfport, visit with him, then drive over to Ocean Springs for the meeting with Glossman.
Guy came out to the airport and we had a short, pleasant visit. He had clients all day, but graciously offered the use of his automobile.
"Please take care of it, Jay. It's brand new." It was a silver Jaguar, the first he'd been able to afford.
Guy and I had known each other all of our lives. We went to the same college, played football together, even dated the same girl. She showed her intelligence by marrying Guy. They have three beautiful children. I'm their Godfather.
Guy built a thriving law practice in Gulfport. He managed to stay away from large law firms who handled people and types of law he did not care for, and there were lean years, but slowly the business grew as people learned of his unyielding veracity, integrity, and rectitude.
When I went into the aviation consulting business, Guy sent me a lot of work, and it was he who recommended I get licensed as a private investigator, advising that the license would facilitate access to places I would otherwise be denied. He was right, and informed other attorneys on the coast about me and, as my office was in the state capital, I got a lot of legwork from that area of the state. During lean times, this paid the bills.
The drive over to Ocean Springs along the coast took me past white sand shorelines that, though not natural, were still amazingly beautiful. A string of barrier islands six miles offshore prevents the natural buildup of sand; it is dredged up from the seabed and spread by machine to make the beach. Old majestic water oaks line the once quiet waterfront highway on what used to be a pleasant, peaceful drive. Today it is a nightmare of heavy traffic leading to and from the many gambling casinos being built along the ocean side of the highway. It reminded one of the Las Vegas strip. Dockside gambling arrived with a thunder. It's been good for the economy, but the idyllic life has changed.
Passing by the Biloxi lighthouse, I remembered the artist-in-residence on the Mississippi coast, Joe Moran, a distant cousin of Bill Moran, whose studio and home is just off the beach, telling me of finding seaweed on top of the lighthouse after hurricane Camille in 1969. The lighthouse is forty feet tall.
Crossing the bridge to Ocean Springs, I could see the family compound of Walter Anderson, the tormented genius who painted life along this coast so brilliantly. His wife, Agnes Grinstead Anderson, died recently. A fine lady whose book, APPROACHING THE MAGIC HOUR, is a magnificent, heartrending memoir of her husband.
The morning breeze ruffled the water of Biloxi Bay causing the reflecting sun to turn the wave tops into a blue field of sparkling diamonds. There are some things even man cannot screw up.
Walking into Joe Glossman's office at precisely ten o'clock, his secretary politely offered me a seat. Mr. Glossman would be with me in a few minutes. The gray walls of the office had time to work me over, leaving me with a feeling of inadequacy in the presence of such wealth and power.
Glossman and Bill Moran were seated in the plain, functional inner office when I walked in and, much to my chagrin, so was Lynn Renoir. She didn't smile, her face appeared inanimate, but the eyes had a brilliant clarity. Interesting, I thought to myself, she doesn't listen. When this meeting is over, someone else can locate her sister.
My thoughts must have showed.
Glossman spoke, "Now take it easy, Jay. Don't blame Lynn. She told me that you didn't want her involved. I called her last night and asked that she be here today. I sent one of the planes up to get her this morning."
Nodding, I didn't say anything. Looking around at Glossman's office, I noticed that it contained nothing but a few pieces of furniture, all harshly simplified down to their essential purpose, though exorbitantly expensive in the quality of material and skill of design. On one corner of a desk was a piece of George Orr pottery. Behind Glossman's head was an oil painting of a Biloxi Schooner under full sail heading into a setting sun. It was a Joe Moran work.
"There are some touchy things here, Jay." Glossman continued. "Lynn should be present when they are discussed. Max Renoir set up this estate, and one of the stipulations was that it not be communicated with anyone outside the family, except for myself and Bill."
"I'm listening, Mr. Glossman."
"Max was worth a lot of money. He thought carefully about what was to be done with it in the unlikely event of the death of both he and his wife. Since Lynn was the oldest of the two girls, and the fact that Rene had a problem of a nature that will not be discussed, Max left control of everything to Lynn. The Will further states that Bill and I are to control the business and its assets as if they were ours, unconditionally, until Lynn reached her twenty-sixth birthday. At that time, control would go entirely to her. There are complex instructions as to how Rene is to be merged into the company, provided she meets certain conditions.
Lynn crossed her legs with a swishing of nylon, put both hands in her lap. We all turned and looked at her. She smiled.
Glossman said, "Both Lynn and Rene were informed of certain parts of the Will when each reached the age of twenty-one. That's why Lynn has been working in the bank in Jackson. She's been handling the accounts of her family business. We thought it the best method of letting her see how we were running the company."
Turning to her, I said, "You could have told me this yesterday."
Glossman held up a hand. "Lynn was supposed to take over the operation of the company this week. Rene was required to be present at the changeover. There were a lot of paperwork and court proceedings to be handled. Bill was in New Orleans yesterday working on some of this. The disappearance of Rene has stopped us from going forward. We will continue to run the company until she is found. We've had an injunction issued by a judge to allow this."
Now I understood why Lynn wanted her sister found. Huge amounts of money were involved. But why didn't she call Glossman to start with?
"When we finish here, Bill will show you what has happened with the company in the ensuing years. I think you will be surprised. For now, I want you to consider yourself working for Glossman Enterprises, for me personally. We want you to put maximum effort into finding Rene, dead or alive."
Lynn let out a sob.
"I'm sorry, Lynn. That was insensitive. Forgive me."
"You thinking kidnapping?"
"If so, there's been no demand," Joe said, with sadness. "Information leaks out."
Bill Moran shifted position in his chair, an uncomfortable look on his face.
"Yes, always does."
"If you need anythin
g, get in touch with Bill. We want you to keep it quiet, but work as fast as you can. Report directly to Bill or me. He has the rest of the information in his office. He'll fill you in."
We all stood. This meeting was over.
After Bill and Lynn walked out of the office, Glossman put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
"It's good to see you again, Jay. If you're as good an investigator as you are an airplane pilot, I'm satisfied we've got the best man for the job."
"Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Glossman." I looked him directly in the eyes. "I'll find Rene, but you've got to promise me none of your people will be looking for her at the same time, and that Lynn stays out of it. I can't babysit her and do my job, too."
"It's your ballgame, Jay. Run with it. Oh, and I know what you are thinking, why didn't she call me first when she realized Rene was missing? I've already chastised her about that. She said she merely did not think it through, acted on her own. That's the way she is, Jay. Strong headed and strong willed. Just like her father."
"Thanks, it makes sense now. By the way, how is old T. Windom? He still trying to keep together that fleet of French-built, loosely flying collection of nuts and bolts that you insist on calling aircraft?"
Glossman laughed. He knew I was kidding. He owned some of the finest built corporate jets in the world.
"Windom's doing fine. You should call him, might have an opening. We always need good pilots."
"Thanks, I may contact him while I'm on the coast." We shook hands.
When I entered Moran's office, he was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. Lynn was seated across from him in a relaxed pose, a blank expression on her face.
Bill was a slim man, close to forty years old, with a head full of coal-black hair and intelligent, dark eyes to match. The sharp, athletic features of his face showed smooth, bronze skin, a color derived from his 'old Biloxi' heritage. It's a mixture of Indian, French, and Spanish. At a little over six feet, his thin physique betrayed the deadly power he possessed. A legend around the waterfront, he was not a man to be trifled with, mentally or physically.