by JC Simmons
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."
"We want an autopsy. Can you arrange it?"
"Sure.”You'll need a release from a family member. We'll also need a positive I.D., if you can get it."
We stood, shook hands. "Thanks, Doc. I know you tried as hard as you could."
Steve and I drove to his office where I called Glossman. He would tell Lynn and fly her to Miami this afternoon. He asked that I meet her at the airport, see her through the ordeal. The plane would wait and return her home.
"Not a problem, Mr. Glossman."
"Thanks, Jay. As soon as this is done, send us a bill. Put yourself a bonus on it. I'll okay whatever you send."
"Mr. Glossman, don't you want me to stay here and see if I can find out who did this to Rene? No doubt it was murder. Someone put her on that airplane in Bimini. It's a small island, I'm sure to find out something over there."
"No. We'll handle it from here. You come on home. Bimini is too dangerous a place with all the drug running going on. I'll hire some local people. It'll work out better that way."
Taken aback, my mind was racing. Why didn't Glossman want to find out who killed this young woman? "If you don't keep me on the case, I'll stay and find out on my own. Listen, by the time you bring someone else up to speed whoever did this could be long gone. We've got to act now."
There was a long pause. Then, "You're probably right. Let's see, today's Thursday …you have until Monday. Be careful in the islands. Do you need anything?"
"Yes, ten thousand in cash. Send it down with the airplane."
"That much?"
"This is the land of the Snowpowder. Buying information is expensive."
"It will be on the plane. Take care of Lynn, she's been acting strange lately. Viewing the body may be traumatic. Keep in touch."
Musing about Lynn Renoir, I was puzzled. There hadn't been any strange behavior. Sure, some mood swings and a temper, but nothing too far out.
***
Glossman gave me an estimate of three o'clock for arrival of his plane with Lynn on board. In the meantime, I wanted to talk with the pilots for Chalk Airlines. Steve cleared his desk for the day and would tag along with me, said he wanted to keep me out of trouble. That was a lie, he wanted to know what happened to Rene Renoir as much as the rest of us.
"You know I had to call homicide." He seemed to be apologizing. "The hospital would have called them anyway."
"All help is appreciated."
"They will probably want to talk with you and the sister."
"Yeah. Listen, if you wanted to do away with someone, would you torture them, dose them with opiates and hallucinogens, put them on an airplane to the mainland, and then call the Miami Police Department and tell them she's on the way?"
"Finally starting to think, are we? There are a thousand ways to eliminate a person, especially with all the hungry sharks we got running up and down the Gulf Stream. What I think happened is the job was botched or someone chickened out on the kill. This was not a professional hit. You can bet your bottom dollar whoever wanted her dead is unhappy at the moment. Never send an electrician to do a plumber's job."
"Right. Someone is very unhappy."
***
Chalk Airlines is located in a small building on the north side of the Miami ship channel. It's on one of the most valuable pieces of property in south Florida. It is also the oldest continuously operated airline in the United States. Politicians have tried for decades to shut it down so that millions could be made from the real-estate.
The man who started the operation died in the late seventies. He was over eighty years old and succumbed from injuries sustained in a fall while trimming a tree. His airline has always operated seaplanes with routes to the out islands of the Bahamas. They have never lost an aircraft or a passenger in all their years of operation. So much for the dreaded Bermuda Triangle.
Chalk's station manager informed us that the pilots we were looking for were due to arrive in about twenty minutes. They would have a quick turnaround, but we were welcome to talk with them during that time.
We watched the old Grumman Goose come lumbering in, dodging cargo ships, cruise ships, pleasure craft, and other seaplanes operating in the narrow channel. The Goose landed on the water with a smooth gliding motion. She taxied up to the ramp with one wing drooped low, like a wounded duck. Waddling out of the canal onto the ramp, the plane stopped in front of the operations office. Salt water poured from every wetted surface.
Steve knew the two pilots. They were more than willing to talk with us, but they didn't know anything other than a Bahamian man helped the woman on board. She seemed unsteady, but walking. As soon as she sat down in the seat, she was fast asleep. The police met the airplane when they landed and she was taken away in an ambulance. They did hear one of the Customs agents in Bimini, who also moonlights as their station manager, say she came off a sportfisherman. It was berthed up at the public dock in front of the Complet Angler hotel.
Asked if on the next trip over would they find out the name of the boat, the Captain replied, "Look, Mr. …what was your name?"
"Jay Leicester."
"Mr. Leicester, we can't do that. We fly into an area that is extremely dangerous just from the dope traffickers alone. If we started asking questions that didn't concern us, how long do you think we would last? We've got enough trouble keeping the routes since Bahamian Airlines started operating. I'm sorry." He was not an old man, but he had the weathered look and crow's feet around his dark eyes that said he'd seen his share of tropical sun glaring off of blue oceans, ugly thunder storms, lousy coffee, and low pay to make him a seasoned veteran of the cockpit.
"We understand. Call Steve if you happen to hear anything."
"If it comes our way."
***
On the way downtown Steve said we shouldn't count on getting any information from the flight crew. Even if they knew something, they wouldn't tell us. As we turned off the freeway onto Biscayne Boulevard Steve seemed to be thinking. "I'm sorry about the girl. It's always sad to see one so young die, especially the way that she did. It wasn't an easy trip. I've seen too many people die the hard way. It always makes me sad."
"In this world there are few enough people who care for you. Rene has a loving sister. The gutless ones who did this will be punished or killed. That's a promise."
"I know you're going over. The Snowpo
wder boys control some of the islands, Pindling and his group control others and, more dangerous than them, is a faction trying to take over the entire chain. Bloody wars are shaping up. The worse thing that ever happened was when the British turned control over to the Bahamians. It has been chaos ever since."
"Thanks. This has to be done, though."
"Yeah, I understand."
Turning off Biscayne Boulevard onto Southwest Seventh Street Steve asked if I wanted lunch. "I know a Cuban restaurant that serves good black bean soup and sourdough."
"Sounds fine."
In a few minutes we were in Little Havana. If you don't speak or read Spanish you have no business in this part of town. We drove all the way out to where Southwest Seventh Street ran at an angle into Southwest Eighth, or Calle Ocho, as the locals know it. It is a wide, tree-lined street kept neat and immaculately clean. We passed quaint shops. There was Casa de Guayabera, where you can buy well-made Cuban style shirts at good prices. Perezosa's bakery, where fresh bread is put out every morning at eight a.m. and sold out by eight-thirty. Then we passed by the El Credito Cigar factory where my friend, Ernesto Perez Carrillo makes the finest cigars in the world from aged leaves of the finest Cuban seed tobacco, and hand-rolled by 'Tabaqueros' (cigar makers) from the old country. I am never without the fifty-four ring, long filler, seven and a half inch Charlamagnes.
Steve turned off Calle Ocho and drove one block and turned into a parking lot at the rear of a building with a sign that read, Malaga Restaurant. The entrance was a dark lane, shaded by tropical trees that opened up into a bright, colorful garden about twenty feet square. There were beautiful flowers and bushes with birds singing. The walkways were lined with hand-painted tiles, and the buildings were crafted from old, hand-hewed wood.
Steve was greeted like an old friend by a maître d' who didn't have a hair on his head, not even eyebrows. He was dressed in a red waistcoat, white shirt with a bow tie, black pants and shoes. Leading us into a small, dark, cool dining room, he sat us at a small table over by a brick wall. A bar was at one end of the room and there were old, stained-glass windows at the other. On two walls were huge paintings depicting the Corridor, or bullfight, by an artist I did not recognize. Over the bar hung the head, hoof, and tail of a fighting bull, along with four banderilleros, a muleta, and an acero. Off to the side was a Matador's black hat. I could not remember what it is called. It was the small hat, not the black, flat-topped ones of the Picadors.
On one wall, over by the stained-glass windows, were two bullfight posters. The Matadors listed on the one to the left were Antonio Ordonez, Diego Puerto, and Paco Camino. The other listed Julio Aparicio, Chamaco, and el Viti. Another poster over by the bar listed Gitanillo de Triana, Manolete, and Dominguin.
This was not a Cuban restaurant. Steve had lied. He was getting great delight from watching me. This place was straight from Spain, and not tourist imitation. It turned out the owner and all the staff was from Madrid and Sevilla.
We were served thick, black bean soup with finely chopped onions and hard, crusted bread, along with a tiny spoon of white rice. A strong, dry Ollauri wine, from Rioja, was placed on the table in a carafe. “A wine of the people," the waiter said as he poured the glasses. It was wonderful with the meal and had an earthy, powerful nose and enough tannin to cut through the onions.
This was Spain. A place where bullfighters would come when the afternoon's corridor had ended. A restaurant of the people. Spanish music played by a live band across the hall wafted in from the big bar.
The maître d' came over to the table and talked to Steve in Spanish. He turned to me and, in broken English, asked where I was from? In broken Spanish I replied that I was from the United States. Everyone began to laugh, the bartenders, the waiters, and Steve. It took me a moment to comprehend. I had been so absorbed in the Spanish atmosphere that I'd forgotten I was still in Miami. The maître d' was gracious, saying not to fret, it happened all the time.
The owner came over with Monte Cristo cigars, smuggled in from Cuba. He joined us for a strong aromatic coffee. I promised not to tell my friend Ernie about the cigar.
Later, as we drove back to town, I asked Steve if he had a fingerprint kit in his car. He did not, but said we could stop by the station and get one.
"You want to run the prints of the girl?"
"Don't you think?"
After we finished at the morgue, Steve got a call from his headquarters, something urgent. He promised to let me know about the prints as soon as they were identified. Dropping me off at the hotel, we said good-bye. It would be a long time before I would see him again.
CHAPTER SIX
There was a message from Glossman waiting for me at the front desk of the hotel. It said to expect arrival of the airplane at Butler Aviation located on Miami International airport around three p.m. Lynn in bad shape. Windom bringing money personally. Keep in touch.
Up in the room, I lay on the bed resting and thinking about the message and what was meant about Lynn being in bad shape. The inference puzzled me. Losing a sibling can be traumatic, though. The I.D. at the morgue would have to be handled carefully.
Legally, it's necessary to view a body for a positive identification. Rene's face wasn't exactly pretty, plus a morgue is an awful place for a first-time visitor. The hollow echo of footsteps on tile floors, the smell, the bright lights, the cold of both the temperature and the attendants, and the thought of all that death can get to anyone.
The Concierge at the hotel arranged a rental car for me. I drove to Butler Aviation. The rest of the afternoon loomed like a bad omen for things to come.
Parking in the lot at the airport, I walked to the operations office. The girl behind the desk flashed a California smile with a Florida tan and a set of teeth that paid some Dentist's light bill for a year and said that N5JG would be on the ramp in five minutes.
Standing outside in the bright sunshine, I watched the plane turn off the taxiway onto Butler's ramp. It was one of the Falcon Fifties, the one with the horizontal stabilizer drooping downward. I must get Windom to explain that design for me one day.
Usually when he shuts off the engines Windom would bound down the cabin stairs and say something funny, "Just like Air Force One, on time, to the second." On this occasion his demeanor was of a serious nature. He was the consummate professional pilot and, as with most people who work in stressful occupations, he had a brilliant sense of humor. This was the only time I'd seen it fail him.
He shook my hand. "She's having a rough time. Here's the money Mr. Glossman sent. Look, we've arranged for a day room in the hotel here at the airport. We'll be there in case she needs to leave earlier."
"What's she been doing?"
"Everything was fine until we got airborne. She started wailing like a banshee and pacing up and down the aisle. We left the cockpit door open to watch her. She acted like that the entire trip. At the moment, she's sitting in there staring off into space, won't say a word to us. It's like she's in shock. I hope you can handle her."
Quietly boarding the aircraft, I sat down in the seat facing her. "I'm sorry about Rene, Lynn."
She looked up, hollow-eyed, staring through me for a moment, then, "See if there's any brandy. I need a drink." The look on her face was one of defeat, a drained expression of passivity. Her appearance was immaculate, though. The long hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. She wore a bone-white business suit that exuded professionalism. Her posture gave away her inner struggle, erect, stiff, and fragile.
The co-pilot remained in his seat shutting down the systems. When asked if there was brandy on board he pointed at the liquor cabinet and offered to get it in just a moment. Patting him on the shoulder, I said I'd do it.
There was Martel Gordon Blue cognac. Pouring two ounces into a large snifter, I gave it to Lynn. She drank it in one swallow, and handed me the glass. "I'm okay. Thanks."
"I'm glad."
She appeared calm. Her look of weariness eased into a thin smile that seem
ed to reflect more than the endurance of this one moment. "I've got it out of my system. I'll apologize to the pilots for the way I acted on the flight. It was awful, but I couldn't help it. It started in Joe's office and I couldn't control myself. Rene was the last of my family. There is no one left. Can you understand?"
"It has to hurt. Don't worry about the pilots, they understand. As for Joe, he feels like you are his daughter."
"I'm so embarrassed."
"We have to go."
She looked out the oval-shaped cabin window. "Do I have to see the body? Couldn't it be done some other way?" She turned to me, and there was a puzzled helplessness on her face. The face was calm, but something about the expression made me wish that she did not have to experience such sadness.
"There is no other way."
She was quiet on the way to the County morgue. The body was moved there after a telegram arrived at the hospital releasing it. The facility had the latest technology and we were able to make the viewing from a quiet comfortable room via closed-circuit television.
Lynn looked hard at the screen as if implanting the picture in her brain. "Yes, it's Rene." She turned and walked away, no tears, hysterics, or emotion.
Walking out of the building, Lynn said, "Can we go somewhere for a drink? I could use one." She wiped a hand across her eyes as if she were erasing the things that she had felt and experienced in the last few days.
There was a hotel a few blocks from the morgue. The bar was familiar, off the lobby it was dark, cool, and quiet. We took a booth in a far corner. A blond waitress in a typical short outfit that made rustling noises placed two napkins in front of us without saying a word. Lynn ordered a gin and tonic. I had the same. She kept her eyes down, looking at the nautical chart inlaid into the table with two inches of clear acrylic. The waitress returned with the drinks, sat them in front of us and walked away.