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 back 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.