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.