Glossman stood and shook my hand. I nodded at Bill. "Good, you are early. This is Agent Evans and Agent Mallory, from the FBI office in New Orleans. They are the two who did most of the leg work for us."
The two agents extended their hands. Both had strong, firm handshakes. Dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and red ties, they seemed in top physical shape. One had black hair and hard, brown eyes, and a Jay Leno chin. The other was blond with a crew cut that I admired. His eyes were clear, blue, piercing, and almost acquisitive.
"Mr. Leicester," Agent Mallory said. "I've read your dossier. You lead an interesting life." He looked at me, and then I noticed something about him. The sleepy appearance created by his drooping lids was deceptive, for the eyes beneath were alert and hard and calculating.
"My dossier…?"
Glossman spoke. "Jay, have a seat. There are some things we need to discuss before Lynn arrives."
Sitting down in the plain, though elegant office, I lay my small, flexible briefcase on the floor beside the chair and admired, again, the Moran painting behind Glossman's desk. The office reeked with the after-shave of five men. I wanted to open a window.
Bill Moran came and sat across from me, leaving a high-backed, leather chair between us. There was a tension in the room that had an electric quality. The cool leather on the arm of my chair felt expensive, and the deep pile of the carpet gave me a feeling of walking on air. Looking around the room, I felt financially inept and uneducated.
Glossman pressed a button on his desk and immediately his secretary entered with a silver tray that held delicate cups and saucers and an urn filled with coffee. There was an extra cup for Lynn, who was now five minutes late.
We finished our business and Glossman turned behind him and picked up a small white phone. He spoke softly for a moment, then replaced the instrument back on the credenza. "The airplane was delayed coming out of Jackson. Lynn left our hangar ten minutes ago, should arrive momentarily."
Lynn was escorted into the room a few moments later. I had forgotten how truly beautiful this woman was; the blond hair, blue eyes, high, sharp, cheekbones, little makeup, long firm legs. All this, added to the perfectly proportioned six-foot frame, created a synergism that would make most men cater to her every wish. She wore the same musk oil perfume that had so overwhelmed my small office on her first visit.
As if on command, we all stood when she entered. She looked quickly at me, then at the two other men, and at Joe Glossman and Bill Moran. There was an interval of silence, and when she sat down I heard the faint rustle of wool over nylon as she crossed her legs, the movement raising her skirt to uncover her lower thigh, its white flesh darkened by her stockings. The glimpse wasn't provocative, but struck me as something I wasn't supposed to see. I fastened my gaze on her face.
Glossman intoned in a fatherly voice. "Lynn, before we begin our business meeting Jay will give us his final report on Rene's death. When he concludes, we will move on to the changeover of your father's company and Jay can leave us."
"Very well." She settled comfortably, confidently into the confines of the leather chair. Crossing her legs, again, the skirt rode even higher on her thighs. Tugging self-consciously at it, she looked at me silently for a moment. It was an odd look, as if from a great distance. "Jay, I'm so glad to see that you are okay. Joe told me there was some trouble in the Bahamas. I traveled to Nassau, but could never locate you. I know you said not to come, but I just couldn't stay home."
"I saw you at the Paradise Island casino, and on Marsh Harbor."
There was a tense, cautious quality in the attentive way she watched me, and the faintest contraction of her mouth showed that the statement was like a blow across an open wound. "But why didn't you
…?"
"You were on the move, I couldn't catch up with you."
She looked calmly, straight at me with the faintly proud look of stressing her calm, but it cracked a little, in the faintest change of her voice. "I'm sorry I missed you."
"Maybe we better get started," Glossman said, nodding to me. "Let's have your report."
Lynn concentrated on the nail polish of her index finger.
Reaching for my brief case, I shuffled some papers. "Lynn came to my office two weeks ago requesting that I locate her missing sister, Rene." Monotonously I plodded through the events leading up to the identification of the body in a Miami morgue by Lynn, casually mentioning that Steve Henderson and I lifted a set of fingerprints from the body, and that Steve sent them to the FBI Identification Division in Washington, D.C.
Watching Lynn closely for a reaction to this information, I saw that there was none. She continued to pick at the fingernail, waiting for me to continue.
"Rene Renoir was put aboard an airplane in Bimini. She was drugged, and she was dying."
Lynn folded her hands in her lap, drew her knees tightly together, cocked her chin ever so slightly, and struck a pose of steely self-containment.
"Following her trail from Bimini back to Nassau resulted in my being kidnapped, transported to Abaco Island, and ordered killed by the same individual responsible for Rene's death."
Pausing, I watched Lynn carefully. She uncrossed and crossed her legs and concentrated again on her fingernail. There was no other reaction. The Federal Agents were silent, attentive. Glossman and Moran stared at me.
I continued. "That individual's name was Ignacio Sanchez, a smalltime scumbag running dope throughout the Bahamas. He is dead, along with a few of his operatives who were killed during a drug deal that went bad."
There was a perceptible change in Lynn's posture. She raised her head a little and looked at me. It was only a glance. Then she looked at Glossman and spoke. "Well, I guess that finishes it. Poor Rene met the wrong people. It got her killed. She was unlucky, and it is very sad." There was coldness in her voice, and her face hardened as if in open admission of some forgotten pain.
Maybe it was only I seeing her reactions, reading something into the situation because I knew the truth. Maybe there is no difference in voice patterns, body posture, or galvanic skin response. Maybe it is all in the imagination of the observer.
Glossman leaned back in his chair. "Are you sure it was this Sanchez fellow who had Rene killed?"
"Yes, Mr. Glossman, I'm positive. But there is more."
"Proceed."
"One of Sanchez's henchmen, a local Bahamian we knew only as Barrel-chest, made a dying confession detailing Rene's death."
Lynn suddenly turned with a brusque, brief movement toward me. "You were there when Sanchez was killed?"
"Yes. Dave Billingsly and I were there. We both listened to every word Barrel-chest uttered as his lifeblood drained away."
Glossman looked at me and nodded. Lynn saw this, and for the first time outwardly showed some perplexity. Her face paled to a look of confusion, a crack in the armor. Looking at her reminded me of a scene straight from Hamlet. I had the leading role and didn't want to miss a cue or drop a line.
"When Lynn first came to my office, she was advised that I work alone. Having an amateur involved is dangerous. She chose not to take that advice, and could have endangered all of our lives."
"My sister was dead, I had a right to try and find out who murdered her." She spoke slowly, as if lashing me with her words, but the emotion was one of a useless effort to defend her actions.
There was a soft tap on the door of Glossman's office. His secretary entered, walked up to my chair and handed me a folded sheet of paper. Smiling, she patted me on the shoulder, turned and walked out, closing the door. Glancing at the note, I put it under the papers in my hand pretending it was of no importance, although it was extremely helpful at the moment.