J. C. Simmons
Icy Blue Descent
PROLOGUE
The three men viciously and repeatedly raped the young woman, their grunts animalistic, the laughter, maniacal. She felt the pain, heard the horrible sounds through the veil of drugs pumping through her veins. Her treatment was something no human should be forced to endure. The torture lasted for two days. Her last conscious thought was of her sister…why?
The men had their orders. Do what they wanted with her, keep her drugged, then feed her to the sharks.
CHAPTER ONE
It was a cold, misty, overcast day. It was Monday, and I was hung over from two days of heavy drinking. At least I wasn't toxic, just lethargic and shaky. Self-induced alcohol toxemia is pathetic and stupid. Today I wasn't pathetic, just stupid. There's an extremely thin line between the two.
The last thing I needed was a new client. The current ones were being sorely neglected. However the Gods, angered at my weekend indiscretions, sent one through the door at nine a.m. She didn't bother to knock, simply walked in and sat down in the chair in front of my desk without saying a word, silent, staring.
We looked at each other as if across an interplanetary distance, both defiant, stubborn. Finally, conceding the game, I said, 'There is some reason you're here?'
'There is if you are Jay Leicester.'
'Who sent you?'
'Are you Jay Leicester?'
'It says so on the front of the door, right above the sign that reads, 'Knock before entering.'
She stood suddenly, tears welling up in her blue eyes, wheeled and walked out as fast as she'd walked in.
Leaning back in the chair, I laced my fingers behind my head, and closed my eyes. That was certainly no way to treat a lady, especially one so beautiful as her. She stood around six feet, blond hair, aqua blue eyes, and those stark features that cause men to do things they never quite fully understand. There was little makeup, maybe a hint of coloring on the high, sharp, cheekbones. A perfume, one I did not recognize, a musk oil of some kind, overwhelmed the small office.
Her clothing was expensive, but not flamboyant and the skirt hugged the finest set of legs I've seen in a long time. There was no jewelry, no wedding band. She couldn't have been over twenty-five, give or take a few years either way. Her blond hair seemed to float around her, and the light growth of hair on her arms made them appear veiled in smoke.
The musk oil continued to slowly envelope me, causing a flood of pleasant memories to come drifting back.
When I opened my eyes, she was standing in front of my desk. The look on her face was one of defeat, and yet of an odd, cynical cunning.
'I must talk to you. It's extremely important.'
Motioning to a chair, I said, 'Please have a seat. I'm sorry for the rudeness. It's not a good day for me. Jay Leicester, at your service.'
'Lynn Renoir.' She extended a hand across the desk. 'Dave Billingsly sent me.'
She had a firm grip, but her hand was icy cold.
'Billingsly?'
'Yes, he said to tell you he had to leave for Abaco Island and could not take my case. You were the only one he would recommend who could help me.'
'Well, that was certainly nice of him.' Picking up the phone, I dialed his office number. While the phone rang, I thought about Dave Billingsly. He was a good man. We were close friends, and had worked some dangerous cases together. He ran a private investigation firm and was widely respected throughout the south. He handled business security, polygraphy, high-tech surveillance, missing persons, divorce cases. The firm employed retired cops and senior citizens who wanted to do something worthwhile in their old age.
While I held a private investigator's license, my business was as a consultant, dealing only with things relating to aviation. Companies would hire me to set up flight departments, determine their aircraft needs, buy the planes, hire the crew and the maintenance personnel, and see that they were trained. Recovery of stolen airplanes or those finance companies wanted returned due to defaulted loans was a big part of my work. I sometimes helped companies whose pilots were alcoholics or drug abusers get them into rehab before some terrible tragedy occurred. Then there was some work for the government with drug running operations and finding out who the bad guys were, what aircraft and what routes they were using.
Dave's wife, Sally, answered the phone. 'Jay, good to hear from you, you old…' She let loose a string of four letter words. Sally always talked like a twenty-year Chief Mate on shore leave to people with whom she was close friends. To everyone else, she was Dr. Sally Billingsly, Ph. D., University of Mississippi, class of '59, with the manners of a true Southern Belle.
'Good to hear your educated voice, Sally. Where's Dave?'
'She's there, is she? Thought you'd like that. Wouldn't have sent her, myself, but Dave felt a little charity would be good for his soul.'
'Needed to be sure she was on the up and up. Why send her to me? You didn't want Dave to get close to this tall blond?' Lynn Renoir cut her eyes at me with a hard, glaring stare. I dropped my head. 'The lady says Dave went to Abaco. What's going on in the islands?'
'Karl Strange called from Marsh Harbor, asked Dave to come down immediately. Seems that Karl's oldest boy, Will, is involved with some Snowpowder being run up from Nassau. The boy bit off something he can't chew.'
'That's too bad. Karl's an okay guy. So was little Will the last time I saw him.'
'You know what Dave thinks about Karl. He'd do anything for him after the Sand Cay Reef thing. If it had not been for Karl, Dave would be dead.'
'I was there, Sally. Remember?'
'Oh, that's right. It seems so long ago. I keep trying to forget. It was a rough one, Jay.'
She was right about the Sand Cay Reef thing. It had been bad.
'You know anything about this?' I asked, referring to the lady sitting across from me.
'No. She talked with Dave. We didn't make a file on her. He seemed sure you'd want to work the case. Good luck.'
Hanging up the phone, I looked at Lynn Renoir. She stared incredulously, as if for a moment in shock at being in my company.
'Is that what women are to you, Mr. Leicester? Tall blonds, short redheads, skinny brunettes? Are all women stigmatized to you in some way?'
Her controlled anger made me smile. 'My apologies. I did not mean to offend you. Now how can I help?'
'It's my sister, I want you to find her. I'm afraid something terrible has happened. She's been gone for three weeks. No one has heard from her, only a card sent to me. She should have been back at her job this past Monday.'
