Cash Landing (14 page)

O
n Saturday morning, Ruban dug up more money.

Friday had been another gangbuster night at the restaurant, and it was after two a.m. when he'd finally gone home. He woke before sunrise so neighbors would not see him digging in the yard. He took only what he needed, left the rest in the PVC pipe, and covered up the hole. A flick of a knife removed the vacuum-sealed packaging. The bills went into a backpack. Savannah was still in bed when he stepped out of the shower, and it wasn't his intention to wake her before leaving. He almost made it.

“Where you going, honey?”

He was at the front door, reaching for the knob. She was standing across the room, wrapped in her peach terry-cloth robe, her hair up in a chip clip.

“Oh, you're up.”

“I am now,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the restaurant,” he said, lying. “A pipe broke in the kitchen last night. I need to see if I can fix it. Got my tools right here,” he said, patting his backpack of money.

“Can't you call a plumber?”

“Ha,” he said, smiling. “Do you have any idea what a plumber charges on a weekend? I'd have to get Jeffrey to knock off another money flight to cover his bill.”

She folded her arms, clearly not amused. “Please don't joke about that. Jeffrey's lucky to be alive. I'm still very worried about him.”

“We both are.” He laid his backpack on the floor, keeping a safe distance between Savannah and what was really inside it. Then he crossed the room and put his arms around her. “I told both him and your mother that they should pack their bags and get out of Miami. I can't put a gun to their heads and force them to go.”

Savannah laid her head against his chest, but she kept her eyes wide open, thinking. “I think we should turn in the money.”

Ruban froze, then took a step back. “You what?”

“We don't have to tell the police that Jeffrey stole it. We can say that we were walking along a bike trail and saw a hundred-dollar bill on the ground. We looked around and saw another one, and then another one. Then we found a whole bag of money that the crooks had buried, and some animals must have dug it up.”

Animals? Dug up?
It was actually possible. He took another step back, suddenly feeling the need to sit, and leaned against the back of the couch. “That's just a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“We find millions of dollars in a bag, and we just turn it in? That's our story?”

“Yeah. We did the right thing. Why is that a bad idea?”

“It's not believable.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, where do you think we live, Mayberry? Nobody in Miami finds that much money and just turns it in.”

“That's not true. I remember a story on the news just a few years ago. An armored car got in an accident and overturned on I-95. Two kids turned in the money.”

“No. I remember that story, too. It was almost a half million dollars that spilled out of the truck. Two kids found fifty-five bucks and returned it. The rest of the folks, they just kept the money. The city practically threw a parade in honor of the kids who stepped up, because no one could believe they did it.
That's
Miami.”

Savannah walked around the couch and sat on the armrest. She was right beside Ruban, leaning against him. “I'm afraid that the longer we keep this money hidden, the harder it is to figure out what to do about it.”

Ruban reached for her hand and held it. “It's going to be okay.”

“What about Pinky?”

He felt a chill. “What about him?”

“You still have his share of the money, right?”

He didn't, but he'd told her otherwise, and he was sticking to it. “Yeah, his and Jeffrey's share. Or at least I thought I did. Jeffrey had some cash I didn't know about. Enough to come up with a four-hundred-thousand-dollar ransom. I suppose Pinky does, too.”

“We can turn in whatever we have. How much is it?”

He'd never told her, and putting an exact number on it would make it even harder to maintain equilibrium in the ebb and flow of lies mixed with truth. “Savannah, put this idea out of your head. If we don't have all the money, turning in part of it doesn't solve anything.”

She sighed deeply. “Pinky is such a scumbag. Even if we could convince Jeffrey to turn in the money, he'll never make this right.”

“You never know what will happen.”

“Have you been in touch with him?”

“Last time we talked, he said he was leaving Miami.”

“Just as well. He scares me. He was always nice to me when I was a little girl. Used to bring me presents whenever he came over to the house. But even before he went to prison, he scared me.”

“I'll take care of Pinky.”

She looked at him with concern. “What does that mean?”

“Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything stupid.”

“You promise?”

“You have to trust me on this, Savannah.”

Their eyes met and held. Then she smiled a little, but it was a sad one. “Okay. I trust you.”

Ruban drove south and didn't stop until he was almost to the Florida Keys. It was his first visit to Eden Park.

The Eden Park mobile home community was twenty-seven acres of manufactured housing, a flat and treeless tract of agricultural land that the county had rezoned “residential” to accommodate thousands of migrant workers who worked the surrounding fields of beans and tomatoes each winter. Like many who'd lost a house in foreclosure, Ruban and Savannah had considered the manufactured-housing option before deciding to rent. Some mobile home parks were beautiful, having made it from one hurricane season to the next with nary a sign of damage from wind or rain. Eden Park was not one of them. When it came to tropical storms, Eden Park was like that unknowing kid in middle school who walks around all day with the “Kick Me” sign pasted to his back. It bore the scars of every major storm to make landfall in the last decade. Empty lots aplenty, the demolished houses long since hauled away. Some homeowners bought storm-damaged units on the cheap and fixed them up, good as new. Some bought as-is, unable to afford the necessary repairs. Windows remained boarded with plywood year round, the roof perpetually covered with blue plastic tarps, the “temporary” fixes that never went away.

The bluest of all was at the end of Eden Lane.

Ruban stopped and parked alongside the gravel road that bisected the park. He rolled down the window and sat behind the wheel for a minute. Just ahead, a little farther down the street, boys and girls were kicking a soccer ball. They looked to be around kindergarten age. In a place like Eden Park, video games were a luxury. Kids learned to kick a soccer ball almost before they could walk. All of these youngsters were good. One boy, in particular, was skilled for his age. Good ball control, dribbled with both feet, excellent speed. Ruban watched him with passing interest, focusing more on the feisty little girl who kept stealing the ball from him.

Ruban, you can't buy back what's lost.

Savannah was so wrong. She could not have been more wrong.

Ruban climbed out of the car, grabbed one more glimpse of the Eden Park World Cup, and walked to the front door of the trailer with the blue roof. He had his backpack with him. He knocked firmly. No one answered. He knocked again, and the main door opened, but the storm door remained closed. The old woman on the other side of the screen wasn't smiling. Her expression soured even more when she recognized Ruban.

“What the heck do you want?” she asked.

“Can we talk?”

“We got nothing to talk about.”

“Please. I want to make things right.”

She scoffed and shook her head.

“It could mean some money for you,” he said.

Money. The magic word with Edith Baird. She had once been a pro at working the system. When her daughter and Ruban had dated, Edith was living comfortably in a four-bedroom house with a swimming pool. A felony conviction for welfare fraud put an end to the scam. Unfortunately, the pendulum swung too far in the opposite direction, and now the monthly assistance check wasn't even close to what she needed.

“You got two minutes,” she said, as she opened the screen door.

Ruban thanked her and went inside. The living room was a cluttered mess. In fact, it wasn't used as a living room. An ironing board stood in the middle of it. Several damp loads from the morning wash hung on the drying racks. Mostly children's clothes. Lots of pink.

“How are you doing, Edith?”

Edith was a large woman with enormous flabby triceps that sagged over her elbows, and ankles so swollen that Ruban would have sworn she didn't have any. Her old sundress was at least two sizes too small, which didn't make it any easier to bend at
the waist. Just lowering herself into a chair seemed to leave her breathless.

“How's it look like I'm doin'?”

“Mindy okay?” He meant his ex-girlfriend, Edith's only child.

“Locked up. Another parole violation. At least if she's in jail, I know she's not selling her body and doing drugs. I guess that's something to be thankful for. That can't be what you're here about—to talk about Mindy.”

“No.” Ruban moved to the edge of the couch, leveling his gaze at Edith. “I'm here about my daughter.”

“Kyla ain't your daughter, Ruban. You never married her mother, and you gave up any possible paternal rights you had when I adopted her.”

“I understand. And I regret that.”

“Well, that's a damn shame. It's too late now.”

“Is it?”

“'Course it is. Kyla's lived with me her whole life. She'll be five years old next month.”

Ruban paused, making sure he struck the right tone. “Edith, I was watching the children play soccer out on the street before I came up to your door. How many kids are you raising in this trailer?”

Edith glanced at the drying racks in the middle of the living room. “Three. Kyla, Alex, and Dylan. They share the other bedroom.”

“How much longer can a girl share a room with two boys?”

“As long as she has to.”

“Do the fathers help with the boys?”

“Mindy don't even know who the fathers are,” she said. “You're the only boyfriend she ever had. And what a piece of shit you turned out to be.”

Ruban averted his gaze, then looked her in the eye. “I'm sorry about that. I've changed.”

“Yeah, so has Mindy. For the worse.”

“I want to help.”

She scoffed again, dubious. “Really? How?”

The backpack was at his feet. He picked it up and handed it to her. “Open it.”

“What's this?”

“Have a look for yourself.”

She unzipped it, peeked inside, and froze. “Money,” she said, gasping. “My God, how much is this?”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

“Where did
you
get that kind of money?”

“I'm doing all right these days.”

“Baloney.”

“It doesn't matter where I got it,” he said. “The question is: Do you want it?”

“What kind of question is that?”

Ruban replied in the most level, matter-of-fact tone he could muster. “Do you want it, Edith?”

“Well, of course I want it. Who wouldn't want a hundred thousand dollars? But I've been around the block. I know there ain't no such thing as somethin' for nothin'.”

He spoke in the same even tone. “I want to adopt Kyla.”

“Ha!” she said, half laughing, half scoffing. “You want Kyla?”

Ruban was deadpan, no change in his expression.

“Well, that's just beautiful,” said Edith. “You want Kyla.
Kyla.
Do you think you can just walk in here and buy a little girl like she's for sale?”

His tone didn't change. “Yes. I do.”

Silence. Ruban took it as a good sign. If it weren't in the cards, she would have thrown him out immediately.

“I love that child,” said Edith.

“A hundred thousand dollars is my opening offer, Edith. It's negotiable.”

“And she loves me.”

“You make a strong case. You will be treated fairly. I'm sure we can agree on a number.”

Edith blinked. Another good sign. Ruban saw a flicker of hope, a sparkle in her eye that bespoke the old Edith—the one who'd pretended to be deathly ill and then split ten thousand dollars with the doctor who'd billed Medicare for treatment never rendered.

“How can I be sure this money isn't counterfeit? For all I know, you went into some fancy copy center and printed it yourself.”

“Take one. Pick any bill you like.”

Ruban removed a stack from the backpack and laid the bills on the table, fanning them like playing cards. “Take a closer look,” he said. “Some bills are crisp. Others are worn around the edges. These aren't freshly printed fakes with consecutive serial numbers.
These
have been circulated.”

She seemed to take his point, but he could still see suspicion in her eyes.

“Take one,” he said.

Edith pulled one from the middle of the stack.

“Keep it,” said Ruban. “Take it to any department store in Miami. They'll check the watermark, test the paper with that colored marker pen they use. They'll tell you it's real. Then you call me.”

Ruban rose. He reached for the backpack, but she held on to it for a second or two, and he could feel the pull as he retrieved it. A look of angst came over her as she finally let go of the money.

Ruban smiled thinly, then turned serious. “Don't worry. This offer is not going away. You think about it, and let me know. Good to see you again, Edith.”

He swung the backpack over one shoulder and let himself out.

P
inky woke in the Red Room. Alone.

Closing time at Night Moves was five a.m., but it wasn't unusual for Pinky to find an empty bed in one of the private cabanas and sleep till noon on Saturday. It was a perk of being one of the club's “Select Gentlemen,” a handful of members with “special talents” who weren't required to have a woman in their company to enter the club. They serviced the women of other members.

He fumbled in the darkness and found the dimmer switch on the wall. Even at full power it was mood lighting at best, which was fine. His eyes couldn't have handled an all-out assault.

His head pounded as he stepped out of the cabana. He wasn't sure what he'd been drinking all night, but it made everything a blur. Almost everything. He remembered leaving the bar with two women. It was a typical scenario. Their husbands had been dancing with other women most of the night, and the wives were curious to find out if the anatomical rumors about Pinky were true. As always, he was more than happy to deliver. Mornings after, however, were getting more and more difficult.

Damn, my back hurts.

He straightened out the kink in his spine, pulled on his pants, and walked to the locker room. Members paid extra for a locker and shower access, but for the Select Gentlemen that was another freebie. Pinky had a prime locker directly across from the viewing
window that looked out onto the “luv-nasium,” where some of the hottest action in the club took place, usually around two a.m. He found his key and opened the locker. His shaving kit was on the top shelf, where he'd left it. His cash was not.

“Fucking bitches!”

Another five thousand dollars, picked clean. It was the second time since the heist that prostitutes claiming to be another man's wife had lured him into a cabana, plied him with a special BYOB concoction until he passed out, and then cleaned out the cash from his locker. He could never prove it, of course. There were no cameras in the locker rooms, security or otherwise. He was starting to feel as stupid as his nephew at the Gold Rush.

At least I'm actually getting laid.

He showered, got dressed, and headed down the dimly lit hall to the exit. His friend stopped him in the lobby before he reached the door. It was the club owner, Jorge Calderón.

“I need to talk to you,” said Calderón.

“What about?”

“In my office. It's important.”

Pinky followed him. “Important” could mean a lot of things, especially between two old friends who'd known each other since their sophomore year at Miami Senior High School. They'd drifted apart after graduation but reconnected a decade later, when Calderón owned the body shop. Pinky couldn't count the number of stolen vehicles he'd pushed through Calderón's chop shop. Business was so good that Calderón had branched out with Night Moves. Pinky held no financial stake in either business, but the club benefits were definitely tangible.

“Have a seat,” said Calderón.

Pinky settled into the chair. Calderón sat behind his desk.

“Bro, why so serious?” asked Pinky.

“I'm sorry, Pinky. I can't have you hanging here no more.”

“What?”

“Every other Select Gentleman in my club is under thirty. You're forty-five. You had a good run. But it's time.”

“But I don't look forty-five.”

“Now you sound like Priscilla. Have you stood in front of a mirror lately?”

“So you're kicking me out of the club?”

“No. You're welcome to come if you bring a woman with you. But no more Select Gentleman status.”

“This is really harsh, bro.”

“It's nothing personal,” said Calderón. “This is business.”

“Business?”

“I'm grooming the club to sell it. I have investors coming in from Brazil, Singapore, all over. These people have a keen eye for what a club like this is worth. It has to be top notch. I can't have my Select Gentlemen asking for the AARP discount on their club dues.”

“I'm not that old.”

“You're closer than you think. The point is, if I'm going to get top dollar for this club, I have to get rid of the dinosaurs.”

“Speaking of dinosaurs, size does matter.”

“Not to these buyers. They're looking for a first-rate operation, with some style and flash, not a red-light-district freak show.”

“Ouch. Now you're really getting harsh, bro.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm not just testing the waters here to see what I can get. I need to sell this place.”

Pinky's gaze drifted toward the montage of photographs on the wall. “Nurses Night.” Pinky had been on fire at that event.
Hard to believe it was twelve years ago.

“What if
I
buy the club?”

Calderón smiled and shook his head. “You can't raise that kind of dough.”

Pinky had told his old friend nothing about his involvement in the heist, not a word about chopping the pickup truck at Calderón's shop, and even less about the job his bodywork mechanic had done with a blowtorch on Marco Aroyo.

“What if I could raise the money?”

“Get real, Pinky. I'm asking five million.”

Pinky did the quick calculations. His share was $2.5 million. He still had Marco's share of one million. He'd blown through at least a hundred grand, but it wasn't beyond reach.

“Would you take four?”

“No way. Five is practically land value. My broker would lock me up in an insane asylum if I went a penny lower. And let's stop pretending like you even have four.”

“Give me two weeks. I can get five.”

“Are you serious?”

Pinky glanced at the photos on the wall again. Nurses galore, and his equipment had been just what the doctor ordered. “Never been more serious in my life, bro.”

“His real name is Craig Perez,” said Andie.

She'd stopped by the Littlefords' townhouse to update her supervisor, and she was on his patio again. Littleford had the Saturday edition of the
Miami Herald
in his lap. He was one of those tactile nostalgic types who clung to a real weekend newspaper, especially when relaxing in his Adirondack chair on a perfect south Florida afternoon in November. His gaze was fixed on a pair of blue jays in the poinciana tree as Andie filled him in about Pinky.

“I'd like to get a wiretap.”

He turned his attention from the blue jays to Andie, thoroughly unimpressed. “You have a guy with a big schmeckle and one prior for auto theft who stopped by the tile depot looking for Marco Aroyo after the heist. Is that it?”

“And who also quit his job two days after the heist. I tracked that down this morning.”

“Still not enough,” said Littleford.

“I went back and watched the video from the security cameras. Pinky has the same build as the perp with the gun. Similar walk, too.”

“You're getting warm.”

“No offense, Michael, but that would have been enough for my supervisor in Seattle.”

“You're not in Seattle.”

“I have a hunch about this one.”

“A hunch isn't probable cause for a wiretap.”

She had another angle, but just then Littleford's wife stepped out to say hello.

“Andie, hi there. So sorry you weren't able to meet up with my cousin John last night.”

“Talk about a schmeckle,” Littleford muttered.

“What was that, honey?” asked Barbara.

“Nothing,” he said.

Barbara smiled at Andie. “Perhaps we can set something up for next weekend.”

“I'll have to check my calendar.”

“Please do,” said Barbara. “And let me know. I'll leave you two alone now.” She stepped back into the kitchen and closed the sliding glass door. Littleford apologized.

“No worries,” said Andie. “Back to our man. Forget the wiretap for now. Let's put a tail on him. We don't need probable cause to do that.”

“No, but we do need money. Between the tail on Alvarez and your undercover gig at Night Moves, we've already blown through half our surveillance budget.”

“Can't you request an increase?”

“Not based on what you've told me. Look, Andie. Miami-Dade has the Marco Aroyo homicide investigation. From the FBI standpoint, this is basically a property crime that doesn't involve terrorism, cyber threats, public corruption, civil rights, or major crime syndicates. Unless this Pinky has a direct link to al-Qaeda, there's no chance in hell that I can get a budget increase to tail him.”

The blue jays were fighting, drawing Andie's gaze toward the tree.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to sound condescending. But in the world we live in, my unit does more with less. It's expected. Frankly, I find it to be part of the challenge that gets me up every morning. Working a case means
working
a case, not putting in a budget request for the latest gadget that makes teenage boys in movie theaters say, ‘
Ooo, awesome.
'”

“Okay. I get it.”

“I'm probably not helping my efforts to recruit you into the bank robbery unit, am I?”

“On the contrary. I really do get it.”

They sat in silence for a moment. But a supervisor who believed in what he was doing and didn't try to oversell it—that only made Andie want to work harder.

“You have any objection if I tail him on my own time?” she asked.

“No, but understand that it truly will be in your free time. It doesn't count toward availability pay, you won't get credit for unscheduled duty, and you won't get reimbursed for any of your expenses.”

She shrugged. “What else am I gonna do with my weekend? Have a blind date with Barbara's cousin?”

He smiled. “Keep me posted on what turns up. And, who knows? Maybe you'll get that wiretap after all.”

“Count on it,” she said.