Cash Landing (15 page)

O
n Tuesday morning, Ruban had a million-dollar delivery to make. Rush hour was just getting under way, and he was right on time.

Three lanes of northbound traffic crept along U.S. 1 toward downtown Miami. The western suburbs drained into the northerly flow from Bird Road. In peak traffic, commuters could easily wait at the intersection through four or five light cycles, a good twenty minutes, just to make that dreaded left turn. Shaded by the elevated Metrorail tracks overhead, it was a prime panhandling opportunity for anyone with the street credentials to work it. On this Tuesday, like every Tuesday, it was up to Ruban to decide who had what it takes and who didn't. The usual homeless suspects rode in the backseat of his car, with the notable exception of the previous week's disaster, the guy who'd deposited the chief symptom of irritable bowel syndrome on Ruban's upholstery. The others had lost or forgotten their “Please Help” signs—of course. Ruban gave them new ones and sent them off with the standing order about the three-hundred-dollar minimum.

Chicken scratch, compared to what was in the backpack on the seat beside him.

Ruban pulled onto the shoulder and watched his team get into position. They knew the drill. No one walked straight toward the shade beneath the tracks and curled up for a nap, which was surprising. Usually, at least one joker sat down on the job from
the get-go. Ruban did notice an old man going from car to car in the far lane, collecting a buck or two for the puppet figures he'd fashioned by hand from palm fronds. Grasshoppers and butterflies were his big sellers. He was an artist. He was also a squatter, operating without authority, and, technically, Ruban should have flexed his muscles and told him to beat it. This morning, however, he was in no mood for small-time Miami.

I can't wait to be done with this crap.

He put the car in gear and pulled back onto Bird Road. Westbound traffic was nonexistent, so he zipped right across the street to the parking lot in front of the convenience store, the designated meeting spot for the delivery.

Ruban felt good about this split. Pinky was a dirtbag. Jeffrey was a loser. Marco—who the hell knew how far out into the bay the river currents and tides had carried his body? But Octavio Alvarez had been his buddy since boyhood. They'd started boxing together at the gym as seven-year-olds, knocking each other around the ring, equally determined to be Cuba's next gold medalist. They used to watch the Cuban national
béisbol
team practice through a hole in the right-field fence, then scrape together their
moneda nacional
to buy a scoop of chocolate ice cream at the world-famous Coppelia. Test scores and other academic indicators landed them in separate high schools, and most of Ruban's friends at the Vocational Pre-University Institute of Exact Sciences stopped talking to him after he got kicked off the college track for violating the government's ban on access to the Internet. It didn't seem to matter that he hadn't been planning to overthrow the regime, that he'd been searching for information about his dead Russian father. Alvarez was the old friend who had stuck by him. More than stuck by him. “Let's get a raft to Florida,” he'd told Ruban. So they did.

And, of course, if it hadn't been for Alvarez and his work at the armored-car company, there would have been no heist.

Ruban checked his rearview mirror. A homeless man was approaching from Bird Road. He was wearing blue jeans, an army
jacket, a beanie, and sneakers. The gnarly beard and cheap sunglasses were the finishing touches on a convincing disguise. If Ruban hadn't known Alvarez was coming, he would never have known it was him. Ruban lowered the window.

Alvarez stepped up to the driver's side and held out his hand. “Got any spare change, Mr. Trump?”

Ruban handed him the backpack. He'd brought all hundreds for Octavio, to lighten the load, but a cubic foot of tightly packed currency was still a good twenty pounds. “Don't spend it all in one place.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“Good luck.”

Alvarez slung the backpack over one shoulder, smiled, and walked away from the car. Ruban continued to watch in the rearview mirror. The westbound lanes on Bird Road were still clear, the rush-hour traffic headed in the opposite direction. Alvarez didn't even bother to look before crossing, or perhaps he'd looked but just didn't see. Ruban saw and heard it all—the flash of blue metal on wheels, the moment of panic as his friend froze in the middle of the street, the sickening thud of a human body on the losing end of a hip-to-hood collision with a speeding blue automobile.

“Octavio!”

The impact sent Alvarez flying at least thirty feet before he landed on the pavement. The car screeched to a halt, but Alvarez was motionless, his body a grotesque heap on the road. Ruban rushed from his car. His gaze locked on to Alvarez, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the man with the puppets made from palm fronds—the homeless artist—running toward Alvarez.

The artist grabbed the backpack, flung open the passenger-side door, and jumped in. The car sped off in reverse. With no plate on the front bumper Ruban couldn't get the license number. Only when the driver reached the end of the block did he back into a driveway, turn the car around, and squeal away. By then the car was too far away to see the plate on the rear bumper.

“Shit!”

Ruban started toward his friend, then stopped. Several other commuters had jumped out of their vehicles and were already tending to him. One was on a cell phone, presumably talking to 911. A pool of blood stained the pavement. Alvarez wasn't moving.

Ruban took another half-step forward, then stopped. His conscience was nudging him toward his friend and telling him to do all he could to help. Another voice told him that there was nothing he
could
do, at least not anything that other Good Samaritans weren't already doing. The most compelling message was also the most frightening: staying at the scene would mean talking to the police, which would link him directly to the armored-car insider who'd organized the heist.

Sorry, old friend.

Ruban gathered one last glimpse of the lifeless body in the road, then turned away and got into his car. He headed west out of the parking lot, against rush hour, no traffic to contend with. He checked his rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights. An ambulance and two squad cars were arriving. It was a good thing he'd left, and not just because the victim was Alvarez. As he drove away, one thought burned in his mind.

The guy driving the car, speeding away in reverse: he looked a lot like Pinky.

S
avannah had a knot in her stomach.

It had nothing to do with her usual tasks at the daycare center. Drop-off went smoothly. Flagpole proceeded as usual:
I pledge a lesion, to the flag . . .
Only two kids wet their pants during the early-morning recess. The cause of her indigestion was the scheduled follow-up meeting with the Department of Children and Family Services. It was supposed to happen at nine a.m. while her three-year-olds were in “movement” class with the dance instructor. Betty could have really good news for her. Or really, really bad.

At five minutes before nine, Betty phoned from her car. She was in the daycare parking lot and wanted Savannah to step outside to meet her.

The knot tightened.

Savannah quickly herded her children into the playroom. The kids were supposed to sit cross-legged in a big circle for movement class, but Savannah's class was more like an amoeba. A colleague helped her out, and Savannah tried not to appear too distressed as she excused herself, exited the building, and found Betty standing beside her hatchback.

“Savannah, I'm sorry to call you out to the parking lot, but I was afraid there might be tears in front of the children.”

It was a dagger to the heart. “I'm not going to be approved?”

She shook her head. “No. You're not approved.”

Savannah took a breath. When Betty had said “there might be tears,” Savannah had reached inside herself and vowed there wouldn't be. Yet she found herself wiping one away.

“Is it because of . . .” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot. “Because of Ruban?”

“Yes.”

“But you told me that his criminal record was not a definite bar.”

“That was true,” Betty said. “There are circumstances where DCF can work around it, depending on what the conviction was for. Especially if it was a long time ago.”

“Ruban was eighteen. A teenager. Did you tell the review committee that?”

“I did.”

“I don't get it. If ever there was a case with—what did you call it? Circumstances?”

“Mitigating circumstances.”

“Right. This is one of those cases. It's a proven fact that organized criminals in Miami would go down to Havana and tell teenage boys they could have a free ride to Florida. Ruban took the bait, and then when he got here, they told him he had to hijack a truckload of designer jeans or something, or they would send him back to Cuba. He got caught, and he did his time. He wasn't deported. He straightened himself out and is a U.S. citizen. There's no reason he shouldn't be a father.”

Betty didn't answer.

“So . . . don't you agree with me?” asked Savannah.

The social worker looked away, then back. “Let me say this: I don't think you're lying to me.”

“No, I'm not lying. It's the truth.”

Betty hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “When I say I don't think you're lying, I mean that in my judgment you absolutely believe it to be true.”

“Of course I believe it. I confronted my husband about this when the private agency told me he had a felony conviction. He told me the whole story.”

“Yes. That's what he told you: a story.”

Savannah's defensive instincts kicked in, and she had to check herself to keep from speaking too loudly. “Are you accusing him of making this up?”

“I'm very sorry to be the one to tell you this, Savannah. We did a thorough background check on your husband. He was convicted of a felony, but it wasn't when he was a teenager, and it wasn't for hijacking a truck.”

Savannah glanced toward the older children on the other side of the fence. An argument was brewing on the monkey bars. Another assistant handled it. Savannah refocused. “When was it?”

“You really don't know?”

“Apparently not.”

“His first conviction was five years ago.”

“That was before we met. But wait:
first
conviction? There's more than one?”

“I'm afraid so.

“What for?”

“Domestic violence.”

That knot in her stomach was only getting worse. “That's not possible. I'm his first wife.”

“I understand your confusion. Florida is one of the few states with old laws on the books making it a crime to cohabitate, but fortunately the legislature saw fit to extend domestic-violence protection where a man and a woman are unmarried but in the same household. Your husband was living with his accuser.”

“Well, domestic violence can mean a lot of things.”

“Yes, it can. And all too often it's a pattern of conduct. That's why I came here today. I didn't want to just make a phone call and cancel the appointment.” She reached out and gently touched Savannah's hand. “I'm worried for you.”

A warm breeze rustled the palm trees behind them, but Savannah suddenly felt chills. “What did he do?”

Betty reached into her satchel and pulled out the DCF file. “Is there someplace we can go to discuss this?”

“No. I don't want to go anywhere. Tell me now. Tell me exactly what Ruban did.”

Betty cracked open the file and put on her reading glasses. “Let's start at the beginning,” she said.

A
white tarp lay atop the pavement in the ghostly form of a life cut short. Yellow tape cordoned off a block-long stretch of Bird Road, from busy U.S. 1 to the corner convenience store.

“Special Agent Henning,” Andie said with a flash of her badge to the perimeter control officers.

Police beacons swirled atop a half dozen squad cars, and sparks belched from a line of roadside flares, as Florida Highway Patrol directed traffic toward a slow-moving detour. The reroute affected only westbound traffic, but rubberneckers in the eastbound rush hour were doing their best to make everyone late for work. A crowd watched from a parking lot. Several snapped photographs, seizing the opportunity to update their Facebook page with something more exciting than the usual captivating close-up of what they were eating for breakfast. Two ambulances were on the scene, but paramedics were in standby mode, nothing to be done. A plain white van from the medical examiner's office was parked in the outer lane, its rear doors agape, a gurney at the ready. The black T-shirts worn by the MDPD investigators were standard-issue, but they seemed to underscore the fact that this was indeed a fatality, a cause for mourning.

“Lieutenant Watts is right over there,” the officer said as Andie ducked beneath the police tape. “Next to the body.”

The 911 callers had described the victim as a homeless Hispanic man, but the first officer on the scene quickly noted the fake beard. It was equally strange that a homeless man would carry a wallet with a valid driver's license and a current employee identification card from Braxton Security. Andie was on the scene before official confirmation that it was the same Octavio Alvarez who was a person of interest in the MIA heist.

“That's definitely him,” Andie said as she peeled back the tarp.

Watts was at her side, along with Sergeant Collins from the MDPD Traffic Homicide Unit. A media helicopter whirred overhead, drawing their attention from the bloodied asphalt to the crisp blue sky.

“What do we know about the vehicle?” asked Andie.

“Blue two-door sedan,” said Collins. “Witnesses don't agree on the make or model. That may not sound like much to go on, but this is my ninety-first hit-and-run this year. ‘Blue two-door sedan' is more than we started with in better than half of them.”

“Did anyone get the tag?” asked Andie.

“Yeah. Ran it. No connection to any blue sedan. It's from a jeep that was reported stolen eight weeks ago.”

It was premature to point out every possible connection between the heist and the hit-and-run, but Andie made a mental note that the body shop that chopped a certain black Ford pickup would also be a ready source of stolen license plates.

A detective from the traffic homicide unit approached. “Got something,” he told the lieutenant. Andie listened as they talked. It was about a homeless man selling origami grasshoppers made out of palm fronds. Three witnesses had seen him grab the victim's backpack, jump in the car, and flee with the hit-and-run driver.

“Get those witnesses down to the station for an artist composite,” said Watts.

“Will do, sir.”

He left quickly, so Andie put her question to Watts. “Are there cameras at this intersection?”

“None,” said Watts.

“How soon can you get the manpower to check the business establishments along the street? Their security cameras could have picked up the car, or Mr. Homeless Origami, maybe even the driver.”

“We'll get to it,” said Collins. “But keep in mind that this is a hit-and-run accident, not a terrorist threat to blow up the Port of Miami.”

The FBI wasn't the only law enforcement agency to feel the pinch of budgetary priorities. “I'll see if I can get assistance from my tech agents,” said Andie.

The MDPD officers thanked her, and Andie excused herself. Octavio Alvarez was a major point of overlap between the heist and the hit-and-run, but Andie didn't want the MDPD traffic unit to become the proverbial tail wagging the dog. She found a quiet place in the parking lot, dialed Littleford, and quickly filled him in.

“Can't think of a single good reason for an armored-truck driver to be out on the street pretending to be homeless,” said Littleford.

“Neither can I,” said Andie. “I see this as a prearranged meeting to deliver to Alvarez his cut from the heist. He knew he'd be under FBI scrutiny, so he came disguised as homeless.”

“Why would he choose such a busy intersection at the height of rush hour?”

“The same reason a drug dealer chooses to make a drop on Lincoln Road Mall at lunchtime. If you don't totally trust the other side of the transaction, do it in a public place where you're less likely to end up staring down the barrel of a gun.”

“So, no guns here—but they ran him over.”

“That's how I see it. This hit-and-run was no accident.”

“Is that what MDPD is saying?”

“Not yet, but look at the facts. No skid marks; I could see that with my own eyes. The driver put stolen tags on his vehicle to keep us from tracking him down. An accomplice on the street not only grabbed the backpack but probably alerted the driver when Alvarez arrived. They knew Alvarez was going to be here today, ran him down, and took off with a backpack full of money.”

“We don't know that money was inside.”

“But it's a fair assumption, given what happened to Marco Aroyo. You predicted it: the crooks are turning against each other. Now we have two dead, and somewhere in this band of thieves is a pig collecting all the acorns.”

“Definitely plausible,” said Littleford. “Where do you want to go with this?”

“Surveillance.”

“On who?”

“Pinky. I spent all day Sunday tailing him on my own time. I e-mailed you some photographs. Did you look at them?”

“I did,” said Littleford.

“I see a resemblance to the armed suspect in the video from the MIA security cameras. Don't you?”

“I see two men wearing ski masks and dark sunglasses.”

“I'm talking about body type.”

“Yeah, I suppose there's
some
resemblance,” said Littleford.

“Enough to put a line in our budget for surveillance on him?”

“Enough to put a written commendation in your file for tailing him on your day off and on your own dime.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Drawing conclusions from facial comparisons in photographs is difficult enough. I've used body comparisons to corroborate facial comparison, but a body comparison alone is pretty flimsy stuff.”

A noisy bus passed on the street, spewing diesel fumes. Andie plugged one ear. “We're talking about one investigative tool, not the key piece of evidence in a criminal trial.”

“Does Pinky own a blue sedan like the one in the hit-and-run?”

“No. But he's done time for auto theft. He could have easily gotten his hands on one before coming here.”

“Let's wait and see. You did the right thing telling MDPD to check for video from private security cameras. If we get a good enough shot of the driver for our experts to do facial mapping and confirm some similarities to Pinky, I'll green-light the surveillance.”

“By the time we get that video, Pinky could be long gone.”

“Do you have evidence that he's about to flee?”

“He's been living out of a hotel, never goes home. If Priscilla over at Night Moves wasn't trying to be my new best friend, I would've never known where to find him. Come on, boss. This is time sensitive. Are you really going to make me beg?”

“Don't beg,” he said. “And don't take this the wrong way, either, but . . .”

“But what?”

He sighed so heavily that, even on the phone, Andie could feel the sage about to impart his wisdom.

“It goes back to the unit assignment you requested when you transferred to Miami,” he said. “I'm still hoping you stay in bank robbery. But in the subconscious world of showing the FBI where you really belong, maybe a part of you wants the big break in this case to come from a lead you developed in an undercover role.”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me, boss?”

“It's called mentoring.”

Andie knew better than to disrespect a well-meaning supervisor, but it bugged her that he thought she was “subconsciously” angling for a way out of his bank robbery unit. “Is that what you really think? Pinky's resemblance to the suspect in the warehouse video is me seeing what I want to see?”

“A tattoo, a guy with one arm, or some other distinctive physical attribute would be one thing. But in this case we can't
even compare the guy's hands, because the crooks were wearing gloves. If we could take grainy CCTV video and identify suspects based on subjective comparisons of body types, we'd have a hundred-percent arrest and conviction rate in every case involving cameras.”

“Pinky isn't someone I plucked from the general population. He was Marco Aroyo's friend.”

“I understand.”

“You're leaving me no choice but to bring him in for questioning. As soon as I do, Pinky will book a one-way trip to Timbuktu, and he'll probably take Aroyo's and Alvarez's share of the heist with him.”

He paused, which Andie took as a sign that she was getting through to him. She pushed a little harder. “Look, I totally get your message about the budget. I understand that everything we do in this unit needs to yield results. But I wouldn't have spent my day off following Pinky if I thought this was just a shot in the dark.”

There was silence on the line, which was better than a knee-jerk no. Another bus passed on the street, this one noisier than the last.

“I tell you what,” said Littleford. “I'll send it to the Digital Evidence Laboratory for a quick look and have a forensic expert compare your photographs to the security-camera video. Maybe they'll latch onto something distinctive.”

“And if the expert sees what I see? Then what?”

“I'll push through the funding for surveillance on Pinky.”

Yes.
“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. Just catch me a crook before these dumb sons of bitches kill each other off and the money's gone for good.”

“You got it,” said Andie.