Cash Landing (17 page)

T
he sun was setting in her rearview mirror as Andie drove across the causeway to Miami Beach. Special Agent Benny Sosa was with her, but this time it was no undercover date at Night Moves. Andie had the much more delicate assignment of interviewing Octavio Alvarez's girlfriend less than twelve hours after his death. They were about ten minutes from Westwind Apartments when Andie phoned Lieutenant Watts for the latest on the hit-and-run.

“The only development is more of a nondevelopment,” said Watts.

“Meaning what? Nobody called in and confessed?”

“That happens,” said Watts. “But let me give you a more common ‘for instance.' Driver runs over a pedestrian. Driver panics and flees the scene. Driver talks to a smart lawyer. Driver parks his car in the Grove ghetto with the door wide open and the motor running, then calls MDPD and reports that it was stolen an hour or two before the accident.”

Andie kept her cynicism in check, but she was suddenly thinking about Barbara Littleford and her poor, available cousin:
How do you feel about lawyers, Andie?
“If I hear you correctly, no one called in today to report that his blue sedan was stolen a few hours before this morning's hit-and-run.”

“That would be correct,” said Watts.

“So, what does that tell you?”

“The driver could be afraid to come forward. Maybe he thinks a witness got a look at him. Could be a warrant out for his arrest. Maybe he's an illegal alien.”

Maybe he's afraid the police will recognize him as the gunman in the heist.
“Keep me posted,” she said.

Andie thanked him and hung up as the causeway fed her into the North Miami Beach version of Main Street. Palm trees lined the sidewalks. Locals strolled past mom-and-pop restaurants and shops where customers were known by name. Delis and corner markets that were strictly kosher. A gas station that was full service. Westwind Apartments was well away from the older, traditional neighborhood. The two-story white building was just a short walk from the ocean, popular with beach lovers, catering to a mixture of overnight hotel guests, seasonal renters, and year-round tenants. Andie found a parking spot on the street, right behind a long row of Vespas, the Italian-made motor scooters that were
the
method of transportation in Miami Beach for anyone who fancied himself immortal and zipped around, oblivious to the fact that to the average driver in south Florida scooters were the equivalent of bugs on a windshield.

Andie and Sosa checked in with the attendant at the front desk, who directed them down the hall to apartment 103. A young woman answered, and Andie identified herself with a flash of her badge. “I'm sorry for your loss,” said Andie, “but we'd like to talk to you about Octavio Alvarez.”

“I already talked to Miami-Dade police. What's this about?”

Andie made a strategic decision not to mention the heist. If Jasmine knew about it, she'd say nothing; and whether she knew about it or not, pointed questions from the FBI would only put her on the defensive and shut down the conversation. “Just a follow-up. Gathering as many facts as we can about the hit-and-run.”

It was enough to get invited inside.

Jasmine Valore was a pretty brunette with the toned body of someone who had no cause for embarrassment at the beach.
She wore jeans shorts, flip-flops, and a tank top, just like every other young woman Andie had seen on her way into the building. A background check had told Andie that she was a graduate of Miami Beach Senior High and a part-time student at Miami Dade College with no criminal record. She lived alone in a small one-bedroom apartment. The smell of cooked oatmeal wafted from the tiny kitchen, a reasonably healthy dinner for a young woman on a budget. The living room was tidy, but space was severely limited; Jasmine had to move her bicycle to make room for guests to sit on the couch.

“This doesn't even seem real to me,” said Jasmine, her voice hollow. “I can't believe Octavio is gone.”

“How long did you know him?”

“A few months. I met him at a party and we got to be friends at first. We started going out over the summer.”

“Sorry to be personal, but how well did you know him?”

She shrugged. “He was my boyfriend. He would stay here sometimes. I stayed at his place. We weren't talking about moving in together or getting engaged, if that's what you're asking.”

“Are you involved in the funeral arrangements?”

“Yeah. He has no one else. His entire family still lives in Cuba. Braxton is paying for everything. It was part of his benefits. They don't pay squat to their armored-car drivers, but at least they have insurance to cover burial costs if something happens.”

“When you say they don't pay squat, is that something Octavio told you?”

“Every once in a while.”

“Did he ever talk about ways to fix that?”

“Like what? Winning the lottery?”

“No. Just anything.”

Jasmine glanced out the window, her expression turning more serious as her gaze drifted back to Andie. “There was one thing. We had a pretty big argument when I found out about it. I didn't like it.”

Andie reeled in her anticipation. “Tell me.”

“The detective from MDPD told me that Octavio was dressed like a homeless guy. I didn't mention this to him, but maybe I should have. All the panhandling at that intersection is controlled. Octavio had a piece of the action. He drove downtown once a week to round up a group of homeless people and took them to Bird Road. They split the money.”

That was news to Andie, but it wasn't what she was hoping to hear. “That's it?”

“Yeah. Octavio told me it wasn't illegal, but I thought it was scummy.”

“Do you think that's what he was doing at the intersection this morning?”

“It's the only thing that makes sense to me. Maybe he dressed up like a homeless guy and was sort of working undercover, you know? Checking up on his team, making sure they weren't goofing off or stealing from him. I just wish he would've listened to me and dropped that stupid gig.” She sniffled back the first sign of tears. “Maybe this wouldn't have happened.”

Andie studied her expression. Either Jasmine knew nothing about the heist, or she deserved an Academy Award. Andie backed off.

“If I may ask, what are you doing for the funeral arrangements?”

Jasmine sighed. “The funeral home pretty much takes care of it. They work with the insurance company to pick out the casket and such. Mostly I've been making phone calls, sending e-mails and text messages, letting Octavio's friends know what happened.”

“Can I ask you a favor? I'd really like to have a list of the people you've called.”

“Well . . .” Jasmine hesitated, but Andie didn't read it as anything more than the normal pushback to any invasion of privacy. “Why do you want that?”

Andie continued to steer clear of the heist. “We think the driver in the hit-and-run may be someone who knows Octavio.”

“You mean a friend of his? That's terrible. Why would you think that?”

“If you were Octavio's wife, I would share that level of detail. But as it is, I hope you'll work with us and understand that your list could be very useful to our investigation.”

“I don't really have a list. I've just been calling people as I think of it.”

“Could you give me the names of his closest friends?”

Jasmine got her phone from the coffee table and rattled off a few names and numbers. Andie jotted them down. None was familiar, and Pinky was not among them.

“Any others?” asked Andie.

“I'm sure I forgot someone,” said Jasmine. “It's a work in progress, especially with Octavio's older friends. I could make a final list and give it to you.”

“Perfect,” said Andie. “There's one other thing I'd like you to do. When is the funeral?”

“Thursday or Friday. It depends on when the medical examiner releases the body.”

“Is there an online registry where people can post memories of Octavio or express condolences?”

“Yeah, that's part of the package deal with the funeral home. It should be up tonight.”

“Good. Here's what I want you to do. Before the funeral, make a list of everyone you think should be there. After the funeral, circle the name of anyone on that list who doesn't show up. Then go through the list again. If someone whose name is circled didn't call you, didn't respond to your text or e-mail, or didn't go to the online registry to post something, I want you to put a star next to that person's name. Can you do that?”

“Yes. Of course. But can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Is there someone in particular you're looking for?”

“The answer to that is yes,” said Andie.

“You're not going to tell me his name, are you?”

Andie shook her head. “No, Jasmine. You are.”

R
uban was waiting for a response, any response, but Savannah appeared numb. They were still parked in her mother's car at the gas station, Savannah staring through the windshield at nothing.

“You have a child?” she said finally. It wasn't really a question. More of an expression of disbelief. “And you never told me?”

“I didn't even know Mindy was pregnant when I moved out. It was one of the reasons my lawyer advised me to plead guilty and avoid jail time. I told him the abuse charges were all a lie, but he said I would have to be crazy to stand trial with a pregnant ex-girlfriend accusing me.”

Finally, she looked at him. Half of her face was in darkness, the other half aglow from the lights around the gas station. “I don't know what to say, Ruban.”

“You're acting like this is totally a bad thing.”

“How is it a good thing?”

“Don't you see what I'm getting at, Savannah? Kyla could be our child. We could adopt her.”

Her mouth fell open. “No, we can't.”

“I'm serious. We can make this happen.”

“Make
it happen? You can't just throw something like this at me, before you even know if I
want
it to happen.”

“But this is what you've always wanted.”

“Yes, but not like this. ‘Hey, honey, I had a child with another
woman. Hey, let's adopt her. Hey, isn't that a great idea?' Shit, Ruban.”

“So you'd adopt a stranger's child, but not
my
child?”

“I didn't say that. Don't make me the bad guy here.”

Ruban reached for his phone. “I took a picture of her. Let me show—”

“No! Don't do that to me.”

Ruban paused for a moment, just long enough for the tension to break. “Sorry. You're right. That's not fair.”

“No, not fair at all,” said Savannah. “Because even if I wanted this to happen, it
can't
. You're talking in circles. A felony conviction for domestic violence is a deal killer for adoption. Period. End of story.”

“No,” he said. “There is one clear exception.”

“There's no exception,” said Savannah. “I talked to DCF.”

“Not about this, you didn't: I'm allowed to adopt my own biological child, if I can get the consent of everyone who has parental rights.”

Savannah blinked hard, as if trying to make sense of it. “Honestly, I don't know if that's true or not. But put that aside. You were convicted of domestic violence. Why would your ex-girlfriend consent to the adoption?”

“Kyla's mother is irrelevant. She's in jail. Kyla's grandmother—Edith—is the only person with parental rights. She adopted Kyla.”

“Fine. Why would Kyla's grandmother consent after you were convicted of abusing her daughter? This is a hopeless situation.”

“I've talked to Edith. She's willing to let the adoption go through.”

Savannah did a double take. “I don't understand. How could she do that?”

“Think about it, Savannah: Would Edith consent to the adoption if the domestic violence charges against me were valid?”

He could almost see her mind at work, but he didn't wait for her response. “The answer is clearly
no
,” he said. “Mindy's own
mother knows that those accusations and my conviction were bogus. That's the only reason she would consent.”

Savannah still seemed troubled. “I just don't understand. Even if it was all a lie, why would anyone give up a child she adopted and raised for almost five years?”

Ruban hesitated. It was the moment of truth: the cash.

“She's not just giving Kyla up to anyone. I
am
the father. She's also raising two other kids that Mindy had with other men, so Edith has more than she can handle. I think she feels guilty about the way the whole conviction went down, and how it's keeping us from adopting our own child now. And . . .”

“And what?”

Back to that moment of truth. Money, money, money. Ruban couldn't go there. “I told her about you. What a great mother you would be.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The way this played out, it was
all
about you. That was the tipping point.”

Savannah's expression started to change, as did her posture. She seemed to be opening up. “I'm going to think about this.”

“You should.”

“I'm not promising that I'm going to say this is a good idea.”

“I understand.”

“But if we do move forward, when can I meet her?”

“Kyla?”

Savannah shook her head. “No, no. We're nowhere near that point. Edith. I would want to talk to Kyla's grandmother first.”

“Oh.”

She was waiting for more. Ruban was searching for words.

“‘Oh'?” said Savannah. “That's all you can say?”

“I hadn't really thought about you meeting Edith.”

“You didn't think we would adopt Kyla without me meeting the grandmother, did you?”

“Is that really necessary?”

Savannah shot him an expression of curiosity. “Is there some reason you don't
want
me to meet her?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Is there some reason she wouldn't want to meet me?”

“Not than I can think of.”

“Okay, then, there you have it. Why don't you see if you can make that happen?”

“A meeting? Between you and Edith?”

“Or the three of us, if that's more comfortable for her.”

Ruban drew a breath. It wasn't the plan he'd envisioned, but he saw no conceivable way to convince Savannah that the meeting shouldn't happen. Unless, of course, Edith refused to meet with her.

“All right,” said Ruban. “I'll take care of it.”