Cash Landing (22 page)

A
ndie found her man in Key West Transit House, box number 47.

Valentín Cruz had given her a “general idea” of where to find the records relating to Octavio Alvarez, and his definition of “general” was among the broadest Andie had ever encountered. She'd sifted through scores of cardboard boxes, thousands of handwritten pages, and the flickering fluorescent light in the garage was a strain on her eyes. Having lived around migrant workers in Washington's Yakima Valley, Andie spoke Spanish well enough, but reading it was a chore in the best of circumstances, and the hastily written notes of overworked Transit House volunteers presented a special challenge. Hours into the task, she had her reward. The yellowed documents on the concrete floor before her were original intake sheets for Octavio Alvarez and the man she'd been looking for: Karl Betancourt. Each had identified the other as a raft mate, along with a woman and her fifteen-year-old daughter. Both men had reported the name of their vessel:

“
Se Vende
,” said Andie, reading aloud.

Notes on Octavio's intake sheet explained that the Havana man who'd cobbled the raft together deemed the journey too dangerous, so he put it up for sale. The buyers kept the “For Sale” sign and dubbed their raft the
Se Vende.
Not exactly the
Niña
,
Pinta
, or
Santa Maria
, but heartwarming in its own way.

Andie sealed the intake sheets in an evidence bag and drove from the would-be museum to the FBI field office. Background checks were next, followed by more digging and brainstorming. At day's end, she walked into her unit chief's office to make her pitch.

“I think I've identified the second perp at the MIA warehouse,” she said.

A mound of paperwork stretched from one end of Littleford's desk to the other. He peered over the top of his reading glasses and simply asked, “Who?”

“Karl Betancourt. He goes by Ruban. He manages a restaurant in Sunny Isles called Café Ruban.”

“I've heard of it. Kind of a Russian-Cuban menu, right?”

Andie seated herself in the armchair facing his desk. “Exactly. Hence the name Ruban, a play on ‘Russian-Cuban.'”

“Are you saying there's a Russian connection to this heist?”

“I don't know yet. But definitely a Ruban connection.”

“Let's hear it.”

She told him how Edith Baird had linked Alvarez to a boyhood friend in Cuba, and how she'd pieced things together through the Transit House records. As usual—Andie was getting accustomed to his style—Littleford's initial reaction was skepticism.

“Edith Baird sounds like a money grubber. Why should we believe her?”

“First, because it makes sense. Alvarez and Betancourt grew up together, they risked their lives to come to this country together, they got rich together. Second, Edith Baird knows him well. Betancourt lived with Edith's daughter, and he pleaded guilty to domestic violence. No jail time, but he's a convicted felon.”

“I'd be more impressed if the conviction was for armed robbery.”

“There's more,” said Andie. “Betancourt is married now. Get this: his wife is the niece of Craig Perez.”

It took a second for Littleford to make a mental run through the limbs of the family tree. “Betancourt is related to Pinky?”

“By marriage.”

“Remind me again: What's the status on Pinky?”

“You authorized surveillance, but we can't find him. I'm working an undercover angle with Priscilla from Night Moves, trying to set up a meeting. But Betancourt is a safer route that potentially ropes in the entire gang.”

“I like it. The problem is that if you bring in Betancourt for questioning, Pinky will probably leave the country, if he hasn't already.”

“I agree. I say we cancel the surveillance tail you approved for Pinky and shift it to Betancourt. Zero added expense. And we get a wiretap on Betancourt: two landlines—home and business—and his cell. I've already checked with his carrier. Four-hundred-dollar activation fee, plus ten dollars per day for access to his text, voice mail, and e-mail. Overall minimal impact on our budget.”

The average person had no idea that the feds actually had to pay the carrier to surveil phone activity, and Littleford seemed appreciative of Andie's sensitivity to the administrative headaches that most agents at her level left to their supervisors. But he didn't look totally convinced. “If you add in the actual manpower expense of monitoring the surveillance, do you know what the average cost of a federal wiretap is, Andie?”

“I'm sure it's up there.”

“Fifty-seven thousand dollars. That's why this office has done a grand total of twelve this year. This ain't TV, where we do one on every weekly episode.”

“Are you saying no?”

“I'd be more inclined to say yes if we had a stronger application. I'm sure our friends at the U.S. attorney's office would feel more confident if we had recent contact between Alvarez and his old friend Betancourt. The rafting connection is a long time ago.”

Andie, playing her ace, laid a thin file on his desk. “Cell-phone records,” she said.

“Whose?”

“Betancourt's.”

“How'd you get this?”

“I've never had good success getting historical information out of cell-phone carriers without a warrant. Betancourt's had no problem showing me what numbers he's been dialing for the past six months. I highlighted every call to or from Alvarez's phone number.”

Littleford thumbed through the records. “Nothing after the Fourth of July.”

“Curious, don't you think? Talk, talk, talk. Then nothing. It's as if they reached an agreement not to make any more calls to each other before the heist.”

Littleford handed back the file. “Follow up with the U.S. attorney's office.”

“You'll sign off on the wiretap?”

“Let's nail it down ASAP,” he said, returning to his paperwork.

Andie jumped from her chair and started for the door.

“Henning,” he said, stopping her in the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“You do realize that you just talked yourself out of that undercover assignment with this Priscilla from Night Moves, right?”

“I know. Betancourt is clearly the better way to go.”

Littleford looked at her with some combination of pride and curiosity, as if to acknowledge that not every aspiring undercover agent would have exercised the same judgment. “Good work,” he said, returning to his paperwork.

Andie smiled to herself and hurried down the hall.

J
effrey could not stop walking. Around the bed, to the door, to the lamp, back to the opposite wall. He paced with intensity, as if determined to burn a path into the carpet. His heart pounded, not only in his chest but in his temples and left tricep as well. His breathing was shallow and rapid. The room seemed to be getting inexplicably smaller. Hotter, too.

Don't get paranoid.

Two more jaunts around the room, faster and faster. He paused just long enough to check the thermostat on the wall. Eighty-one degrees. No, he wasn't paranoid; it was getting hotter by the minute. The march continued. His fastest leg yet. He stopped again at the thermostat and switched the fan from
AUTOMATIC
to the continuous
ON
position. Nothing. Obama had killed the air conditioning.

Son of a bitch!

He continued his walk, counting his steps from start to finish, then starting all over again:
eighteen, nineteen, one, two, three . . .
Sweat was soaking through his shirt. The carpet was like hot coals beneath his feet. His face and neck tingled with fever. Cocaine fever. Skin on fire all over his body—back, chest, arms, legs. He pulled off his shirt, stripping down to his waist, but it made no difference. He checked the thermostat one more time: eighty-three degrees.

“Shit!” he said, banging his fist against the wall.

Coke had never done this to him before, but that big bag on the nightstand couldn't have been more than one-quarter cocaine. Anything purer would have killed him in that quantity, for sure. Those first five lines on the glass had been ass kickers, but the bag had been diluted with something. The taste of corn starch or some other sugar was unmistakable, a common trick of dealers. But there must have been a more volatile agent in that white mountain—a chemical that was bubbling from within, boiling his blood, scorching his skin.

Jeffrey ran to the bathroom. An icy cold shower would do the trick. He didn't even bother removing his pants before turning the “C” valve. Not a drop. He tried the “H” valve, turning, turning, and turning as far and as hard as he could, using all his strength. It snapped off in his hand. Still no water. He pulled back the shower curtain, ripping it from the rod, and threw himself at the sink. Nothing but a strange vibrating noise in the pipes from the “cold” faucet. Nothing at all from the “hot.” Obama had turned off the water.

Motherfucker!

Jeffrey dropped to his knees and raised the toilet lid.
Water!
He scooped it with his bare hands and splashed his face until the bowl was empty. He flushed for more, eagerly dunking his head and hair in the cool running water, the thought never occurring that he could have simply removed the lid from the tank and avoided the dirty bowl.

A noise from the hallway stopped him cold. He heard the deadbolt turn and the door open. Jeffrey climbed to his feet and stepped out of the bathroom. Mr. Obama was back.

“Sit on the bed,” he said.

Toilet water dripped from Jeffrey's hair and face. “I can't. Gotta keep moving.”

“Sit!”

The harsh tone frightened him, and Jeffrey quickly took a seat on the edge of the mattress. Both legs kept moving, bouncing up and down uncontrollably.

“You want more coke?” the man in the rubber mask asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, no. I mean—shit!” he shouted, burying his wet face in his hands. “You got me all fucked up, bro!”

His kidnapper pulled up the chair, sat back, and crossed his legs, totally relaxed. “You're a mess,” he said calmly.

Jeffrey kept vibrating. “I can't help it!”

“Yes, you can. I'm going to give you a chance, Jeffrey. Just one chance to help yourself.”

The fever was gone; the toilet water had done the trick. Jeffrey was feeling cold. He folded his arms across his bare chest and started rocking back and forth. “Thank you, thank you, bro. I'll do whatever it takes.”

The man pulled a photograph from his pocket and held it in front of Jeffrey's face. “Stop rocking and tell me who this is.”

Jeffrey forced himself to sit still. “That's Marco,” he said, and then resumed his rocking.

“I'm glad you didn't lie to me, Jeffrey. I know what you did at the airport. I know Marco Aroyo was part of the team. It's very important that you tell me the truth.”

Jeffrey was rocking so fast he was short of breath. “I'm not gonna lie to you.”

“Good. Do you know what happens if you lie to me?”

Jeffrey didn't answer. He didn't even want to think about it.

The man pulled another photograph from his pocket and held it so that Jeffrey could see. Jeffrey froze—no rocking, no leg motion, barely a breath of air. It was the “after” photograph of Marco Aroyo.

“Shit, man!” he said as he looked away, cringing. “I won't lie. I promise. Don't do that to me. Please, don't!”

He laid the photograph aside. “Now, about that chance to help yourself: here's how it works. We're going to make one phone call to your brother-in-law. It's a team effort. The two of us are going to remind him how much he loves you. You good with that?”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever you say.”

The president took a cigarette lighter from his pocket, reached for the “after” photograph, and lit the corner. It burned slowly at first, and then burst into flames. Jeffrey watched nervously, until the man tossed it onto the floor, right at Jeffrey's feet. It singed his big toe, and Jeffrey cried out, in fear more than pain.

“Don't hurt me! Please, don't!”

The fire burned itself out, the remnants of the photograph only slightly more charred than the actual man who was in it.

“Nothing to worry about,” he told Jeffrey, “as long as your brother-in-law shows us the love.”

R
uban spent Friday's happy hour at the BMW car dealership.

He'd picked up his old Malibu from the paint and body shop around noon. The thinking was that a color change would make it safe to drive again, just in case someone had seen him with Octavio before the hit-and-run. It looked awesome in metallic blue, and Ruban decided it was at peak trade-in value, irresistible to any self-respecting gangbanger who had the cash to dress it up with chrome rims and low-rider suspension. The time had come to dump it.

“We have very attractive financing available,” the salesman said.

It was just the two of them in the tiny sales office. A glass wall separated them from the cavernous showroom. Behind them, beneath the LED lights, an assortment of new German vehicles glistened.

“I'll pay cash,” said Ruban. “Less five grand for my trade-in.”

“Which vehicle are you interested in?”

“The Six Series. Convertible. In black.”

“Let's see what I have on the lot,” the salesman said, checking his computer.

Ruban watched from the other side of the desk as the salesman scrolled down the list. The sticker value on many of these cars approached six figures, but that was still a fraction of what he'd taken in the heist.

Hiding the money had been the smart plan, but not if Ruban was the only one doing it. He was fed up with Jeffrey and Pinky. He knew Edith Baird was a con artist who would scam him in a minute. Octavio's girlfriend had all the markings of a greedy bitch. Ruban wasn't sure how he was going to convince Savannah that he hadn't used “Jeffrey's money” to buy an eighty-thousand-dollar car, but he'd worry about that later. It was time he spent some damn money—before everyone else burned through it.

“We have two in black,” said the salesman. “One's the sport package.”

“That's the one I want.”

“Excellent choice. Our mechanic will need your car keys to evaluate the trade-in. Meanwhile, let me check with my manager and see if I can get the very best price for you.”

Ruban handed over the keys and tried not to burst out laughing as the salesman left the office.
The very best price for you.
The airport heist paled in comparison to the car-dealer dance of duplicity.
Talk about lying thieves.

His cell rang and Jeffrey's number popped up. Ruban let it go to voice mail, but another ring followed immediately, the same number. This time Ruban answered. It wasn't Jeffrey.

“I have your brother-in-law, the fat one,” the caller said.

No Jamaican accent; it wasn't Ramsey. “Who is this?”

“Your wake-up call. I know what you guys did, and I don't want to get involved with the feds or anything like that. That's not my problem. The only thing I want is my money.”

“Your
money?”

“Yeah. It's mine now. Half a million should do it.”

Ruban checked his anger, then reached behind and closed the office door. “Listen to me, asshole. I don't know who you are, and I don't care. I'm not paying a dime to you or anyone else.”

“You need a better attitude, or your brother-in-law is going to feel a lot of pain.”

Ruban wasn't buying it. He'd put Ramsey in his place earlier, and this call smelled no less like a scam. He wasn't sure who this new voice was, the guy playing the role of “kidnapper,” but Ruban couldn't resist calling his bluff. “Pain is temporary,” said Ruban.

“What?”

“You heard me. Pain, schmain. Jeffrey will get over it.”

“This is your brother-in-law we're talking about.”

“I understand. But I have nothing to do with what Jeffrey's done with his life. Do what you gotta do, pal.”

There was silence on the line, as if the caller couldn't quite comprehend. “Hold on. I want you to tell that to Jeffrey.”

Ruban was tempted to hang up, but he wanted his brother-in-law to know that he was onto his game.

Jeffrey came on the line, his voice racing. “Bro, you got to fix this!”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Pay him! Where's your money?”

“I spent it all.”

“No!”

“Strippers, cocaine, diamonds on my timepiece, tigers on a gold leash. It's all gone.”

“Don't do this! Does the money mean more to you than me, than my life?”

“Hey, you looked for it, bro. Now you deal with it. I told you to get the fuck out of Miami, but you wanted to party. Now deal with it.”

“I can't believe you're saying this!”

Ruban glanced over his shoulder, through the glass wall. No sign of the salesman in the showroom, but he was sure to return soon. It was time to put this nonsense to bed. “Jeffrey, I'm done playing these games. You're on your own.”

“Please, please, don't say that. This guy is a killer, bro. He showed me Marco's picture.”

Ruban hesitated. The mention of Marco made it seem less like a game, but Ruban stuck to his guns. “I don't believe you. You sound all coked up to me.”

“Yes, I am! He made me do a mountain of coke!”

“Made you,” Ruban said, scoffing. “Yeah, kidnappers are generous that way, always sharing their coke. What kind of idiot do you think I am, Jeffrey?”

“This is real, bro! If you don't pay, he's going to light me up like a Roman candle, just like he did with Marco.”

“Stop it, Jeffrey!” he said bitterly. “I'm done playing this game. Ramsey called me this morning and fed me the same bullshit.”

“Huh?”

“It was pathetic,” said Ruban, turning on his Jamaican accent, mimicking Ramsey: “‘Jeffrey rang me on my cell, mon. He's crying. He's scared. His voice is shaking. He says he's been kidnapped again and needs his Guardian Angel to help him.'”

“I never called Ramsey!”

“Don't lie to me. What'd you do, cook this up at the Gold Rush over a gram of coke and a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne? ‘Hey, here's a
plahn
, mon,'” he said, turning on the accent again, “‘let's call Ruban and tell him his
bruddah
-in-law be kidnapped, get a half million out of him.'”

“No, no! I never called Ramsey about being kidnapped. This is not a con, bro!”

“Who'd you get to play the kidnapper? One of Ramsey's buddies?”

“I don't know who he is, but he burned Marco to a crisp! This is
not
a joke! He is going to torch me!”

“Well, that's too fucking bad, Jeffrey. You can burn now. You can burn in hell. I don't care anymore. Don't call me again.”

Ruban hung up, so full of anger that he was out of breath. He realized that to an outsider his words would have sounded cold as ice, but it was the only way to deal with a desperate drug addict who was out of money. This kidnapping wasn't real. Jeffrey was
working with Ramsey. No one was going to burn Jeffrey. No way.

Unless it's not a scam.

There was that possibility. Ruban reached for his cell, ready to dial Ramsey's number, then stopped. If he was going to cut through the smoke, a phone call wouldn't do it. Better to have a face-to-face with Ramsey and catch him unawares—an ambush.

The door opened. “Good news,” the salesman said as he breezed into the office. “I can let you drive away in a beautiful black Six Series convertible with the sport package for eighty-three thousand.”

“That's three grand over sticker.”

“I know, isn't that great? My manager has never done this on a back-ordered vehicle. A small premium puts you ahead of everyone on the waiting list.”

Ruban rose. “Give me my car keys.”

“Whoa, where you going, my friend?”

“Outta here.”

“I see you drive a hard bargain. Maybe I can get my manager to see his way to eighty-two-five.”

“I want my keys.”

“Let's sit down and discuss—”

“My keys.
Now.
”

The salesman patted down his pants pockets, as if searching. “Damn. I must have left them with the mechanic. Unfortunately, he just went on break and won't be back till—”

Ruban grabbed him by the collar and got right in his face. “Give me my fucking car keys or I will snap your skinny neck.”

Slowly, the salesman pulled the keys from his coat pocket. Ruban snatched them away and gave the salesman a little shove on his way out of the office, then hurried across the glitzy showroom and into the parking lot. That tired old game—
Keys, keys, who's got the car keys?—
had pissed him off,
but nothing good would come from taking it out on a two-bit salesman.

Save it for Ramsey.

He climbed into his metallic-blue Malibu and drove toward the Gold Rush. The bullshit was about to end.