Cash Landing (23 page)

A
round eight o'clock, Andie heard from the assistant U.S. attorney by phone. Friday evening wasn't the worst time for the AUSA to put an emergency request for a wiretap before a federal judge, but it was far from the best. Nonetheless, the news was good: “Application granted.” Andie followed up with a tech agent about the landlines, and with the Wireless Intercept and Tracking Team for the cell. Agent Gustafson was her WITT contact.

“How soon do you need it?” asked Gustafson.

“Twelve hours ago,” said Andie.

“You should have come to me then. No techie worth his salt needs a carrier's cooperation to monitor mobile devices.”

“No crook worth his salt uses his cell anymore if he can avoid it. We needed landlines, too.”

“There are ways to listen to cell-phone conversations before getting a warrant that covers the whole enchilada. That's all I'm saying.”

Wireless intercepts were in the legal gray zone, but in Andie's thinking there was a time and place to test the limits of the Fourth Amendment. “I'll keep that in mind the next time I'm trying to stop a terrorist from blowing up a building. Right now I'm after a robbery conviction, not a constitutional debate over the admissibility of evidence at trial.”

“Got it.”

By nine p.m. the FBI had its target covered three ways: Ruban Betancourt's cell, and the landlines at Café Ruban and the Betancourt residence. Andie briefed the monitoring team and left the real-time surveillance to the experts. She was driving home from the field office when her cell rang. It was on the line she'd established for her undercover assignment at Night Moves. The call was from Priscilla.

“Hey, girlfriend, where are you?” asked Priscilla.

Andie's undercover role as Celia Sellers was technically over. She took Priscilla's call just to see if the seed she'd planted about Pinky had borne fruit.

“Staying home tonight,” said Andie. “I think I'm coming down with a cold.”

“Aww, too bad. I'm at the club now. I was hoping you could come.”

Andie changed lanes, moving into slower traffic on I-95 as she spoke. “Did you follow up on what we talked about?”

“You mean Pinky?”

“Yeah. Did you talk to him about me?”

“I tried, but his cell has been disconnected, and I haven't seen him at the club. The guy just seems to have vanished.”

Tell me about it.
Andie stayed in role. “There must be someone at the club who's seen him.”

“No one I talked to.”

“Hmm. That's a bummer.”

“There are lots of other men here at the club, Celia.”

“I'm sure. But I was kind of looking forward to . . . well, you know.”

“His big personality?” Priscilla asked with a chuckle.

“Right,
personality
. What every girl wants. Any idea how we can make this work?”

“Just one. I could ask his best friend, Pedro. But that's a really bad idea.”

Andie wanted a last name, but it didn't seem like a question that Celia Sellers could ask. “Why would that be bad?”

“Pedro is one sick bastard.”

A “sick bastard” by Priscilla's standards had to be quite a piece of work. “In what way?” asked Andie.

“If I tell Pedro that you're interested in hooking up with Pinky, you can bet he'll want in on the action. I've been down that road, and I don't recommend it. The craziness is only beginning when he whips out the fire tower.”

“The what?”

“You've never heard of a fire tower?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” said Priscilla, “until I met Pedro. It's like that old trick where you cover your finger with grain alcohol, light it on fire, and dip it in water before it burns your skin. Except with Pedro it isn't his finger, and he doesn't dip it in water. It's also called a ‘Greek fire,' which might give you a better idea of which end is used to put out the flame.”

Andie maintained her law enforcement focus. She was suddenly thinking of Marco Aroyo and the burn marks in the box truck. “So Pinky's friend likes fire?”

“He's a freakin' pyromaniac. ‘Pyro Pedro,' we call him. I think he's a welder or something.”

Death by blowtorch.
“Pedro sounds kinky.”

“He's beyond kinky. A night with Pedro is like having sex in the flames of hell. Literally.”

Andie considered it. Strictly speaking, finding Marco Aroyo's killer was the job of Detective Watts and the homicide unit at MDPD, but it could also be the road to cracking the heist—which was Andie's job. “I'm not one to rule out anything too quickly. I may want to meet this Pedro.”

“What?
Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Andie. She forced a cough, still playing sick. “But not tonight. Let me sleep on it.”

“Good idea,” said Priscilla. “Think hard. You know, I have to say, when I first met you, I never would have guessed you would
want any part of a guy like Pedro. You're just a box of surprises. Has anybody ever told you that?”

“All the time,” said Andie.

“Feel better, girlfriend.”

“Feeling better already,” said Andie, and then she said good night.

J
effrey could feel himself crashing.

The mountain of cocaine hadn't killed him, but he was starting to wish it had. He was alone in the windowless room, seated on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. His gaze was fixed on a crack that ran from the top right corner of the door frame. It continued in a straight line for about another three feet before dropping straight down the wall all the way to the baseboard. He'd studied it from start to finish countless times, his gaze following the same path over and over again for almost an hour.

Seven?

It looked a little like a big number on the wall, but the angles were too upright. It reminded him more of the hangman game that he and Savannah used to play as kids. The paneled door was the dead stickman dangling from the gallows. If he stared at the door long enough, the “body” seemed to move, as if swaying at the end of a rope. The movement was starting to bother him, but he couldn't look away. He cocked his head left, then right, trying to stop the motion, but that dead stickman kept moving.

Stop!

The door opened, and Jeffrey caught his breath. Obama was back.

“How we doing, fat boy?”

Jeffrey wiped away the sweat from his upper lip. His kidnapper still hadn't bothered to bind his hands. The cocaine crash was enough to immobilize him.

“I been better,” said Jeffrey.

Obama had a cardboard bankers box with him. The rattling told Jeffrey that it contained something made of glass. His kidnapper pulled up the chair, set the box on the floor, and removed the lid. Glass vials, a beaker, and several bottles were inside. It was like a chemistry set.

“Have you ever freebased?” he asked.

Jeffrey shuddered. The last thing he needed was more cocaine; the thing his body craved was more cocaine. “A few times,” he said.

“Those lines you did earlier had lots of junk in them. Not even close to pure.”

Jeffrey wrung his hands. “Good thing. Or I'd be dead.”

“True. But now it's time to get serious. We need to dissolve the shit away and get down to the good stuff.”

He removed a small vial from the box. Jeffrey had seen it done before and knew it was just water inside. He watched as his captor spooned about a gram of cocaine into the vial. It dissolved before his eyes.

The man removed another vial from the box. “You know what this is?”

“Ammonia?”

“Very good. You
have
done this before.”

Jeffrey watched the drops fall from an eyedropper, and the solution in the vial turned milky white. Then the man removed another vial from the box, which he handled with greater care than the ammonia. “You know what this is, don't you?”

Jeffrey didn't answer.

“Ethyl ether,” the man said. “Very important final step in separating out the freebase, but also very dangerous. If you don't handle it just right it can spontaneously combust.
Poof
. Blows up right in your face.”

“That's why I don't use it,” said Jeffrey.

“Then you've never done it right.”

The man started to open the bottle of ether, then stopped. “You ever hear of a comedian named Richard Pryor?”

“No.”

“He was freebasing before you were born. Burned to a crisp. One of the first celebs to give the public a heads-up on how dangerous it is. Interesting thing is, when it first happened, there were a couple of rumors on how it went down exactly. Rumor one: freebasing. Ether blew up on him. But then there was rumor two.”

Jeffrey watched with trepidation as the man put the ether bottle back inside the box and removed a much bigger bottle of liquor. He screwed off the cap, rose, and stood over Jeffrey. Jeffrey stared straight ahead, not moving a muscle.

“Rumor two has always intrigued me,” the man said. “The story goes that in a drunken stupor, Pryor soaked himself in 151-proof rum and lit himself on fire. Cocaine psychosis, not freebasing.”

Jeffrey felt the cold 151 pouring all over his body. The smell of rum soaked his skin, hair, shirt, and pants until the bottle was completely empty. The man tossed it aside, onto the mattress.

“These were just rumors, of course. But still, I wonder which would be the more painful way to go. I've seen ethyl ether burn a guy right up. Not pretty. That's what happened to your friend Marco. Dumb son of a bitch just wouldn't tell me where his money was.”

He reached for his cell, brought up the image, and held it before Jeffrey's eyes. It was the same one Jeffrey had seen earlier in the glossy print, but it was no easier to look at the second time.

“Very painful,” the man said. “At least I assume it was painful. Truthfully, I didn't get much feedback from Marco, unless you count all the screaming.”

Jeffrey swallowed the lump in his throat. “Don't burn me, bro. Don't do that to me.”

“I really don't want to,” the man said. “I'm just having trouble believing that you don't have any money left.”

“It's gone! I blew right through it.”

“There's still a part of me that thinks you're lying.”

“I'm not lying! I got nothing left!”

The man returned to his seat, staring at Jeffrey coldly through the eyeholes in that ridiculous-looking rubber mask. “Nothing, you say?”

“
Nada.
Not a cent!”

He reached inside his pocket and removed a pack of matches.

“No, man,” said Jeffrey, his voice shaking. “Don't do this.”

He opened the pack.

“My brother-in-law has money,” said Jeffrey. “Lots of it. He'll pay you.”

“He already said he won't.”

“My sister will make him!”

“Your sister, huh?”

“Yeah. Savannah won't let you hurt me. She would never let that happen. Just put the matches away, please!”

“So, what you're saying is that I should keep you alive because your brother-in-law will pay?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“Makes sense, I guess. But I still don't believe you're out of money.”

“I am, I swear! I'm an idiot, a total idiot. You can ask anybody. Even my own mother will tell you: she gave birth to a complete and total fucking idiot! I spent it all on strippers and watches and all kinds of stupid shit!”

“If there was ten cents of your money left, you'd tell me where it was, right?”

“Yes! Absolutely! But I have nothing left! I swear!”

He struck the match and held the yellow-orange glow by its cardboard stem.

“Please, please, don't!”

“Let's see if that's your story when we're done here,” the man said. “Then I'll believe you.”

T
he line was long outside the Gold Rush. Friday was always the busiest night of the week, and by nine o'clock the club had reached its fire-code maximum occupancy. Ruban stood outside the main entrance with a dozen other men who would rather wait than grease the bouncer's palm for immediate entry. The man behind him was alone, and everything from the bad haircut to the misspelled tattoo—
Villian
—screamed “loser.” Ruban assumed he was a regular.

“How long does this usually take?” asked Ruban.

“Twenty minutes, tops. It's worth the wait.”

A group of women arrived, drunk from happy hour, talking loudly and laughing way too much. Two young men at the back of the line started hitting on them, but the regular beside Ruban didn't look happy.

“I hate it when chicks crash our club,” he said, grumbling.

Ruban didn't say anything, but Villian wouldn't let it go.

“You know what I'm saying, pal? They're everywhere. The golf course, the Dolphins games. Can't we at least have the fucking strip clubs to ourselves?”

Ruban dug his hands into his pockets and shrugged, not sure how to respond. “I guess it does make it harder to get in touch with your inner pervert.”

“Exactly!” he said in a voice loud enough for the women to overhear. “How's a guy supposed to get in touch with his inner pervert with a bunch of giggly chicks at the next table?”

Ruban moved away, only to land beside a tourist wearing a Buffalo Bills jersey who was so awash in cheap cologne, so pungent, that he probably could have crossed the Florida Everglades without a single mosquito bite. Ruban sneezed, machine-gun fashion, five in a row.

“Shit, dude. Thanks for the shower.”

Ruban didn't apologize. “Villian” the inner pervert and Buffalo Bill's synthetic musk were more than he could take. He slipped the bouncer a fifty and hurried inside.

It was Ruban's first visit to the Gold Rush, but it was what he'd expected, only bigger. The dancers seemed able to sniff out the big spenders who bribed their way past the bouncer. A tall brunette who was made even taller by a pair of spiked heels approached Ruban immediately. Her red leather pants and vest were full of strategically placed holes, leaving plenty for a roving eye to enjoy. Ruban's gaze was drawn to the Rolex on her wrist.

“Nice watch,” he said over the music.

“Thanks.” She was moving seductively to Lady Gaga as she spoke, unable to stand still. “It was a gift.”

“I know it was.”

He walked past her, and she locked on to the next target as Ruban continued toward the bar. The music got even louder as he went deeper into the club. Every stool at the bar was taken, a mix of strippers and patrons, and people right beside each other were shouting to be heard. Ruban squeezed behind a blond stripper on a bar stool, accidentally brushing up against her trapezoids. She was hard like a bodybuilder.

“Don't touch,” she said with attitude. “Unless I say it's okay.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you?” she said. More attitude.

“Yeah. I said I was sorry.”

She turned to face him, flexing her overdeveloped pecs. “Say it like you mean it.”

“What?”

“Say it like you mean it and I might let you drink my bathwater.”

The kick-ass Nordic abuser was obviously her shtick, and there was probably no shortage of Gold Rush patrons who were into that sort of thing.

“Back off, Ingrid,” said the bartender. His accent was Jamaican. It was Ramsey.

Ingrid shot Ramsey a playful look, then tossed her hair and stepped away, taking her dominatrix act to the other end of the bar.

“You here to see me?” asked Ramsey.

“I didn't come to give away Rolexes.”

He wasn't sure Ramsey could hear him over the music, but apparently the message got across. Ramsey signaled to the other bartender to let him know he was going on break. Ruban followed him to the other side of the bar, around several tables, and toward the back exit. Ramsey stopped before they reached the door.

“Let's go outside,” said Ruban.

“This is far enough.”

They were halfway down the hallway, still in sight of the other bartender and at least one bouncer. It was quiet enough to have a conversation, and clearly Ramsey didn't feel safe stepping out into the parking lot with Ruban.

“All right,” said Ruban. “Tell me what's going on.”

“I told you, mon. I was telling the truth about Jeffrey.”

Ruban stepped closer. “Let me explain something to you, Ramsey. The only reason I don't have both hands around your throat right now is that we're on your turf. But you can't hang out in this club forever. Sooner or later you gotta walk out that door. When you do, I'll be waiting for you. Unless you tell me the fucking truth here and now.”

“What you threaten me for?”

“I don't believe Jeffrey called you this morning.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Because this kidnapping is a scam. And you're part of it.”

“No, mon. You got it all wrong.”

“Look, I don't have time for games. One of the disadvantages of your having worked for me is that I know your immigration status. I know you came to Miami on a ninety-day K-1 visa. I know you never married your cute little American fiancée and that your work permit expired a very long time ago. You're probably not the only illegal working here at the Gold Rush, but you're the only one I know about, and it's my duty as a responsible citizen to report you and your employer to Immigration.”

“You suck.”

“You lied about Jeffrey. Didn't you?”

“Okay, mon. Here's the truth. He didn't call me. But that was no lie about him gettin' kidnapped again.”

“How do you know that?”

“He was here at the club last night. Sylvia was working him.”

“Sylvia?”

“One of the dancers. She's friends with Bambi, so I'm sure she knows how Bambi played him for a pretty penny. I went over to Jeffrey's table and warned him, but he don't listen to nobody. Around two in the morning, Sylvia walks out to the parking lot with him, so I watch.”

“What happened?”

“What I told you, mon. It's déjà vu all over again. Kidnapped.”

“Same guys?”

“No. These be Sylvia's friends, not Bambi's.”

“Where can I find Sylvia?”

“Who knows? These girls come and go.”

Ruban's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his voice threatening. “You know where Sylvia is.”

Ramsey didn't answer, but Ruban's tone had him swallowing the lump in his throat.

“First Bambi. Now Sylvia. Both times Jeffrey ends up kidnapped, and both times the money flows through you.”

“I didn't say nothin' about ransom money.”

“But that's where this was headed. That's why you called me this morning and said Jeffrey called you, like we're all in this together. Next step is for you to deliver the ransom. How much is your cut, Ramsey? Twenty percent? Twenty-five? How much of that goes to this Sylvia?”

“No, mon. That's not it at all.”

He thumped Ramsey on the chest. “Your little scheme's not going to work.”

“This is not a scheme. These are some bad dudes, mon. They be capable of some really gruesome things. I'm tryin' to help you.”

“Help me?” Ruban said, scoffing. “Here's how you can help. Pass this message along to Jeffrey. Whatever ‘gruesome things' these ‘bad dudes' do to my brother-in-law—no, check that. Even the things they only
threaten
to do to Jeffrey, that's what I'm gonna do to you. Understood?”

Their eyes locked. Ramsey answered in a soft voice. “Yah, mon. It's understood.”

Ruban glared at him another moment, long enough to make sure his message and his look were burned into Ramsey's memory. Then he headed toward the exit, counting the Rolexes he saw hanging on the wrists of strippers.