Cash Landing (26 page)

A
ndie spent Saturday at the Miami field office.

Her preference was to monitor the Betancourt wiretap in real time, but holing up in the A/V room all day was impractical. She had a ton of paperwork to do, after all, and there was a conference room right across the hall from the surveillance center. The tech agent in charge of the Betancourt surveillance was on alert to rush over and grab her whenever the wiretap went active. Andie was reviewing a Form 302, the official record of FBI witness interviews, when Agent Gustafson hurried into the conference room.

“
Come now
,” he said. “Betancourt is on with the kidnapper.”

Andie dropped the 302, raced across the hall, and pulled on a pair of headphones. She recognized the kidnapper's voice from the previous call to Savannah.

“No, no, no! Don't hang up!”

It was definitely the same caller as last time, but the response was a voice she didn't recognize.

“I told you before,” said Ruban, “I'm not paying a half million dollars. I swear I'll hang up if you say it one more time.”

Betancourt
, the tech agent scribbled onto a notepad for Andie's benefit.

“Done. I won't say it again. The number is totally negotiable, bro.”

“Don't call me bro. I'm not your fucking brother.”

“No problem. I can tell you're a man who doesn't like to dick around, so I'm going right to the bottom line: two-fifty.”

“Shoot him.”

“What?”

“You want a quarter mil? I say shoot the dumb son of a bitch.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.' He's a pain in the ass and nothing but trouble. Shoot him right in the head.”

“Dude, come on. This is your brother-in-law. How about two hundred?”

“No.”

“I know you got the money. You did your thing. You're still coming out ahead. Shit, let me be on top, too.”

“‘No' means
no
. You got it?”

“All right, all right. One-seventy-five. But that's my final offer.”

“Shoot him. I'll pay for the bullet.”

“Come on, man. Why are you making this so hard? I'm like the Salvation Army here, ringing the bell, and no one wants to pay for the fat boy.”

“You should pay
me
to take him back.”

“Fuck! This was supposed to be the easy part.”

Ruban chuckled, but Andie didn't read it as enjoyment. “I tell you what,” he said. “If you promise to stop calling me, I'll give you a hundred grand.”

The kidnapper took a moment to consider it. “How about one-fifty?”

“How about seventy-five?”

“Okay, a hundred.”

“Now you're at fifty.”

“Shit! Okay, okay. I'll take fifty thou.”

“Deal,” said Ruban.

There was an audible commotion on the line, but the words
were indecipherable. Andie surmised that the kidnapper was catching hell from his partner for going too cheap.

“All right, we're good on this end,” said the kidnapper. “Fifty thousand, but it has to be tonight.”

“Fine. Tonight.”

“Do what you normally do on a Saturday night. We'll call you when it's time for the exchange.”

The call ended. Andie removed her headset, walked around the worktable in the middle of the room, and went to the tech agent's computer station.

“Did you get it?” asked Andie.

“Triangulating now.”

The display was a split screen: a map of Miami-Dade County on the left, which Andie recognized; a stream of numbers and letters on the right, which Andie could only assume were mathematical calculations. It was the key to “triangulation,” the process of collecting and interpreting the electronic pulse that a cell phone in power-on mode transmitted to surrounding cell towers.

“Got it,” he said.

The split screen vanished, leaving only the map. The target area was shaded.

“That's the best you can do?” asked Andie.

“Six million square feet. That's actually pretty good.”

“Not if it's densely populated.”

“That part of Hialeah is mostly commercial.”

“Show me,” said Andie.

The screen switched from map mode to satellite image. “Warehouses,” said Andie.

“That's a good thing. There can't be a lot of cell phone signals coming from a cluster of warehouses on a Saturday night. You want to send in the Stingray?”

The Stingray was a mobilized tracking system that could roam through target areas and trick a cell phone into thinking it was connecting to a cell tower when, in reality, the user was revealing
a more precise location than the FBI could obtain through triangulation based on actual cell towers.

“Is that our only option?”

“It's our best option.”

Andie wasn't so sure. “The last time I sent in a Stingray, the perps spotted the van and were long gone before we could pinpoint anything.”

“The Amberjack antenna is very low profile. We can mount it on any vehicle. Doesn't have to be a communications van.”

“It wasn't the antenna or type of vehicle that was the problem. It was that methodic crisscrossing of the neighborhood that's needed to find the signal. Any crook with a lookout can see what's going on.”

“That's a definite risk.”

“I'm not sure it's a risk I want to take with a hostage involved.”

“It's your decision. But you'd better make it fast. There's no guarantee our perps are stationary. That cell-phone call could have been made from a parked car anywhere in the target area, and that car could be mobile as we speak.”

Andie glanced again at the satellite image on the screen. The Palmetto Expressway and dozens of side streets cut right through the targeted area, and the Florida turnpike was nearby. There weren't enough law enforcement officers on duty to cover six million square feet of a warehouse district.

“All right,” Andie said. “Send in the Stingray.”

Ruban poured himself another shot of tequila and belted it back. It was his fourth in the last hour. Maybe his fifth. He wasn't counting.

No way was he about to ransom Jeffrey—not for fifty thousand dollars, not for fifty cents. Once upon a time, his split from the heist had sounded like more money than he and Savannah could ever spend. How quickly things can change. Savannah was gone. If he wasn't careful, the money would be gone, too.

Ruban picked up the phone, started to dial Savannah's number, and then hung up. Calling her wasn't the answer. He wasn't going to beg. She'd be back. She would come to her senses, tell him it was all a mistake, and say she was sorry. All Ruban needed to do was play it cool. He was sure of it. Hell, she'd be the one begging, and he wasn't even sure he'd take her back.

Damn it, Savannah. Why haven't you called?

He put down the phone and poured himself another shot. Then he thought better of it. It was critical to remain sharp. He left the tequila on the table and went down the hall to his gun cabinet.
Do what you normally do
, the kidnapper had told him.

That voice had left him stumped. No recognition whatsoever. It could have been anyone. A friend of Ramsey's. A gangbanger. A random opportunist who saw Jeffrey giving Rolex watches to strippers. Maybe one of Pinky's buddies. There was no end to the possibilities, and if Ruban didn't make a statement, there would be no end to the kidnappings. Just saying no to ransom didn't seem to get the point across.

Ruban was about to unlock the gun cabinet, then stopped. There was plenty of firepower in his pistol collection for just about any situation. But this wasn't “any situation.” He tucked the key away and continued down the hallway, past the kitchen, to the entrance to the attic. Using a stepladder from the pantry, Ruban climbed up and pushed through the trapdoor in the ceiling. The difference in temperature was at least fifteen degrees, and Ruban broke a sweat just climbing up into the dark, stuffy air. A hundred-watt bulb dangled from a wire; a tug on the chain gave him all the light he needed. His gaze drifted toward a wooden crate that was stashed behind the air-conditioning ductwork. He couldn't stand up all the way, but he was able to maneuver well enough in a crouched position. He dialed the combination, removed the lock, then opened the lid.

Most of Ruban's friends had seen the pistol collection he kept downstairs. No one, however, knew what he kept in the attic:
his prized possession, an authentic Thompson 1928 West Hurley submachine gun, in mint condition.

Ruban reached into the box and removed the gun with care, almost lovingly. It had been a gift from Octavio. Braxton didn't just deliver cash; firearms were among the many valuables that shipped through the MIA warehouse. And on occasion items disappeared. This rare collectible never reached the licensed firearms dealer who'd paid twenty-seven thousand dollars for it in an online auction. When the Thompson submachine gun shipped through the warehouse, it practically spoke to Octavio. An authentic tommy gun was sure to convince Ruban that so much more—millions more—was theirs for the taking. He gave it to Ruban, and the partnership was born.

Ruban couldn't say for sure that Jeffrey's kidnapper had anything to do with Octavio's death. It didn't matter. At this point, the anger over losing his oldest friend had converged with the anger over Savannah walking out on him, over Grandma Baird working him for six figures, over cleaning up the messes made by a moron named Jeffrey. With a rate of fire in the mid–seven hundreds, the gun from Octavio could avenge all of it.

Could.
But this was no time to get cute and play John Dillinger with a tommy gun. He laid the Thompson back in the box and picked up the semiautomatic UC-9 Centurion Uzi-style assault rifle instead. Fully legal, easier to hold on target, with a thirty-two-round 9-millimeter magazine—and best of all, with a folding stock, it collapsed to twenty-four inches in length, reasonably concealable in a backpack.

“We'll call you when it's time for the exchange.”

Yup, there would be an exchange, all right. Ruban was ready to mow down anyone stupid enough to be on the wrong side of it.

P
inky checked on Jeffrey and found him snoring like a black bear down for the winter. It was hard to fathom how anyone could sleep so soundly after a cocaine binge, even if all but the first few lines had been cut with enough inert substances to make the most inefficient dealer profitable. The last time Pinky had seen anyone do that much coke, she'd set the club record at Night Moves for most double penetrations before midnight, and then danced around naked till dawn. Jeffrey's drug tolerance was off the charts. Then again, he did outweigh the average nymphomaniac by about two hundred pounds.

Pinky stepped quietly out of the room and returned to the kitchenette. Pedro was seated at the table, cutting a few actual lines of the purer stuff on his virtual mirror.

“You're ruining your iPad screen,” said Pinky.

Pedro snorted another line, then smiled wistfully at the instant virtual replacement, as if wishing it were as real as the one that had just disappeared up his nose. “I'll be sure to mention that to the customer-service folks for the never-ending coke app.”

Pinky dismissed it with a roll of his eyes. “Let me see your cell.”

“What for?”

“Just give it to me.”

Pedro handed it over. Pinky pivoted and threw it at the wall with the force of a major-league fastball, shattering it to pieces.

“What the hell did you do that for?”

Pinky gripped his own phone, went into another big-league windup, and nailed the wall again in almost the same spot. More pieces fell to the floor.

Pedro looked at him with disbelief. “And you're telling
me
to lay off the drugs?”

Pinky crossed the room and stomped the remains into tinier bits. “Haven't you ever watched any kidnapping movies? It's time for us to get new phones.”

“These are
burn
phones,” said Pedro. “Nobody can trace them back to us.”

“That kind of thinking will land you in Florida State Prison.”

“What are you, a tech expert now?”

“I checked it out on the Web. Prepaids still have an air card, and they still interact with cell towers. Just because the number can't be traced back to an account holder doesn't mean that a Kingfish, a Stingray, or some other gizmo can't follow the signal back to the guy who's physically holding the phone.”

Pedro laid his iPad aside. The real coke was gone, and the virtual mirror went black. “What makes you think someone's trying to track our cell phones?”

“I wouldn't put it past Ruban. These gadgets are super expensive, but Ruban's got plenty of cash on hand.”

“I don't think it's Ruban you're worried about,” said Pedro, rising. “You're worried about your niece, aren't you?”

“I'm pretty sure Savannah doesn't have a Stingray.”

“Don't get cute with me,” said Pedro, stepping closer. “You're afraid Savannah went to the cops. That's why you did a Nolan Ryan on our cell phones.”

“I'm just being careful.”

Pedro's eyes narrowed, and Pinky gave it right back to him, the two men locked in a stare-down. “If the girl feels safe enough to call the cops, we need to change that,” said Pedro.

“No. No one lays a hand on Savannah.”

“I don't see a choice.”

“I said
no.
”

“Look, I don't care what kind of warm and fuzzy favorite-uncle feelings you have for—”

Pinky grabbed him by the collar, his voice hissing. “Don't even say it, Pedro.”

“Say what?”

“That I got a thing for my niece.”

Pedro winced at the suggestion. “Relax, bro. I wasn't talkin' sexual. I was just saying she's your niece, and obviously you got different feelings toward her than toward Jeffrey. That's all.”

Pinky slowly released his grasp. Maybe he'd misread Pedro's meaning. Regardless, Pinky's overreaction had exposed something, and the fact that it was out there made both men uncomfortable. The stare-down continued a moment longer, and then Pinky blinked. “Let's get new burn phones.”

“Sure,” said Pedro. “Jeffrey coming?”

“Wake his ass up and put him in the trunk.”

Pinky grabbed the keys and pulled the car around to the back of the warehouse. Pedro brought Jeffrey out blindfolded so that he couldn't get a look at the driver. They taped his mouth shut, bound his wrists and ankles with nylon rope, and stuffed him into the trunk. Pinky pulled away slowly. Pedro rode shotgun, busy with another line of real coke on his virtual mirror.

“No blowing coke in the car,” said Pinky.

“But it's the never-ending coke app.”

Pinky reached over and bumped the iPad from the underside, knocking the powder onto Pedro's shirt. “Now it's a never-ending shame, bro.”

The Mall of the Americas was less than two miles from the warehouse, just on the other side of the expressway, and the electronics store was, conveniently, open late. Pinky parked outside the main entrance and went inside. Pedro stayed in the car to make sure Jeffrey kept quiet in the trunk. Five minutes later
Pinky returned with three no-contract cell phones, each with its own untraceable phone number and fully activated.

“Why three?” asked Pedro.

“One for you, one for me, and one for Ruban.”

“Ruban?”

“Think about it: if the cops are tracking our phones on a Stingray, they're probably tracking Ruban's, too. Doesn't do much good for us to be talking on new burn phones if he's still talking on his old phone, does it?”

“I guess not. But if we're gonna call and tell him where to pick up his new phone, we might as well call and tell him where to deliver the money, right?”

“Dumb shit. We don't call him on his old phone to tell him anything. We have the new phone delivered to him, and
then
we call him.”

“Sounds good in theory. But who's the delivery man?”

“Someone Ruban will listen to,” he said, and then he turned on a bad Jamaican accent. “Someone I can count on, mon.”