Cash Landing (30 page)

R
oom service brought him pancakes, bacon, and coffee. Housekeeping brought up six disposable razors and a pair of scissors. Ruban ate breakfast in his room and then shaved his head. He barely recognized himself in the mirror, which was exactly the point. It was safe to go outside, but he didn't take any unnecessary chances. He walked down the street to Target, bought clean clothes, a hat, sunglasses, and enough food and toiletries for three days. Then it was back to the motel. He kept the burn phone on.

No call came.

By late afternoon, he couldn't sit idle any longer. He started pacing. He checked to see if the phone had died. Over 30 percent battery left. He made doubly sure the ringer was on. Yup, Westminster chimes. For no reason at all, he checked his gun, a small Smith & Wesson revolver. Still loaded. He noticed that the naked babies patterned into the wallpaper were actually Cupids shooting their arrows of love, more proof that any man who would bring a woman to this joint didn't appreciate the value of hard-earned cash.

Cash.
He had no way to pay Savannah's ransom.
Shit!

Ramsey hadn't mentioned a number, but clearly he was thinking big:
“This one is going to cost you everything, mon.”

Refusing to ransom Savannah wasn't an option. This wasn't Jeffrey the cokehead. He had around two million left, by his
count, but all of it was stashed at the house. He couldn't go home. He needed fast cash, lots of it; and he needed to get it from somewhere the police wouldn't be looking for him.

He knew just the place.

He put on his hat, which was actually one of those tight-fitting do-rags that football players wore under their helmets. Camouflage fabric. He liked the new look, especially with the sunglasses and the black shirt. The jeans were wide-leg, carpenter-fit style to accommodate the ankle holster. The new Ruban was ready to go. He called for a taxi and ten minutes later met it outside the lobby.

“South Miami,” he told the driver.

The old Haitian gentleman cued the meter. The sun was setting as they pulled away from the motel, and the driver seemed to be having difficulty with the oncoming headlights. His ears weren't so good either. The radio was blasting, tuned to a crackly AM station and live coverage of the Miami Dolphins football game. Ruban's mind drifted back to another Sunday afternoon, when he was with Jeffrey and Pinky in Marco's pickup truck, the three men listening to the Dolphins game on the radio while waiting for the call from Octavio at the warehouse. A mere three weeks, and so much had changed. Ruban was the only one who wasn't dead or under arrest. And the Dolphins were out of contention for the playoffs.
Fucking Fins.

“Stop here.”

They were a half block from Whip 'n Dip, the ice cream shop where Jeffrey had bought a banana split for breakfast. From there, Ruban could walk. He paid the driver, crossed the tree-lined street to the hardware store, and purchased two lengths of nylon rope and a roll of duct tape. He used the store's rear exit, which faced the residential part of town, and followed the curved walkway into the quiet High Pines neighborhood.

Savannah kidnapped.
It was his fault—again—just as it was his fault that she'd fallen off the back of his motorcycle. It was hard to find any silver lining in the motorcycle accident, but maybe the kidnapping was
a godsend. This was his chance to step up and prove to Savannah how much he loved her, how he would do anything to get her back, how she meant more to him than money.

Sully's money, at least.

Ruban didn't know the address, and the ranch-style houses could look a lot alike after dark, but Ruban remembered the huge royal poinciana tree in the front yard. He walked around to the back. A thick, ten-foot ficus hedge ran along the property line. Sully liked his privacy. Good thing.

Ruban took the pistol from his ankle holster and went to the sliding glass doors in back. The house was the typical twenty-first-century renovation of 1960s construction, with all but the interior load-bearing walls removed to create that open “Florida” floor plan. Ruban listened. The television was playing loudly enough to be heard through the glass door. Sully was a Dolphins fan. Or maybe not. Ruban could see him sleeping on the couch.

He tried the door. It slid right open, unlocked. Ruban crossed the kitchen to the family room. Sully didn't move from the couch. He was on his back, snoring loudly. Much more than a five o'clock shadow covered his face, as if he hadn't shaved all weekend. He'd probably been out all night at the Gold Rush, selling Rolex watches. Ruban was betting on it.

He went to the couch and pressed the muzzle of his handgun to Sully's forehead.

Sully stirred, and then his eyes blinked open.

“Don't move,” said Ruban, “or I will blow your brains out.”

Ruban was back in his hotel room by eight. Sully, he presumed, was still locked in the closet, bound with nylon rope and his mouth taped shut. Ruban's take had been worth the trip: almost a hundred thousand dollars. He took six Rolex watches, too. Ruban knew they weren't worth Sully's asking price of twenty-five
grand apiece, but maybe Ramsey would be as gullible as Jeffrey.

The phone rang. Westminster chimes. The burn phone. Ruban grabbed it. The incoming number was Jasmine's, the same number Ramsey had called from that morning.

“I'm listening,” said Ruban.

“Ruban!”

He nearly dropped the phone. It was Savannah. She was whispering, her voice filled with urgency.

“Thank God you answered! I've been kidnapped!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes! No! I mean—”

“Calm down, okay? Is Ramsey in the room with you right now?”

“No! He just walked out. I saw him use this phone to call you this morning. He doesn't know I have it. He left it in his bathrobe, so I grabbed it and hit redial.”

“His bathrobe? Where are you?”

“It's a club. Ramsey brought me in the back door last night and locked me up in some kind of private sex room. This place is so gross. And Ramsey is creeping me out even more with all his talk about married people having sex with other married people.”

“You're at Night Moves,” said Ruban, his words simultaneous with the realization.

“Yes! That's it. You know it?”

“Your uncle practically lived there. Savannah, listen to me. You have to try to get out while Ramsey is away. Look around the room. Is there any escape?”

“No, I checked! There's no window. The door is locked from the outside. The first time Ramsey left me alone, I banged on the wall for help. He came back and slapped me so hard I thought my jaw was broken.”

“I'm going to shoot that son of a bitch.”

“Ruban, no! That's not the answer. If you know this place, just come. All we have is each other. Jeffrey's under arrest. If I call the police on this phone, we'll go to jail, too. The cops will never believe that we had nothing to do with the heist. Who knows what Jeffrey is telling them? We have to run as far as we can for as long as we can. Just bring whatever's left of Jeffrey's money, and you and I will run away to another country if we have to and never look back. Start over.”

He swallowed hard. She was still referring to the money as “Jeffrey's.” There was hope. “Are you serious about all this?”

“Yes. People like Ramsey will keep kidnapping us as long as they think we have the damn money, so we might as well have it.”

Ruban's heart swelled. “I promise you, Savannah—everything is going to be okay. I love you so much.”

“Ramsey is unlocking the door. I have to go! Hurry!”

“I will,” he said, as the call ended. “I'm on my way.”

R
uban didn't wait for a taxi. For two bills, a valet attendant at the motel was willing to “borrow” a Porsche from one of the overnight guests and drive him to Night Moves. They got there in fifteen minutes. The Porsche squealed out of the dark parking lot and headed back to the motel as Ruban hurried inside.

Sunday was not the busiest night of the week, but the club was never empty in late November, the official start of south Florida's “season.” The dance room was straight ahead, beyond a set of double doors, but Ruban didn't get past reception. The attendant stopped him, a leggy blonde whose lips looked bee-stung.

“Can I help you, sir?”

He hesitated. The slightest hint at a kidnapping or criminal activity of any sort would prompt her to call 911, which would land Ruban in jail. “I'm here to meet up with my wife.”

“So is everyone else,” she said, and then she smiled. “A little Night Moves humor.”

Ruban didn't find it funny. “I'm in a bit of a hurry. If you could let me inside to look around, I would really appreciate it.”

“If you're not a member, you have to buy a day pass.”

Ruban handed her a hundred. “Does this cover it?”

“Amply. Now if you could just fill out some information for me.”

“No paperwork,” he said as he handed her another hundred.

She took it, and he started past her.

“One more thing,” she said, stopping him. “We have a strict no-drugs, no-weapons policy here.”

The pistol was strapped to his ankle beneath his pant leg. “No problem.”

“Good. Have fun.”

Ruban continued to the double doors and entered the dance room. The loud music and flashing lights in a rainbow of colors were like any other club. The pornographic videos playing on flat-screen televisions around the room were distinctly Night Moves. About a dozen couples were on the dance floor, but it was more like group dancing, which made it hard to tell who was coupled with whom. No one was completely naked—it was still early—but several women would have caught Ruban's attention if he hadn't been on a mission. He took a good look around the entire room, keeping an eye out for Ramsey. The bar was to the right. To the left were couches and built-in lounge seating. Low-slung tables were outfitted with brass poles for wannabe strippers. Ruban saw no sign of Ramsey, but he spotted the table where he and Octavio had met with Pinky to plan the heist. It had been several months, but he remembered Pinky saying something about private rooms in the back—the “baths,” he'd called them. The entrance was behind the DJ.

Savannah had to be back there.

Ruban started across the dance floor. The music transitioned from a song Ruban didn't recognize to a remix of Rihanna's latest hit, which drew out even more dancers. Ruban zigzagged his way through a sea of wandering eyes. The dance floor was the epicenter in a land of opportunity, the place where hookups began. A woman started to dance toward him, a hot brunette wearing a sequined top that rode up above her navel when she raised her arms to the music. He avoided making eye contact, but she wasn't about to let him pass, playfully getting in his way.

“Wanna dance?”

“No, thanks.”

She smiled and moved in toward him, close enough to be heard over the music, close enough to let him smell her perfume. “Aw, come on, handsome.”

“No, I mean it.”

She signaled to her girlfriend, who joined them. Blondes weren't typically his type, but this one was an incredible dancer. Great body. Ruban was suddenly at the top of a blonde-and-brunette triangle, the stuff of male fantasy. But he wasn't biting. He tried to move past them, but the blonde with the hot body stepped in his way, still dancing.

“You're cute,” she said.

“I have to go.”

“Shy, too. I like that. Would you blush if I took my top off?”

Ruban was starting to sweat. It must have been the lights.

“Let's get some champagne,” said the brunette.

“And some baby oil,” her friend said.

More sweating. It wasn't the lights. He was starting to feel like the guy who finally gets propositioned by Eva Longoria and Charlize Theron—on his honeymoon. They moved closer, one for each arm.

“Really, ladies. I don't—”

The next few moments were a blur. Before Ruban could even begin to appreciate what was happening, the brunette had his right arm, the blonde had his left, his hands went behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs closed over his wrists. It was one seamless motion, and it ended with Ruban down on the dance floor, flat on this belly. The brunette pushed his face toward the lacquered hardwood, and the muzzle of a gun was suddenly at the base of his skull.

“FBI. You're under arrest.”

The music stopped. A barrage of white lights switched on. As the crowd dispersed there were a few screams, but things settled
down quickly. The dancers on the floor were mostly law enforcement officers—FBI agents and MDPD officers from the joint Tom Cat unit headed by Agent Littleford—performing their very first undercover roles.

Andie flashed her FBI shield before Betancourt's eyes. The blonde removed her wig and read him his Miranda rights. “You have the right . . .”

“This is a terrible mistake! My wife is in danger! She's been kidnapped. She's being held in one of those back rooms.”

“Your wife was never kidnapped,” said Andie.

“Yes, the kidnapper is a Jamaican guy named Ramsey. He called me this morning.”

“A Jamaican FBI agent called you.”

“What?”

“Ramsey was arrested at the Sunset Motel last night, along with his sidekick Jasmine.”

“But—I heard it on the news. Savannah was kidnapped. She called me from here!”

“She called you from the FBI field office.”

“Huh?”

“Your wife got herself a lawyer, told us everything, and agreed to do whatever was necessary to bring you into custody and to recover as much of the money as possible, Mr. Betancourt.”

“No! Savannah would never do that!”

“She would, and she did. Deal with it, hotshot. And welcome to the FBI.”