Cash Landing (6 page)

A
ndie stopped by Littleford's townhouse after dinner. It had been a busy afternoon, and his place was on her way home from the crime lab.

“Tire tracks match,” said Andie. “The pickup used in the heist was definitely inside the delivery truck at some point in time.”

They were seated in matching Adirondack chairs on the backyard patio. The sun had set, and a half-moon was rising over the tall ficus hedge. It was the peak of autumn in south Florida, that one night each November when Miamians step out of their air-conditioned boxes and ask,
Hey, where did the humidity go?

“That gives us something,” said Littleford. “Stay on Tom Cat this week to keep looking for the pickup, but my bet is that it's probably cruising down the streets of Nassau or Santo Domingo as we speak.”

“Or chopped into pieces that will soon be sprinkled across South America.”

“What about the finger?”

“More bad news: no fingerprint.”

“Ants?”

“Not just ants. Dermestids. Flesh-eating beetles. Every trace of epidermis is gone. I swear, you find the most bizarre insects at these cargo terminals on the river.”

“What did you find out about the blood on the chains?”

“B-positive. It matches the DNA from the finger. Male victim. Unfortunately, we have nothing from the MIA warehouse to compare it to, so no way to know if it was one of the perps in the heist.”

“Any other prints to work with?”

“MDPD pulled some from the handwritten note that was found under the visor, and from the cab of the delivery truck. But no hits in the databases.”

Littleford's wife came out and handed him a slice of cheesecake on a plate. “You sure you wouldn't like some, Andie?” she asked.

“I'm fine, thank you.”

“You know, dessert is actually a required activity in my unit,” said Littleford.

“You do make it tempting. But my plan is still a steady diet of undercover work after this case is cracked.”

He shaved off a slice with his fork and savored it. “Great cake, Barbara.”

“Thanks, honey,” she said. “Do you bake, Andie?”

“Only when I lie in the sun.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, bad joke. No, I'm not much of a cook.”

“But she can shoot the cap off a Coke bottle at fifty yards,” said Littleford.

It was a slight exaggeration, but Barbara didn't seem impressed anyway. “Michael says you moved here from Seattle.”

“That's right,” said Andie.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“Hey, a new world record!” said Littleford. “Fifteen seconds until Barbara puts out the feelers for her poor, lonely divorced cousin.”

“Stop, Michael. John is not poor.”

“I didn't mean he's—”

“I know what you both mean,” said Andie. “No, I'm not dating anyone. But I'm not looking to date right now. Thank you, though.”

“Great answer,” said Littleford.

Barbara rose. “Well, if you change your mind . . .”

“I'll let you know,” said Andie.

Barbara smiled and left them alone.

Littleford set his plate on the armrest. “Well, wasn't that just dandy? I spend all week trying to convince you to stay in the bank robbery unit, and in two minutes my wife has you running for undercover work.”

Andie laughed. “Don't worry about it.”

“Okay. Let's talk about this week. I want you to coordinate with MDPD to find out who lost a finger.”

“No problem.”

“Any reason to go back to the MIA warehouse?”

Andie considered it. “I still think one of the guards—probably Alvarez—called the perps from the warehouse and told them when to come. But we've practically turned that warehouse inside out looking for a phone. Nothing.”

“Your initial reaction is probably spot-on,” said Littleford. “He went into the bathroom, made the call, smashed the phone into a thousand tiny pieces, and flushed it down the toilet.”

“We should keep our eye on Alvarez. At some point he needs to meet up with someone and get his cut of the stolen money.”

“Unless someone else is putting the money through the laundry and it ends up in his Cayman Islands account. Maybe we go back to Braxton and talk to Alvarez again.”

Littleford's wife was back with two demitasses. “Espresso?” she asked.

“Is it decaf?” asked Andie.

Littleford made a face. “Real dessert, real coffee. Get with the program, Henning.”

Andie smiled and took the cup.

“I forgot to ask,” said Barbara. “How do feel about lawyers?”

“Barbara, give it a rest,” said Littleford.

“Sorry.” She went back inside.

“My wife has a great heart, but she's one of those married people who will never rest until the rest of the world is married, too.”

Andie felt the need to shift gears. She opted for the perfect diversion with any man and made the conversation about him. “Not to change the subject, but ever since those interviews at Braxton, I've been meaning to say that I loved the way you worked in those eighteen robberies in three days after the Lufthansa heist at JFK. I thought you were bluffing, but I Googled it. That was no bull.”

“Nope. August 1979.”

“So, your dad was with NYPD?”

“No. That part of the story I made up.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. He was never even a cop.”

“Oh, man,” she said, smiling. “You had me totally buying it. What did he do? Wait, don't tell me. Aromatherapist, right?”

He smiled, then turned serious. “He drove an armored truck in the Bronx.”

“For real? Why didn't you tell the folks at Braxton?”

He shook his head. “I don't really tell anyone.”

Andie paused, confused, not sure why he'd be embarrassed by it. “Why not?”

“You really want to know?”

She wasn't sure. “Yeah. If you want to tell me.”

He put down his demitasse and looked out across the yard as he spoke. “It happened on a Tuesday,” he said. “I was in my last week of the third grade and couldn't wait to start summer vacation. My dad was in the parking lot outside a shopping center. Four men stormed the truck. Two of them had guns. They got away with two hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars. No one really knows why, but they shot both guards before they ran off with the money. One lived. Dad was dead before I got home from school.”

Andie didn't know what to say. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

“It's okay. I don't really talk about it, especially with the armored-transport companies. Can you imagine what they would say? ‘Oh, there goes Littleford again, bumping up the reward money, still trying to make us pay for never finding out who killed his daddy.'”

Andie studied his profile, which was more like a silhouette in the dim afterglow of the sunset. “Did they offer a reward?”

“Sure did.”

“I'm going to take a guess here,” she said. “Was it good only for information leading to an arrest, conviction,
and
return of the money?”

Finally, he looked at her. “Smart girl.”

Andie sat forward in her chair and spoke without so much as a blink of her eyes. “We're going to catch these guys.”

He looked off again toward the long shadows on the lawn. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know we will.”

J
effrey Beauchamp was in celebration mode. It was the one-week anniversary of his becoming a millionaire. His pockets were stuffed with money, his nostrils were numb from coke, and the perfect ass of one of his favorite porn stars was grinding down on him in a four-minute lap dance.

“Easy, baby,” he said.

“Oooh, Jeffy, you naughty boy. I knew there was a dick somewhere under that big belly.”

The men at the next table laughed. So did Jeffrey.

The lap dance was a well-honed art form at the Gold Rush in downtown Miami. Completely naked women worked on very drunk men, and the old song about a fool and his money was perpetually at the top of the charts. Many a hungover patron had awakened the morning after to find that the same five-dollar cocktails he bought for himself were fifty dollars when purchased for a dancer, and that the love of his life who couldn't say enough about the enormous bulge in his pants had “mistakenly” charged him $1,200 for a hundred-dollar dance—
Oops, sorry, sweety.
Dancers were from all over the world: Thailand to India, London to São Paulo, and Caribbean goddesses galore. The biggest draw was the weekly “HEAD-liner,” usually a porn star of some note. Most customers were from out of town, save for a handful of regulars that included a former congressman and an ex–state attorney who'd lost his
job after flashing his badge to get in without a cover charge— and Jeffrey.

“Don't you ever go home, Beauchamp?”

He smiled. Lap dances 24/7, legs and eggs for breakfast, grilled chicken and a side of friction for lunch. “This
is
my home.”

The music got louder. Bambi worked her ass to a more strategic position, slow and steady. “Jeffy?”

His head rolled back, and the mirror on the ceiling offered a bird's-eye view of Bambi at her bouncy best. “What?”

“Can I get a Rolex?”

“Uhmm. Okay.”

“One with diamonds?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I want it right now.”

“Ohhh. Ohhh. Oh-kay.”

Bambi slid off his lap. Jeffrey knocked back another shot of tequila and pushed himself up from his chair. Half of his ass was hanging out of the back of his pants, and he could feel the cold air on his skin, but he didn't care. He wiped away the coke residue from under his nose, and Bambi followed him past the line of pole dancers and across the bar to a dark booth in the back. Sully was with a pair of Venezuelan strippers. Jeffrey recognized one, but the other girl was new. He liked the snake tattoo coiling up her arm. Very hot.

“Whah . . .” Jeffrey started to say, but the words wouldn't come. That last shot of tequila had hit him like a mule kick. He tried again. “Whah . . . hoppin . . . to ya' ear, bro?”

Sully tugged at the bandage. “It's my Vincent van Gogh look.”

“Huh?”

“Nothin'. You need another Rolex?”

Bambi nodded. “Jeffy said I could have one.”

Sully snapped his fingers at the new girl with the snake tattoo. The Rolex was the only thing she was wearing, and it made her pout to hand it over.

“You like this one?” Sully asked as he handed it to Bambi.

She stepped up on the table and pressed the watch against her pubic hair. “You like it, Jeffy?”

She was so close, so in his face, that he had her scent. “Yeah, yeah. I lub it.”

“Twenty-five grand,” said Sully.

“Puddut in my ah-count,” said Jeffrey.

“No,” said Sully. “No more account.”

“Why?”

“That's my new rule. Cash on delivery.”

Bambi turned around, bent over, and grabbed her ankles to give Jeffrey his favorite view. “
Please
, Jeffy?”

“Okay, cash,” said Jeffrey. “My car.”

“Let's go,” said Sully. “Excuse us, ladies.”

Sully slid out of the booth. Jeffrey staggered past the pole dancers and toward the door. The girl with the snake tattoo followed.

“Hey, Jeffy,” she said. “I like watches, too.”

Ruban was sinking deep into the couch, a wink away from sleep, when Savannah shoved him. The ten-o'clock news was on the television.

“They think they found the truck that was used in the heist,” she said, her voice filled with urgency.

He sat up and got his bearings. The report was nearly over, but a final image of a delivery truck flashed on the screen. He was relieved not to see the pickup, but that was not something to share with Savannah.

“That could be.”

The reporter reminded viewers to call Crime Stoppers tip line if they have “any information about the possible victim,” and the newscast moved to the night's next story.

“They found a human finger in it!” said Savannah.

Ruban wasn't sure what to make of that, but he was concerned enough to prod Savannah for more details. “Did they say anything about a black pickup?”

“No. What do you know about a black pickup?”

“Jeffrey told me,” he said.

Savannah moved closer, her nails digging into his forearm. “Do you think that finger could be my uncle's?”

“No,” he said, thinking up another lie on the fly. “Pinky said they hired someone to get rid of the truck. I suppose it could be that guy.”

“Oh, my God, Ruban! This is the kind of thing I was afraid of! We need to go to the police.”

“Just calm down.”

His phone rang, and it made them both jump.

“Keep an eye on the news and see if there's any update,” he told Savannah. Then he stepped away to take the call where she couldn't overhear. The voice on the line was Jamaican.

“Ruban, you got big trouble, mon.”

It was the bartender at the Gold Rush. He used to work with Ruban at the restaurant. Ruban should never have backed down on burying Jeffrey's entire share in his yard, but a hundred bucks a night for Ramsey to keep an eye on Jeffrey was Ruban's finger on the pulse of a bad situation.

“What now?” he asked.

“Your brother-in-law is out of control, mon.
Toe-tuh-lee
out of control.”

Ruban cut one last glance toward Savannah before ducking into the kitchen. She was glued to the television, waiting for any follow-up on the heist. “Tell me,” he said into the phone.

“He's crazy, mon. Money, coke, girls. Tonight he buying Rolex watches for duh strippers.”

“What?”

“Ruban, I don't know where Jeffrey gets dis money. Not my business. But if the cash don't run out soon, he goin' to end up dead in the parkin' lot.”

Ruban started to pace, back and forth, from the stove to the refrigerator. “That's what I've been telling him. I been telling him, and telling him, and telling!”

“You tellin' him, mon, but he ain't listenin'. You got to
do
somethin'. Or it goin' to be one revoltin' situation.”

Ruban stopped at the sink, ran his hand through his hair, and let out a mirthless chuckle. The Jamaicans had such a way with words. “You got that right, bro. One revoltin' situation.”

Ruban woke before five a.m., but not on purpose. He thought he heard Savannah on the phone. He buried his head in the pillow and hoped he was dreaming.

They'd gone to bed at midnight, and not on good terms. Whatever good he'd done by returning the Rolex was lost with the replacement gift. The earrings were on sale at the mall, he'd sworn to her, no funny money involved. Savannah wasn't fooled.

“Ruban, wake up!”

He opened his eyes. The room was dark, and Savannah was practically on top of him. Her cell was pressed to her ear.

“Jeffrey's in trouble!”

He groaned and rolled onto his side. Savannah tugged his shoulder and forced him to look at her. “He needs to talk to you!”

He checked the clock on the nightstand. “I need sleep.”

She shoved the phone at him. “He sounds scared to death. Talk to him!”

“Fine,” he said as he took the phone. “Jeffrey, I have no coke. Time to go to bed. Good night.”

He hung up and tossed the phone aside.

“Ruban, what are you
doing
?” she screamed.

The phone rang immediately. Savannah answered, and Ruban could hear the urgency in her voice as she spoke into the phone. “Jeffrey, are you okay? Where are you?”

Ruban stayed in the bed, but his wife was up and began to pace at the foot of the bed. Ruban wasn't trying to listen, but she was talking in a loud, excited voice. Her end of the conversation was the same line, over and over again: Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Finally, she lowered the phone and spoke to Ruban.

“Somebody has Jeffrey.”

Ruban got up on one elbow. “What do you mean,
has
him?”

“Abducted. Kidnapped. Whatever you want to call it. They took him from the parking lot at Gold Rush.”

“When?”

“Thirty minutes ago.”

He fell back into the pillow. “Oh, shit.”

Savannah was back on the phone. “Jeffrey, listen to what I'm saying. I want you to do whatever they . . . Jeffrey? Are you there?”

Even in the darkness, Ruban could see the panic in her expression.

“He's gone!” she said. She dialed back frantically, then put the phone down. “No answer. Ruban, what are we going to do?”

He sat up on the edge of the bed. “First, we calm down. Freaking out will just make things worse.”

“I need to call the police!”

Ruban snatched away the phone before she could dial. “We are
not
going to call the police.”

“My brother has been kidnapped!”

“You don't know that he's been kidnapped. Nobody has asked for a ransom. For all you know, he left the Gold Rush with some prostitute who is threatening to kick his ass because he ran out of money.”

“No, that's not what this is. I could hear it in his voice. This is bad.”

“This is exactly the thing I warned him and your uncle about when I told them to stash the money. A guy with no job, no
money, and no life is asking for trouble if he suddenly starts acting like he's a high roller. The strippers aren't the only ones who take notice.”

“What money? You made sure it was buried. All of it. That's what you told me.”

He had told her that, the night of the split. Or had he? He wasn't sure. Time to tap-dance. “They must have held out on me and stashed some on their own. My point is—”

“My
point is that we're talking about my brother. We have to help him!”

“Yes, and I'm looking out for him. If we call the cops, this whole heist that he and Pinky pulled off will unravel. Jeffrey will spend the rest of his life in jail,” he said, no mention of his own skin. “We have to work this out ourselves.”

“How?”

“We wait for him to call back.”

“Wait?
What if Jeffrey ends up like that guy in the back of the delivery truck? The only thing left of
him
is a finger!”

“That's not going to happen to Jeffrey.”

“How do you know that?”

Ruban had to dig deep for the answer to that one. “Because Jeffrey has a family who cares about him. And I'm not going to let it happen.”

Savannah sat beside him on the edge of the bed. She was staring blankly into the darkness, but her head was resting on his shoulder. He seemed to have chosen the right words.

“What are we going to do?”

He took her hand. “We go to work, like we do every Monday morning. And we wait.”