Cash Landing

by James Grippando

  The expressway was theirs for the taking, but Ruban watched his speed. This was Savannah’s first time on the interstate. He hadn’t invested in microphones for the helmets, so they’d worked out a system: a tug at his right elbow if she needed him to slow down. Twenty minutes of smooth riding, just below the speed limit. No signal from Savannah. He bumped it up to seventy. Still good.

  Then something took over him. Ruban couldn’t get the repo men out of his mind, the feeling of powerlessness as he’d watched them drive away in his car. He needed to grab back the power.

  Steadily, he increased velocity. The g-forces mounted. So did his anger. Savannah tightened her hold around his waist, but he felt no tug at his elbow. He checked the speedometer. Ninety-five and rising. At this speed, with each upward tick, the increase in vibration, wind, and engine roar was on an order of magnitude. He was beginning to feel like a man again, not that poor, impotent bastard whose financial carcass could be picked clean by some vulture in a pinstripe suit. At ninety-eight, he felt it: Savannah tugged his elbow. They were so close. He had to break a hundred. She tugged harder. Just another second was all he needed. She jerked his arm so hard that she nearly sent them into a spin.

  Her doctor would later explain the phenomenon to Ruban. It was the same sensation some people get when they walk too close to the edge of a balcony and feel like they’re going to jump. Savannah had felt that terrifying sensation and couldn’t control it.

  She’d tugged and pulled at his arm and had to get off that bike. Ruban cut the speed from ninety, to seventy, to sixty, but she tugged even harder. They were down to fifty or so when she just couldn’t stand it anymore. She let go.

  Savannah!

  Ruban felt the vibration of the engine, felt in control of the beast, as the motorcycle sped down the expressway in the afternoon sun.

  The leather-and-Kevlar suit had saved Savannah’s skin, literally, and the full-face helmet had prevented catastrophe. Had she managed to stay in a smooth slide, like the professional racers, she might have been unhurt. But she’d extended her arm, trying to stop herself, which only sent her body into a tumble—over and over again. She spent weeks in the hospital. Left arm broken in three places. A fractured pelvis that lacerated her appendix. The appendix turned out to be the real disaster. The resulting infection had spread to places it should never have spread. The pain lasted for months, but the real loss was something Ruban could never make up to her, though he would try.

  Whatever Savannah wants, Savannah gets. Except for the one thing she could never have: a child.

  Ruban exited the expressway and drove toward one of the huge landscape nurseries that sprouted from the fertile soil along the Everglades border. The pavement gave way to a gravel road, and dust kicked up behind him. Fifty acres of mature palm trees lay before him. He was less than a mile from I-75, but it was legitimately the middle of nowhere. Here, even the most inept insurance fraudsters avoided detection, flocking to irrigation canals in broad daylight, dumping an overpriced vehicle in eight feet of opaque water, and then reporting it stolen. Ruban parked his motorcycle in the grass at the edge of the canal, opened the storage compartment, and removed his Glock.

  For two years he’d been promising Savannah that he’d get rid of the motorcycle. Selling it would have gained him nothing, since the bank that had foreclosed on their house held a judgment lien on his bike. More to the point, a sale would have done nothing to slay his demons.

  He reached below the frame and scratched out the motorcycle’s vehicle identification number with his key. Then he walked to the middle of the road. Neat rows of countless trees, palms of every variety, stood between him and the interstate. Even though he couldn’t see beyond the nursery, he was roughly dead even with the spot where Savannah had jumped. He turned to face his Kawasaki, raised the pistol, and took careful aim at the gas tank. He squeezed off one shot. A direct hit, but there was no fire, no explosion. The puncture hole did its job, however, spilling gasoline all over. Ruban changed out the standard 9-millimeter clip for military-issue tracer ammunition—the other clip he’d packed just for this purpose. Some marksmen liked to follow the trajectory of a bullet in target practice, and tracers had just enough powder outside the casing to emit a visible white light—and just enough spark to ignite gasoline.

  Ruban squeezed off a second shot, and the Kawasaki burst into flames.

  He watched from a distance. It had taken him three years to save up for that machine, but he’d been planning this moment since the accident. His old biker friends might have seen it as wasteful, but Ruban had enough money now to buy hundreds of motorcycles. If he wanted them. But he didn’t. He wanted only one thing, the thing that the bank and this motorcycle had taken away.

  The fire burned hot for several minutes, and when it was down to almost nothing, Ruban walked back toward his bike. A quick kick to the frame toppled the charred remains. What was left of his Kawasaki tumbled down the steep embankment and into the black canal. The hot metal sizzled, and it sank to the bottom, gone, forever.

  Civilization was a mile up the road. Ruban dialed a cab on his cell, told the driver to meet him in twenty minutes at the only gas station around, and started walking.

  What Savannah wants, Savannah gets.

  Ruban just needed to figure out how money could buy it back.

  Chapter 16

  The severed finger came through for the FBI.

  “We got a DNA match,” Andie said. She was with Littleford in his office on the second floor.

  “CODIS does it again?” he asked. The Combined DNA Index System (CODIS) is an FBI-funded computer system that stores DNA in searchable profiles for identification purposes. Convicted felons are in the database.

  “Yup,” she said as she laid the report in front of him. “Marco Aroyo,” she said. “Forty-one years old. Lengthy criminal record. Six years in prison for grand theft auto.”

  “Does he steal delivery trucks used in getaways?”

  “I’d like to find out.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Sand Dunes apartments in West Miami. Also happens to work at a ceramic tile warehouse less than a mile from the airport.”

  Littleford smiled. “Now we’re on to something. I’ll take the apartment. You check out the warehouse.”

  Andie coordinated with Lieutenant Watts at MDPD while driving to Miami Tile & Marble in the warehouse district near the airport. On the off chance that Marco was still alive and had actually shown up for work minus a finger, she wanted backup. It was just before two p.m. when she pulled into the parking lot. The roar of jet engines in the air made her feel even closer to the airport than she was. A 747 passed almost directly overhead on approach to the runway. Andie glanced up and wondered how many millions were in the cargo belly.

  Watts met her outside the warehouse, and together they went inside to the manager’s office. The manager was on the phone. Andie was able to catch his eye through the little window in the door, mostly because a good-looking woman was an unexpected sight in this mostly male environment. A flash of her badge got his full attention. He ended the call and stepped out to meet her in the busy warehouse area. Andie and Lieutenant Watts introduced themselves.

  “Mahoney,” he said, reciprocating. “Todd Mahoney.”

  They shook hands, and the calluses confirmed Andie’s first impression that he’d worked his way up from the warehouse to the front office. Mahoney looked out of place in a necktie, and he wore the short-sleeve dress shirt of a blue-collar man only half-committed to management. He was middle-aged and overweight, but he had the tough, stocky look of a guy who could move a full pallet of ceramic tile without a forklift.

  “We’re here about Marco Aroyo,” said Andie.

  A forklift beeped behind them. It was backing up with a two-ton pallet of marble tiles in its load. Mahoney pulled Andie out of the way.

  “Good luck,” said Mahoney. “Haven’t seen Marco in over a week. Hired a replacement for him this morning. He didn’t
even pick up his last paycheck.”

  “Have you checked with his family?”

  “Marco’s a piece of shit. He’s got no family.”

  That explained the absence of a missing person’s report. “What kind of guy was he?” asked Andie.

  “Rhodes scholar. Sang in the Vienna Boys’ Choir. Just like all the knuckleheads here.”

  The forklift was beeping and coming at them even faster than before. Mahoney pulled Andie out of the way again. “Hey, moron!” he shouted at the driver. “Can you do your job someplace where no one will get killed?”

  The driver shrugged, as if to say My bad, and moved to a different stack of tiles. Mahoney looked at Andie and said, “That’s what Marco was like.”

  “Did you know he was a convicted felon?” asked Andie.

  “He mentioned it, yeah. I take what I can get.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Lufthansa heist from MIA eight days ago.”

  He smiled a little, almost wistfully, which Andie was finding to be a common reaction. To the average Joe, there was an odd Bonnie and Clyde–like romanticism about making off with millions in the back of a pickup truck.

  “Yeah,” said Mahoney. “That’s not far from here.”

  “Marco is a person of interest in the heist.”

  “Marco? You shittin’ me?”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  Mahoney looked across the warehouse, stared down a couple of goofballs who were slacking off, then answered. “From what I heard on the news, that was close to ten million bucks. Hard for me to think of Marco the millionaire. Kind of funny, actually.”

  “I don’t think Marco’s laughing,” said Andie. “We have reason to believe he’s severely injured. Could even be dead. We need to find him.”

  His expression changed, as if he suddenly recalled that things hadn’t ended so well for Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty on the silver screen. “Like I said, haven’t seen him.”

  “Was your warehouse open on the Sunday of the heist?”

  “No. We’re never open on Sundays,” he said, but then a light seemed to go on. “But Marco was here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Two months ago, right around Labor Day, he said he needed extra hours. He asked if he could be the security guard on Sundays. We’ve had some problems with theft on weekends, so I said okay.”

  “He was here by himself?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Do you have any security cameras that might have caught any activity on that afternoon?”

  “Seriously? Here? The last warehouse in this area to install security cameras had them stolen.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual here when you came to work Monday morning?”

  Mahoney shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Two vehicles are of special interest.” She described the pickup and showed him a photograph of the delivery truck. Again he shook his head. Detective Watts jumped in. “Do you mind if I look around a little?”

  “Be my guest,” said Mahoney. “I really gotta get back to work.”

  “One second,” said Andie. “Do you know anything about Marco’s friends? People he hung out with?”

  “Marco didn’t have any friends here. He kept to himself. But there was this one guy who used to drive him to work every now and then. They’d meet for lunch sometimes, too. In fact, he stopped by here earlier this week looking for Marco.”

  Andie reached for her notepad. “You know his name?”

  Mahoney scratched his head, thinking. “Marco used to call him Pinky.”

  “Does he wear pinky rings?”

  “I asked Marco the same thing. He got the name in prison. Communal showers, no privacy. Supposedly he’s got a dick down to his knees, so they started calling him ‘Pinky,’ as a joke. Like calling a tall guy ‘Shorty.’”

  Andie didn’t write that in her notes. “Anything else you remember about him?”

  “Hmm. No. I really couldn’t even tell you what he looks like. Just the pinky thing sticks out. No pun intended.”

  “Not much to go on,” said Andie. “Unless he’s hiding out in a nudist colony.”

  “Wish I could be more help,” said Mahoney.

  Andie put away her notepad, empty. “So do I.”

  Chapter 17

  Jeffrey’s eyes blinked open, but only for an instant. It hurt too much to open his right eye, so he used only his left. The light was annoying, but slowly the strange room came into focus.

  He was on his back, lying on a floor of cool, unfinished concrete. A bare bulb hung by a wire from the ceiling. He pushed himself up and wanted to stand, but he could rise only to a seated position. His wrists and ankles were chained to an exposed metal stud in the wall. There was enough slack to move no more than a couple of feet in any direction—left, right, or upright. The chains rattled as he lowered himself back to the floor.

  Whoa, head rush.

  That simple up-and-down motion stirred the fog in his brain, reminding him why his right eye hurt so much. He could feel the swelling. He could almost feel that boot again, the steel-toed battering ram that had rearranged his face. His pleas for mercy—Stop, stop, I’m begging you!—had been useless.

  The night was coming back to him now. Staggering out of the Gold Rush and into the parking lot. Someone grabbing him from behind. The sharp blow to the back of his head, and some guy cursing the “fat son of a bitch” as they shoved him into the trunk of his own car. Jefffrey had offered them money on the spot, but the lid slammed shut, and off they went. Not far. A few minutes later the car stopped, but he wasn’t sure where they were when the trunk opened. The men didn’t let him out. They handed him a phone and said, “Call someone who thinks you’re worth your weight in gold, you fat fuck.” He didn’t want to get Savannah involved, so he tried his uncle. Pinky was absolutely no help: “You got yourself into this, get yourself out.” Only then did he phone his sister.

  He had no memory of what he’d said to her. He remembered someone snatching the phone away and slamming the trunk shut. The next ride was much longer. He was pressed against the spare tire, and it was hard to breathe. His belly was so big he couldn’t even roll onto his side. He must have passed out at that point. The next thing he remembered, he was on the floor with his face pressed against the concrete. A garage? Yeah, must be. His kidnappers must have pulled him out of the truck, dropped him on the floor, and chained him to one of the wall studs.

  He opened his left eye as wide as he could, and his gaze swept the garage in monovision. He spotted the tool bench along the wall, and his right thumb began to throb. The pain was rushing back to him. His memory was becoming clearer. He remembered the needle-nose pliers, the angry voice of one sadistic bastard, and the laughter from his buddies who were looking on.

  Where’s the money, Jeffrey? Where’s your fucking money?

  It made him cringe just to think about it, and the sound of his own screams replayed in his mind. He tried to sit up again, then stopped. He heard footsteps outside. Someone was coming. He listened carefully. Just one set of footsteps was all he could discern.

  Please, God, not the maniac with the pliers.

  The door opened—not the big garage door, but the side door. Jeffrey caught his breath, sat up, and then did a double take. He recognized that beautiful face. He knew that perfect body, even with clothes on. It was Bambi from the Gold Rush. She came to him and knelt at his side.

  “Oh, my God, Jeffy. Are you okay?”

  “No. Look at my thumb. They ripped out the nail.”

  “Oh, you poor, poor thing.”

  He tried not to get emotional, but his lower lip began to quiver, and he couldn’t help himself. The sweet sound of her voice was too much. He started crying—a little at first, then uncontrollably.

  “Oh, honey,” she said as she cradled his head against her bosom. “Don’t cry.”

  He pulled himself together. “Can you get me out of here? Please?”

  She chang
ed her tone—not harsh, but firm. “I can’t do that, Jeffy.”

  He sniffled. “Why?”

  “Only you can get you out of here.”

  He looked around, puzzled. “I’m chained up. I can’t do anything.”

  “These are really bad guys you’re up against, Jeffy. But they’re not unreasonable. They know you have money.”

  “I don’t. I really don’t! I burned through all of it. Every cent is gone.”

  “They don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true!”

  “They think there’s more stashed somewhere.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She stroked his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Does your brother-in-law have more?” she asked.

  He was silent.

  “I want to help you,” she said. “But you have to be honest with these men. You have to tell them how much money you have.”

  “I told you—I’m broke!”

  “I don’t mean just you. I mean the whole family, Jeffy. Did your family come into some money?”

  He looked down at the floor, but she gently tugged his chin again, forcing him to look at her through his one good eye. Such a sweet face. “Uh-huh.”

  “A lot of money?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me about that?”

  He hesitated, and for an instant he was tempted to answer. But finally he shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t tell anyone.”

  She moved a little closer, pressing more of her hard body against his flabby torso. “You can tell me. It will be our secret.”

  “If I tell you, everyone will be mad at me.”

  “No, they won’t, Jeffy. They’re your family. Look at you,” she said as she cupped his face gently with her hands. “So cute. The only way they will be mad at you is if you don’t do everything in your power to make these mean, mean men stop beating on your precious head. You want them to stop, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I do. I really do.”