Cash Landing

by James Grippando

  “As good as dead? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Ruban didn’t answer.

  Savannah looked at him, incredulous. “You want Jeffrey to die, don’t you?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I can see it in your eyes. You want Jeffrey out of the way. You want to keep that money.”

  “Savannah, I’m just saying—”

  “Get away from me!” she said as she turned and hurried out the door.

  Ruban followed her into the bedroom. “Savannah, listen to me.”

  She grabbed a suitcase from the closet, threw it on the bed, and started emptying dresser drawers.

  “What are you doing?” asked Ruban.

  She stuffed a sweater and whatever else she could grab into the suitcase. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “We can’t just run away from this.”

  “We aren’t going anywhere.”

  “What, then?” he asked, scoffing. “You’re leaving me?”

  “Do you expect me to sleep in the same bed with a man who would rather see my brother dead than alive?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “It’s what you meant!”

  “Savannah, please—”

  “Don’t touch me!” she said, backing away.

  Ruban watched in disbelief as she pulled off her nightgown and dressed in record time.

  “This won’t solve anything,” he said.

  “I can’t stay here.” She grabbed the suitcase and hurried out of the bedroom.

  Ruban followed her down the hallway to the foyer. “Savannah, don’t do this.”

  She continued toward the front door. Ruban rushed ahead and grabbed the knob before she could leave.

  “Look at me,” he said, stopping her. He was between her and the door, but she wouldn’t make eye contact. “I’m asking you not to do this.”

  She didn’t answer, still wouldn’t look at him.

  “We have to stick together,” he said, and he could see the anger rise in her immediately.

  “Like what?” she asked in a harsh tone. “Like a family? Do you even know what a family is, Ruban?”

  “Yes, I do. I want us to have—”

  “Don’t even say it! You don’t know anything about family. That was my brother I just heard screaming on the phone! My own brother!”

  “Savannah, I’m sorry, okay?”

  “No, it’s not ‘okay.’ You’ve lied to me, you’ve deceived me, and now you’ve shown me a side of you that I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  She stopped, and Ruban braced himself for what she might say: Can’t live with anymore?

  “I just can’t understand,” she said, stopping short of the bomb.

  They stood in silence for a moment, Ruban looking at Savannah, her gaze fixed on the front door.

  “You need to get out of the way, Ruban.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “My mother’s house.”

  He searched for something to say, anything that might change her mind.

  “Ruban, please, get out of my way.”

  He stepped aside slowly. Savannah unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open. Ruban didn’t stop her. He watched from the doorway as his wife walked down the steps, into the night, and, maybe, out of their marriage.

  Chapter 54

  Andie met her unit chief at the FBI field office early Saturday morning. Littleford stood beside her in the A/V center as a tech agent replayed the phone conversation that FBI surveillance equipment had intercepted and recorded from the Betancourts’ landline.

  “If you still think we’re playing, you’ll see we’re not. A piece of your brother is on its way to you, special delivery. Pay the ransom, or that’s the way he’s coming home: bit by bit.”

  The recording ended. Andie and her supervisor exchanged glances, but she let him speak first.

  “Pretty chilling stuff,” he said.

  Andie checked the clock on the wall—7:09 a.m. “It’s been over six hours. You think he’s still alive?”

  “I do.”

  “Looks like we secured that wiretap none too soon,” said Andie.

  Littleford settled into the office chair at the head of the rectangular conference table. “Connect the dots for me, Henning. Where does this Jeffrey fit in?”

  Andie quickly recapped what the FBI knew, the direct line from Octavio Alvarez to Ruban Betancourt as raft mates; from Ruban to his brother-in-law, Jeffrey Beauchamp; and from Jeffrey to his uncle, Craig “Pinky” Perez.

  “I think it’s time we bring in Betancourt for questioning,” said Andie.

  Littleford pondered it, then spoke. “Why?”

  “Why? How would Betancourt have the ability to pay a half-million-dollar ransom if he wasn’t part of the MIA heist? It’s pretty obvious that his old friend Octavio Alvarez brought him in.”

  “Fair point. But that’s not enough for an arrest.”

  “I didn’t say arrest him. I said bring him in.”

  Littleford flashed a quizzical expression. “I can’t imagine you would want to do that at this point.”

  “A man has been kidnapped, and we just heard his kidnapper threaten to chop him to pieces.”

  “There was a threat, yes.”

  “A pretty convincing threat. He screamed like a wounded banshee.”

  “Maybe it was a wounded banshee.”

  “That scream was real,” said Andie.

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. Don’t forget what happened to Marco Aroyo.”

  “We don’t know that these are the same people who got Aroyo.”

  It was Andie’s turn to wear the puzzled expression. “I’m feeling pushback here, and I don’t fully understand it. We just heard a credible threat of serious and imminent bodily injury to the victim of a kidnapping. You can be sure that Betancourt isn’t going to call the cops if, as I believe, he was part of the heist and is sitting on millions of dollars in stolen money. His brother-in-law might be a crook, too, but right now he’s a kidnapping victim. We need to move in.”

  Littleford nodded slowly, but it was far from total agreement. “That’s one side of it.”

  “If there’s another side, I’m dying to hear it.”

  Littleford rose, walked over to the whiteboard on the wall, and grabbed a marker from the tray. “Here’s what we don’t know,” he said, writing in red as he spoke. “One: Where’s the money? Two: Where’s Pinky? Three: Was anyone besides Aroyo, Alvarez, Betancourt, Beauchamp, and Pinky involved?

  “Here’s what we do know,” he said as he put down the marker, facing Andie squarely. “If you haul Betancourt in for interrogation now, we will never get answers to any of those questions.”

  “I see it differently. Betancourt must be getting pressure from his wife to save her brother. We can use that angle to our advantage. We can save his brother-in-law and offer both of them a deal on the robbery if Betancourt tells us where Pinky is and where they hid the money.”

  “What if he doesn’t know where Pinky is?”

  Andie didn’t have an answer.

  “What if he tells us where half the money is and then digs up the rest when he gets out of prison in five years?”

  Again she didn’t answer.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” said Littleford. “Your plan won’t work.”

  “Again, I respectfully disagree,” said Andie.

  “You’re respectfully overruled. Let the wiretap play out.”

  “That’s a dangerous strategy. Jeffrey Beauchamp could end up dead.”

  “I’m not saying we let it play out that far.”

  “That’s the problem. How do we know how far is too far? The kidnapper told Savannah that he would call her husband again this weekend. Jeffrey Beauchamp could end up like Marco Aroyo, and I don’t want his mutilated body on my head.”

  “It’s not on your head,” said Littleford. “It’s on mine.”

  She wasn’t persuaded, but she
respected his stand-up approach. Littleford was the opposite of what she’d experienced in Seattle, where shit flowed from top to bottom.

  “The wiretap might not tell us everything we need to know,” she said. “I’d feel better if we put a tail on Betancourt. And his wife.”

  “You got it.”

  “Okay,” said Andie, sighing more loudly than intended. “So that’s the plan.”

  “Yeah,” Littleford said. “That is the plan.”

  Chapter 55

  Savannah rode the Metrorail green line toward Jackson Memorial Hospital and got off at the Civic Center station. She walked past the Miller School of Medicine campus and the University of Miami Hospital and then followed the cracked sidewalk beneath an interstate overpass to a place where life was less about hope and healing. The Miami-Dade County Women’s Detention Center, a drab multistory building that butted up against the noisy Dolphin Expressway, looked exactly as it did in the website photo that Savannah had found. She knew from her quick online research that it housed 375 female inmates. Some were awaiting trial at the nearby criminal courthouse. Others were serving time.

  One was about to receive an unexpected visitor.

  “I’m here to see Mindy Baird,” Savannah told the guard at the visitors’ entrance. A pane of bulletproof glass stood between them. Savannah passed her identification through the slot, and the guard buzzed her through the metal door to the clearance center. Her phone, purse, belt, earrings, and everything in her pockets went into a metal storage locker. A female guard checked her with a handheld metal detector, gave her a quick physical pat-down, and then led her to the waiting area, which was filled with other visitors.

  “Your first time here?” asked the guard.

  Savannah wondered how she knew, but if she looked anywhere near as nervous as she felt, it was no wonder. “It is.”

  The guard handed her a printed copy of the visitation rules. “Be sure to read these, and wait here until your name is called.”

  Savannah promised that she would and found an open seat beside an elderly woman.

  Betty the social worker from DCF had delivered on her promise to dig up the name of the accuser in Ruban’s domestic violence conviction. Mindy Baird’s incarceration complicated matters, but Savannah was determined to meet her. Nerves, however, were taking a toll. Savannah had barely slept at her mother’s house, but she’d managed to head out early, no questions asked, her destination a secret. She was too on edge to converse with any of the other visitors in the waiting room, and she was glad the old woman beside her was busy praying aloud in Spanish, rosary beads in hand, no interest in small talk. It was exactly what Savannah’s mother would have been doing if she were visiting her daughter in prison, and Savannah quickly shook off the disturbing thought that her own family could indeed find itself in that position—that in the eyes of the law Savannah was even more involved in the MIA mess than she realized.

  “Savannah Betancourt?” the guard said.

  Savannah stepped forward. The guard inspected her visitor’s badge and led her down the hall to the visitation center. Savannah had stressed all night over being in the same room with Mindy Baird, but the rule sheet specified that contact visits were allowed only if scheduled in advance. The guard took her to a booth, and Savannah sat before a pane of glass that separated visitors from inmates. Savannah waited, noting the smudges on the glass, each fingerprint on her side matched by one on the other, the “contact” between loved ones.

  The door opened on the cellblock side. A young woman dressed in orange prison garb entered the visitation room. Savannah tried not to stare as she approached the glass. She checked for a name on the coveralls to confirm her identity, but there was none: Mindy Baird was a number. She took a seat facing Savannah. Neither one reached for the phone on the wall. The first minute on opposite sides of the glass was their time to size each other up.

  Mindy was prettier than expected, her face surprisingly fresh for a woman serving time on charges of drug use and prostitution. Her eyes were her most attractive feature, big and brown, with naturally long lashes. Her hair was shoulder length. Savannah surmised that the damaged ends had been cut off, like the other parts of her life that said “drug addict.”

  Mindy made the first move, and Savannah reciprocated by picking up the phone on her side of the glass.

  “So you’re Ruban’s wife,” Mindy said. She sounded unimpressed.

  “How did you know?”

  “Betancourt. Ruban doesn’t have a sister. I didn’t think the name was a coincidence. How long you been married?”

  Savannah paused. She hadn’t come to share information about herself. “A few years.”

  “Does he hit you?”

  Savannah shifted in her chair. “Actually, no. Never.”

  “Well, aren’t you the lucky girl? Did he tell you what he did to me?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  Savannah repeated her husband’s words: Mindy strung out on drugs, begging Ruban not to leave and ripping off her blouse as he packed his suitcase; Ruban tackling her when she pulled a pistol; the police bursting into the apartment to find Mindy on the floor and Ruban in control, gun in hand.

  Mindy laughed into the phone.

  “Why is that funny?” asked Savannah.

  “That’s exactly what my mother told me to say.”

  “You mean when it happened?”

  “No. Yesterday. It was the first time she’s come to visit me since I been here. She wanted me to sign a sworn statement that says exactly what you just said.”

  “So it is the truth?”

  “Hell no, it’s not the truth. Why would anyone pay me twenty-five thousand dollars to sign my name to a sworn statement if it was the truth?”

  “What—twenty-five thousand? From Ruban?”

  “Yes, from Ruban. Are you trying to tell me you don’t know anything about this?”

  “No, and I can’t say that I believe you, either.”

  “I wouldn’t want to believe something like that about my husband, either. Not that it matters. I’m not gonna sign anything for no twenty-five thousand dollars. Not when my mother gets five times that much.”

  Savannah blinked, startled by the number. “Ruban is paying you and your mother . . . how much?”

  “One-fifty. That’s how much he put on the table to clear his name. My mom says my cut is twenty-five. Can you believe that? She tells me that’s the price I pay for getting knocked up at seventeen and making her raise my kid.”

  Apparently Grandma Baird hadn’t said a word to Mindy about the adoption, but that wasn’t the only thing that had Savannah’s head spinning. “Wait a minute. You were seventeen?”

  “Almost eighteen when she was born.”

  “But Ruban was—”

  “Twenty-six.”

  Gross. Utterly and completely gross. It was Savannah’s turn to speak, but her thoughts consumed her, and the words didn’t come.

  “Are you okay?” asked Mindy.

  “Not really.”

  “Can I ask you one simple question?”

  “Sure,” said Savannah.

  “It’s been five years. Why is it suddenly so important for Ruban to clear his criminal record?”

  Clearly her mother had said nothing about the adoption. Savannah wasn’t sure if she should go there, but she eased into it, intentionally vague.

  “We’re thinking about adopting a child.”

  “Adoption, huh? I know a little something about that. My mother adopted my—”

  Mindy stopped cold. Savannah could almost see the lightbulb above her head.

  “Oh, my God,” said Mindy. “Now I see what’s going on. It seemed like a lot of money, a hundred fifty thousand dollars just for me to sign an affidavit and clear Ruban’s name. But now I get it. That money isn’t just for my signature. You and Ruban are buying my baby.”

  Savannah didn’t answer.

  “You bitch! You’re b
uying my baby!”

  The accusation crushed Savannah, but she didn’t deny it. She wasn’t sure where this one ranked in Ruban’s string of lies—lies that brought everything into question, from his criminal past to his very denial of any involvement in the heist.

  Mindy rose and leaned toward the glass. “You can’t have my daughter,” she said, hissing. Then she slammed the phone into its cradle.

  Savannah watched as she turned and went to the door. The guard opened it, and before she disappeared into the cell block, Mindy looked back and shot Savannah the finger. Savannah hung up the phone, but she remained in the visitor’s chair for a moment longer, unable to move.

  “Miss, you have to go now,” the guard told her.

  Savannah didn’t react.

  “It’s time to leave,” the guard said.

  Time to leave. Her thought exactly. “Yes,” Savannah said, rising. “You got that right.”

  Chapter 56

  Pinky brought sandwiches back to the warehouse for dinner. He put on his Bush mask and walked down the hall to Jeffrey’s room. He opened the door but said nothing, still mindful that even a single word might be enough for Jeffrey to recognize his uncle. He handed him an Italian salami sub with double meat.

  “No shanks,” said Jeffrey, his speech slurred.

  They’d yanked out his gold caps with a pair of pliers to elicit that horrific scream in the phone call to Savannah. It was probably overkill to take his teeth and roots along with the caps, but Jeffrey deserved it, if he was stupid enough to buy replacement gold after the first kidnapping.

  “Jis shummin uh dree.”

  Pinky heard that as “Just something to drink.” He gave him a bottle of water, then closed the door and locked it, pulling off his mask as he walked back to the kitchenette. Pedro was seated at the table. The foot-long roast beef on a hoagie roll was still on the counter, untouched. A small mirror lay on the tabletop, and the neat lines of white powder were the focus of Pedro’s attention.

  “Go easy on the coke,” said Pinky.

  Pedro snorted the first of five lines through a tightly rolled hundred-dollar bill. As soon as it was gone, another line magically appeared. Pinky did a double take, and then he realized that it wasn’t a mirror and that the replacement line wasn’t real. Pedro was snorting from his iPad screen. The real lines had been inhaled; their replacements on the “mirror” were virtual.