Cash Landing (13 page)

S
avannah was on edge.

Morning drop-off at the daycare center had gone fine, nothing unusual. At nine o'clock, however, the director called Savannah into her office. Two lawyers had arrived unexpectedly, and the younger one closed the door after Savannah entered.

“What's up?” asked Savannah. She was trying to sound cheery, but the men in business suits made her voice crack.

“We have a very serious matter on our hands,” said the director.

Savannah took a seat and listened.

“We have a court order,” said the lawyer.

The last time Savannah had seen one of those, she'd lost her house. This time, her thoughts raced to an even scarier place: the heist. Maybe the lawyers represented the airline, the bank, the airport, or the Federal Reserve. Maybe they were prosecutors from the U.S. attorney's office.

“How does this involve me?” she asked.

The director opened her desk drawer and handed her a paintbrush. Savannah was the center's art instructor, but teaching lawyers to paint happy faces seemed beyond her expertise.

“Did you make that sign out in front of the daycare center?” the lawyer asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“We have to change it,” said the director.

The lawyers were intellectual-property specialists. The illegal “Mickey & Minnie Daycare Center” needed a new name and new mascots, or it would be shut down immediately. Savannah tried not to look too relieved as this “very serious matter” was explained to her.

“I'll get right on it,” said Savannah.

It took her about an hour. The ears were a challenge, but Mickey and Minnie were transformed into “Mikey and Millie,” Miami's friendliest raccoons.

Savannah cleaned her brushes and could breathe again, but it wasn't the alleged trademark infringement that had her so upset. When she'd walked into the main office and seen the suits, she'd seriously thought that the Justice Department was on the premises and that she'd be leaving in handcuffs. It was so unnerving that she violated the no–cell phone rule to check on Jeffrey. She called him from the bathroom.

“Did you make it to the dentist?” she asked.

“No. I'm in bed.”

It was after ten o'clock. “Jeffrey, you were supposed to be there two hours ago.”

“I'll get there when I get there.”

“Aren't you in pain?”

“I rubbed coke on my gums. I'm all numb. It's fine.”

Savannah didn't bother with the “just say no” lecture. Drugs had been an on-and-off problem for Jeffrey since high school. He'd turned things around for a while, but losing his job had sent him into a downward spiral, which was now going on two years. Moving back home wasn't just about a place to live. Savannah suspected that, unbeknownst to Mommy, at least half her monthly Social Security check was going up Jeffrey's nose.

“Get your butt out of bed and go to the dentist,” she said. “Or I'm telling Mom about the strippers.”

Jeffrey groaned. Their mother could look the other way about drug addiction, a treatable illness, but strippers were
for perverts, and perverts couldn't live in Mommy's house. Savannah hung up, knowing that she had him, and went back to work.

She stayed busy the rest of the morning helping three-year-olds paint self-portraits. Her favorite little girl was vomiting and had to be picked up early, one more reason to put today in the “not as fun as usual” category. But the real source of her stomachache—Savannah's, not the little girl's—was the afternoon appointment with the social worker from the Florida Department of Children and Family Services.

DCF was the Florida agency in charge of placing neglected or abandoned children. It was Savannah's best shot at adoption, though it wasn't where her journey had begun. She and Ruban had been trying for months. They'd started with a private adoption agency. Naturally, she'd been nervous about it. Even though all criminal charges against her had been dropped, no conviction, her prior arrest had cost her a job at Grove Academy. She'd gone into the meeting with the private adoption counselor fully prepared to explain that her brother Jeffrey had borrowed her car, that she was stopped for speeding the next day, and that the neatly rolled joint the police had spotted on the backseat “in plain view” had belonged to Jeffrey, not her. She never got to give the explanation. Her arrest wasn't the problem.

“I'm afraid I have bad news for you.” The counselor's words had caught Savannah off guard. Their first meeting with the private adoption agency had gone well, she'd thought.

“How bad?” asked Savannah.

“Your application has been rejected.”

Ruban was seated beside her, but Savannah did the talking. “We've barely even gotten started. You said there would be a series of meetings. You were going to come to our house, talk to our references, all that stuff.”

“How should I put this?” asked the counselor. “Sometimes there's a red flag that halts the adoption process cold.”

“I think I know what you're talking about,” said Savannah. “But there is a perfectly innocent explanation for this ‘red flag.'”

“Look, I'll be honest with you. You
might
find an agency that will approve you, but I doubt it. Certainly
this
agency will not approve you, no matter what the explanation.”

“That's not fair. The charges were dropped.”

Ruban took her hand. “Let's go, Savannah.”

“No,” she said firmly. “This is crazy. We both have jobs. We own a house. We're good people. Okay, there was an arrest. We can explain that. But an arrest is not a conviction.”

The counselor closed her file. “First of all, it doesn't help matters for you to misrepresent the criminal history.”

“I'm not misrepresenting anything.”

“Look,” said the counselor. “At the end of the day, a private adoption agency is a business. We can't
stay
in business if a birth mother has any doubt in her mind about the placement of her child in a safe environment.”

Ruban nudged her. “Savannah, really. Let's just go.”

“No. I was arrested, but I was never even prosecuted. The case was thrown out.”

The counselor appeared momentarily confused. She glanced at Ruban, who wouldn't look her in the eye, and she seemed to sense the marital disconnect. “Mr. Betancourt, is there something you haven't told your wife?”

Ruban said nothing, so the counselor answered for him.

“Mrs. Betancourt, your husband is a convicted felon.”

Savannah's mouth opened, but words didn't come. From the day she'd met Ruban, she'd known he was a risk taker, which she was not, and which had drawn her to him. This was not the kind of boldness she'd bargained for.

She pushed away from the table, smothering the urge to scream.

“Thank you for your time,” she told the counselor. “Ruban, we should go now. You and I need to talk.”

It was a bitter memory, and Savannah put it out of her mind as she led the DCF social worker to the play area behind the daycare center. The two women sat alone at one of the picnic tables. A sea of eucalyptus mulch stretched from their table to the monkey bars. Sprawling oaks shaded the entire playground.

Savannah had given up trying to find a private adoption agency that would place a child in the home of a convicted felon. The international door had closed just as quickly; under federal law, a felony conviction was an absolute bar to international adoption. Savannah's hope was that a state agency would be more flexible about her husband's situation. She also hoped that working at a daycare center would help her chances, since the center didn't seem to have any problem with her husband. This was the day that DCF was to observe Savannah on the job and speak to her coworkers.

“Sorry if I seem nervous,” said Savannah.

“You don't have to apologize.”

The DCF social worker went by “Betty,” but her name was Beatriz, which Savannah took as good luck, since that was her mother's name. “This is just really important to me,” said Savannah.

Betty nodded, seeming to understand. “As I told you before, you have a complicated application.”

“I know. I'm so grateful that you've been able to carry us through this far. If I can just have a shot at giving DCF the total picture, I know I'll be approved.”

“Well, let's be clear. There are circumstances where DCF can work around a . . .” Betty paused to find a suitable euphemism for “felony conviction,” acutely aware that they were on a children's playground. “Where DCF can work around a
situation
such as
your husband's. Especially if it was a long time ago and there are mitigating circumstances.”

“That's exactly the case here.”

“Then there's hope,” Betty said. “But this is far from a sure thing. I want to caution you not to get your hopes up too high.”

Savannah took a breath, reeling in her excitement. “I won't,” she said, but that was her biggest lie yet.

An even bigger lie than her application.

F
riday was Andie's date night.

Andie had dodged plenty of matchmaking efforts since moving to Miami. At her unit chief's house on Sunday evening, she'd been polite but clear about her lack of interest in meeting Barbara Littleford's cousin—the poor, recently divorced attorney who “isn't poor.” Undeterred, Mrs. Littleford followed up midweek with a voice-mail message straight from Cupid's quiver. “Just meet him for a glass of wine after work on Friday. He could be your type.”

A lawyer? My type?

Ironically, Andie's ironclad excuse would come from Barbara's husband. He and the assistant special agent in charge of the Miami field office arranged her “date” with Special Agent Benny Sosa. It was Andie's first undercover assignment in Miami.

“Did I put on too much cologne?” Sosa asked from the driver's seat.

Sosa was a handsome ex-jock with hair a little too styled, muscles a little too big, and shirt a little too tight. It only seemed fitting that he'd overdo the love potion. Andie's allergic sniffles began just two minutes into the car ride.

“It's pretty powerful,” she said, as she lowered the window.

“Sorry. I thought it would be in role.”

They were headed to Night Moves, a private club for couples who liked to swap partners. The club's owner, Jorge Calderón,
also owned a paint and body shop near the airport—the chop shop that Marco Aroyo had used for the black pickup after the heist. According to the FBI's source, Leonard Timmes, Calderón spent every Friday night at the club. It was their best lead of the week. There was no further information on Marco Aroyo. Octavio Alvarez had returned to work at Braxton Security on Tuesday; no more suspicious activity. The plan at Night Moves was for the hot new couple to prowl their way over to Mr. Calderón and see if anything came up, so to speak.

They pulled into the parking lot just before midnight, and Sosa found the last open space. Night Moves claimed to be south Florida's largest “adult lifestyle” nightclub, the “premier playground for sexy couples and select singles.” Theme nights were popular. Andie was relieved to see that they'd missed Thursday's “Sushi in the Raw Night.” Eating raw fish off the hairy chest of some man she'd never met wasn't her cup of Japanese tea.

“No cover charge tonight if you wear pink pasties,” said Sosa, pointing to the sign outside the entrance.

“Not gonna happen,” said Andie.

The club was BYOB, no liquor license, so Andie brought a faux bottle of vodka to share. Dance music greeted them as they stepped into the entrance lobby. The sign on the wall said “
DO NOT ENTER
if you are offended by any form of nudity or sexual activity,” but the disrobing came later. “Smart and sexy” attire was required of anyone who didn't dress in line with the night's theme of pink pasties, “schoolgirl,” or whatever. The bouncer gave Andie the thumbs-up on her backless black cocktail dress. The attendant at the front desk checked their photo IDs, which were convincing fakes; then she ran their names through the club's database. Andie was Celia Sellers.

“First-timers, I see,” said the attendant. “I'll ask a couple of our club mentors to show you around.”

“That's not necessary,” said Andie.

“It's mandatory. I'll be right back.”

Mentors and a tour weren't mentioned in the FBI field dossier that Andie had studied. The bouncer explained after the attendant stepped away:

“It's not really mandatory. It's for newbies they want to impress.”

Flattered, I'm sure.

The attendant returned with the mentors and made the quick introductions. The tour protocol was to separate the men from the women. Agent Sosa went off with a good-looking Latino who could have been his fraternity brother. The men disappeared into the noisy dance studio. Priscilla took Andie down the hall to a quiet lounge where they could talk.

“You two married?” asked Priscilla.

“No. Just dating.”

“When's the last time you had sex with someone else?”

“Too long.” She wasn't lying.

“Good attitude,” said Priscilla.

A handful of couples were at the bar, all fully clothed and in keeping with the “smart and sexy” dress code. Andie wasn't in South Beach, but so far the look and feel of the club was no different. Night Moves was not your grandmother's swing club, no
Charlie's Angels
wannabes inviting men with long sideburns to have sex on skanky shag carpeting. Priscilla led her to a seat on the couch, crossed her legs, and smiled. The tattoo script on her calf jumped out at Andie:
Not all who wander are lost.

“Let me tell you what's happening right now,” said Priscilla. “Your boyfriend is getting the full tour. First, he'll see the dance floor, which can be pretty erotic. Some people will be dressed, others will be undressing. Some will be touching, a few might be doing more. Then the tour will head over to the Red Room. This is where you can actually do the things you were fantasizing about on the dance floor. If you feel like it, you can bring along some new friends you've only just met. The Red Room can suit any member's comfort level. Some
people like to do it in the open, where anyone can watch. The
luv-nasium
, we call it. Others like a private cabana. Some of our members will walk around completely naked. Others want a robe. It's up to you.”

Andie considered her response, mindful that she needed to work within the restrictions on acceptable agent conduct in the FBI undercover operations manual. “I'll be honest: I'm not going to make it to the Red Room on my first visit.”

“Don't worry. It's not even part of tonight's tour for you,” said Priscilla. “But your boyfriend will come back from there all pumped up for an orgy and ready to sign on the dotted line for a lifetime club membership. My advice to you on the first visit is to have fun and keep your clothes on. Then go home and have the best sex you and your boyfriend have ever had.”

“That sounds like good advice,” said Andie.

“It is. You're the kind of people we want. You have class. You're beautiful. And as much as the club's marketing materials say that the membership is mostly people in their twenties and thirties, an awful lot of folks only
wish
they were that young again. The club needs more people like us.”

Andie tried not to smile too cynically. Priscilla was clearly in the wishful category.

“So,” Priscilla said, rising. “Let me show you the dance floor.”

Priscilla led the way, and Andie followed her through the set of chrome-clad double doors at the end of the hallway. Inside, it was the typical loud music and flashing lights. The dance floor was spacious but packed, maybe fifty couples. Andie saw more bare skin than Priscilla had led her to believe she would. The “pink pasties” theme had apparently drawn out the exhibitionists in spades. Low-slung couches and tables surrounded the dance floor. Many of the tables had a brass pole. Housewives in G-strings honed their amateur stripping skills. Men in tight briefs played underwear model. A few even had the six-packs to pull it off. On the enormous wall behind the DJ were at least a dozen flat
screens. Technologically, it was a match for even the greatest of sports bars, except that the only thing to watch was porn.

“See that guy over there?” asked Priscilla, pointing with a subtle nod.

Andie shot a discreet glance across the dance floor. The man's partner was in the process of removing his shirt.

“Good-looking, right?” asked Priscilla.

“I'd say so.”

“Fair warning: He's only got one testicle. I know, you think I'm shallow, and your politically correct reaction is probably,
‘Oh, one nut, so what?'
Funny thing about balls, though. You don't really pay much attention to them, but you kind of miss them when they're not there.”

Andie wasn't sure how to respond. “Like grandparents, I guess.”

Priscilla laughed. “I like you. Yeah. Grandparents.”

Andie looked away, but Priscilla tugged at her arm. “Over there,” she said, “at the end of the bar. That's definitely someone you should know about.”

She meant another man who was definitely in the “wishful” age category. The brunette on his right arm and the blonde on his left were little more than half his age and, in Andie's quick estimation, well out of his league.

“He's really not much to look at,” said Andie.

“Craig has the biggest unit in the club.”

“Oh.”

“I'm not kidding. I measured it. That thing goes from my elbow to the tip of my little finger, no exaggeration. It must take ninety percent of the blood in his entire body to get it . . .”

Priscilla went on and on, but Andie had tuned out after “little finger.” She was thinking back to her conversation at the tile depot earlier in the week. At the time, the warehouse manager's quip about the prison nickname for Marco's friend had seemed superfluous. Not anymore.

“Excuse me,” said Andie, “but did you say from your elbow to your pinky?”

“Yeah. All the way to the tip of it. Can you believe that?”

“By any chance, do people call him Pinky?”

“As a matter of fact, they do. It's a joke. They call him Pinky because—

“He's enormous,” said Andie, finishing for her.

“Exactly. How did you know that?”

Andie glanced across the bar. It had to be the same Pinky, Marco's friend, which was satisfying on many levels. She'd hit pay dirt without having to eat hairy sushi, wear pink pasties, or take a weeklong shower.

“Let's just say his reputation precedes him,” said Andie.