The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery)
Read The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) Online
Authors: Nathan Gottlieb
THE KILLER SEX GAME
“
This
is a terrific third book in the Frank Boff Mystery Series, maybe the best yet. It’s locked and loaded with everything you could ask for in a mystery, starting with the most unusual PI to hit the pike in quite some time, Frank Boff. If you’re looking for a complex mystery, with multiple murders, twists, surprises, and a peek into the hidden world of sex-for-hire at premium prices,
The Killer Sex Game
will deliver all that and more. I look forward to the fourth novel in this highly-acclaimed series.”—
Kevin Kernan,
NY Post
Praise for THE PUNISHING GAME
“
Nathan Gottlieb has done it again, this time unleashing Frank Boff on Gotham and allowing him to turn over three boroughs of New York City and expose every hideous worm beneath. And as a bonus, we meet The Boffer's mom, a 72-year-old numbers runner who packs a Remington 20-gauge. Crime fiction devotees should take note: The Boff-Cullen Series, just two volumes old, is already at full boil.”—
Dave D'Alessandro,
Newark Star-Ledger
“In his funny and breezy writing style, Gottlieb follows Boff and Cullen along the mean Brooklyn streets and the hip night clubs of NYC to reach a startling and exciting conclusion. I dare you to find a writer that gives you a detective as funny and original as Frank Boff.”—
Jochem Vandersteen,
author of the
Noah Milano
mystery series
Praise for THE HURTING GAME
"Nathan Gottlieb, who knows the fascinating behind-the-scenes world of professional athletes inside-out, takes us on a compelling and suspenseful trip into the underbelly of the glitzy Las Vegas strip in order to chase down the killer of a world champion boxer. Gottlieb's prose is as fast and firm as the stiffest jab, and his ending is simply lights-out. First-rate, fun and irreverent story telling.”—
Harvey Araton,
New York Times
The Killer Sex Game
By Nathan Gottlieb
The Killer Sex Game
Published by: Endless String
Published:
August 2013
ISBN:
978-0-9858533-4-1
Copyr
ight © 2013 by Nathan Gottlieb
All rights reserved.
In memory of my beloved Aunt Irene, who “got the dead” just three months shy of her 103
rd
birthday. She made wonderful chocolate chip cookies.
New York
If looks could kill, she’d be an assassin.
Walking up
Fifth Avenue on a beautiful spring day, the young woman looked as radiant as the sun and cool as the light breeze blowing in off Central Park. Reaching the Plaza Hotel, she glided through the center revolving door, slipped off her Valentino sunglasses, and balanced them on top of her bobbed blond hair. Moving gracefully across the checkered marble floor and carrying her ebony and beige Gucci suitcase, she headed for a bank of elevators. As she walked, she noted that women were glancing her way. Undoubtedly to check out her exquisite blue Hervé Léger plunging V-neck dress and her Manolo Blahnik black leather pumps. Not to mention a body to die for.
Almost magically, an elevator door opened the instant she reached it. Two middle-aged men in suits who were waiting by the elevators stepped inside with her and moved to the rear.
Probably eager to check out my perfect butt
, she thought. She didn’t mind that at all. Why spend hundreds of hours on a StairMaster if you weren’t going to show off the results?
The operator smiled at her, as men often did, and asked for her floor. As the elevator rose, one of the men leaned forward.
“Pardon me, miss. I know I’ve seen your face before. Are you an actress?”
At this, the woman smiled but didn’t turn around. “In a way,” she said coyly.
Now he’ll make a play for me.
“I suppose this is a dumb question to ask a lovely lady like you,” he said, “but do you have a boyfriend?”
“Yes, I do.”
“For real? Or are you just saying that?”
Noticing the frown on the elevator operator’s face, the woman didn’t reply. The operator was probably not used to men trying to pick up respectable women in his elevator.
On the nineteenth floor, the doors opened, and the woman stepped out. She walked down the thickly-carpeted corridor to one of the Deluxe Rose Suites, used an electronic card to open the door, and stepped into the living room, which had a comfortable sitting area, a writing desk, and a butler’s pantry. Heading straight down the hallway, she entered the spacious bedroom with its Louis XV décor. Putting her suitcase down on the bed, she glanced at a wall mirror and was pleased with what she saw.
Then she turned away from the mirror, walked over to the bed, opened her suitcase, and took out her makeup kit and set it on the bureau by the mirror. After glancing at her face one last time to remember how beautiful she looked, she started changing her look. First, she applied dark chocolate-colored lipstick. Then she used black liquid eyeliner to rim her eyes. After that, she applied dark charcoal eye shadow over the liquid line and blended them, creating a smoky-eye effect. Finally, she separated and defined her eyelashes with pale blue mascara.
The effect was striking. It gave her a punk-rocker look and put her face out of sync with the designer clothes she was wearing.
As she glued long false eyelashes on, she said out loud, “I know you’re hiding in there!”
“If I come out,” a male voice called from behind the closed bathroom door, “are you going to hurt me?”
Not a question worth answering
.
Back to work she went. Returning her makeup kit to the suitcase, she pulled out a jet-black wig with long, shiny straight hair and pulled it on.
“I apologize for what I did,” the voice said.
“Too late for that.”
Slipping off her dress, she let it fall to the floor, revealing a shocking, black vinyl mini-dress with open sides. Looking in the mirror again, she studied her new image. Then she dug back in the suitcase, pulled out a black leather domino mask with the nose cut out, and slipped it over her face.
“I’ll do anything you ask,” the voice implored. “Just don’t hurt me.”
Ignoring his silly plea, she sat on the bed, took five-inch stiletto spiked heels out of the suitcase, and slipped them on.
Transformation complete, she walked over to a floor-length mirror, checked herself out, and smiled.
Yes, mister, I am an actress.
Turning around, she arched her back so she could admire her beautiful butt.
This is not me. But I like this version
. Going back to the suitcase one last time, she took out two items: a black leather rod that had long leather straps attached to the end of it. And a rubber doggie bone.
“Get out here now!” she ordered.
“Please….”
“Now!”
As the door slowly swung open, out moved a regal-looking, silver-haired man of around sixty, who was crawling not-so-regally on his hands and knees. Naked from the waist down, he wore on top a gray pinstripe suit jacket, blue shirt, and a conservative striped tie. Noting that his cock was erect and very red, the woman put her hands on her hips and stared contemptuously down at him.
“Didn’t I warn you not to play with yourself again?”
“I’m sorry. But I was so excited about the thought of seeing you, I couldn’t help myself.”
With a look of utter disdain, the woman flipped the rubber doggie bone onto the carpet a few feet from him.
“Fetch!” she cried, and then flicked her whip within an inch of his ass.
The half-naked man quickly crawled over, picked up the bone with his teeth, and dropped it at her feet.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Senator.”
Danny Cullen walked along the corridor leading from the arena at Madison Square Garden to the locker rooms, moving with the assurance of someone who knew he was going places. As the son of a Hall of Fame fighter, Cullen had the pedigree and an unbeaten record good enough to parlay into the championship fight he had coming up in six weeks.
As he approached a locker room door, where a heavy-set Hispanic in a suit held a clipboard, Cullen noted that the guy had been starring at him with cold, calculating eyes. The boxer had seen enough cops to know this was one.
“Name?” the man said.
“Danny Cullen.”
The guy glanced at his clipboard. “You got ID?”
Frowning, Cullen pulled out his wallet and showed his
New York State non-driver photo ID to the man, who looked at the photo, then back at Cullen, then at the photo again, taking what seemed to the boxer to be a ridiculous amount of time.
“Okay,” the cop finally said, “you can go in.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to study my photo a little longer?”
“No need to get smart with me, pal.”
As Cullen opened the door and stepped in, two clones of the jerk outside walked up and blocked his way.
“We’ve got to frisk you,” one of them said.
“Why? I left my Glock at home.”
“He’s with me,” said Rafael Oquendo, a boxer sitting on a bench having his hands taped by Cullen’s own trainer, Ryan McAlary.
“Even if he was your twin brother,” the cop said, “we still gotta pat him down.”
The only other people in the room were Rafael’s pretty wife, Gina; a state boxing commission official; McAlary’s cut man, Al Davies; and Kate, who was the trainer’s wife and one of the few women managers in the sport. She currently managed Rafael and Cullen.
After the cops finished frisking him and stepped aside, Cullen walked over to Rafael. “What’s with the honor guard?”
“They’re police detectives,” Rafael replied. “They heard some stupid rumor that somebody might try to kill me tonight.”
“What rumor?”
McAlary looked up from his taping. “The
Miami police were told by an informant in their Cuban community that someone might try to shoot Rafael. The informant said Raul Castro was angry about Rafael’s defection and plans on making an example of him to discourage other Cuban boxers from defecting.”
Cullen looked skeptical. “You really think there’s any truth to that rumor?”
The Cuban shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. “This is all Kate’s fault. After the Miami police called her, she told the New York cops about the threat.” He gestured with one wrapped hand. “So I get stuck with these guys.”
“Part of my job,” Kate said, an edge to her voice, “is to
protect
you. Whether you like it or not. So
you
do your job in the ring tonight, and I’ll do
mine
. Got it?”
The boxer frowned at Kate. Cullen figured the Cuban was not used to women dictating to him. In fact, with his movie star good looks and the kind of aura you get from being a legendary amateur champion, Rafael probably wasn’t used to
anybody
forcing him to do things he didn’t want to. Tonight was the defector’s much-heralded professional debut in the States.
Not done griping, Rafael said to Kate, “Are these clowns going to hold my hand on the way to the ring?”
“Yes. These
officers
are going to do their job.”
“No way, Kate! I have a couple thousand of my Cuban brothers from
Union City here tonight. I’m
not
going to do the ring walk with cops. It’ll make me look afraid.”
McAlary looked up from his taping again. “Rafael, here’s the bottom line,” he said. “I had a world champion who got shot and killed by an assassin. I’m not losing a second fighter. So just do what your manager says and stop complaining.”
Stepping closer to Rafael, Kate shook her head. “Geez,” she said, “I never knew Cuban legends were such whiners.”
Cullen repressed a smile. If a
man
had called Rafael a whiner, the Cuban would have punched his lights out.
“This whole thing is ridiculous,” was all
the boxer said. Then, “If Castro thinks killing me would stop others from defecting, he’s fooling himself. Every Cuban world champion longs for the chance to test himself against the best professionals. There’ll always be defectors.”
Having finished wrapping Rafael’s hands, McAlary stood up, stepped back, and signaled to the state commission official, who walked over, inspected the wraps to make sure they were done legally, then signed his name on the tape.
As soon as he did, the locker room door opened and another state official stuck his head in. “Time!” the man said.
Rafael’s opponent turned out to be no more challenging than a heavy boxing bag. The Cuban barely worked up a sweat as he pounded the guy at will, scoring a brutal first round knockout in under a minute.
When they came out of the Garden’s employee entrance an hour later, the sidewalk was packed with fans shouting in Spanish for Rafael to sign autographs. No surprise here, Cullen thought. After all, Rafael was an Olympic gold medalist and one of the greatest amateur fighters of all time, having won nineteen international tournaments. His career record of
two hundred and six wins against only seven defeats was the third best in amateur boxing history.
As Rafael reached out for the autograph books being thrust at him, the three cops pushed their way past the boxer and planted themselves firmly between him and the fans.
Rafael tapped one cop on the back. “You must allow me to sign autographs,” he said. “There is no Lee Harvey Oswald in the crowd.”
The detectives looked at McAlary. “Your call, boss,” said the cop who had checked Cullen’s ID.
The trainer looked at the real boss, his wife. “Kate? What do ya think?”
From the concerned look on her face, it was obvious she didn’t want to let any of these people get close to her fighter. But she undoubtedly knew if she refused to allow him to sign autographs, word would leak to the gossipy tabloids, which would brand her fighter as aloof and arrogant. So she surrendered. “Okay, you can sign autographs.
But
these officers are going to stick close to you.”
At that, Rafael bristled. “No! I don’t need bodyguards to meet with my fans.”
Kate got up in the boxer’s face. “Be that as it may,” she said in a tight voice, “either you do it my way or not at all.”
With the fans now chanting his name, the Cuban reluctantly gave in and allowed the cops to shadow him while he mingled with the crowd, signing autographs and shaking hands.
Twenty minutes later, when the last fan had finally left, Rafael, his wife, the McAlarys, and Cullen started walking toward a limo parked by the curb near the employee entrance. The detectives were right behind them, still eyeballing the area for signs of a threat.
At the door to the limo, one of the cops turned to Kate. “This is where our job ends.”
“Thanks so much for coming,” she said.
As soon as the cops were gone, the boxer turned to his wife.
“Gina, my promoter wants to meet with me at a restaurant to talk about something. He didn’t say what. But I sensed it was important. I’ll take a taxi to the restaurant and then another one home.”
Before Gina could react, however, Kate stepped in, her patience obviously gone. “Oh, no, you won’t!” she said. “You’re coming with us!”
“Kate, I’m only going to talk to Gary Shaw.”
“I don’t care if you’re going to see the pope, no is no.
Comprende
?”
The boxer’s wife poked him in the chest with a finger. “And what about you and me?” she asked. “We were supposed to celebrate together.”
“I’ll be home early enough for that,” he said. “Wait up for me.”
Flashing his million-dollar smile, he pulled her close and attempted to kiss her on the lips. But she turned her head and took it on the cheek, then she broke free of his grasp and stepped away.
“Don’t be angry with me,
querida,
” the boxer implored.
Casting one last dirty look at her husband, Gina stepped into the limo, sat down, and stared straight ahead.
Rafael looked at Cullen and shrugged his shoulders. “Women,” he said. “What can you do with them?”
“In this case,” Cullen
replied, “you can do what Kate says.”
Ignoring good advice, the Cuban stepped into the street and put a hand up to hail a cab.
Kate turned to her husband. “Ryan, stop him!”
McAlary walked over to Rafael. “Listen to me, son. Don’t do this. If you defy Kate and me, then I won’t train you anymore.”
The boxer let out a scornful laugh. “Sure you will. I’m going to be a great champion. Make you lots of money.”
“A dead fighter can’t earn anybody anything.”
A taxi suddenly darted out of traffic and pulled over alongside Rafael. As the boxer opened the back door, Cullen hustled up to him. “I’ll go with you.”
But when Cullen tried to get in the cab, Rafael shoved him away hard.
“I don’t need an escort.”
Rafael Oquendo, the legendary champion, climbed into the taxi, slammed the door behind him, and was gone.