The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) (10 page)

Boff and Damiano met for lunch the next day at a pizzeria on Prospect Place. He ordered a ten-inch pie loaded with extra cheese, sausage, onions, and bacon, while she went for handmade fried zucchini sticks.

After shaking a generous amount of red pepper flakes over his pie, he picked up a slice, bit into it, and
then said, “I hope I didn’t cause any domestic trouble last night.”

“Screw you. You’re such an asshole. Whatcha got for me?”

“First,” he said through a mouthful, “some questions. Let’s say you’re in your police car and you hear a shot being fired. What do you do?”

“Call in a ten-ten, ask for backup, and then hit the siren and lamps. Standard procedure. Why?”

“Did you find out what the cops said when they called in?”

“Yeah. Then I talked to them. They admitted that they didn’t call for backup. They said they were too worried the shooter would get away. The first time they phoned in was to report the rape and murder and the dead assailant.”

“What about the siren and lamps?”

“They said they turned ’em both on.”

“Well, the people in the building adjacent to the crime scene said they never heard their siren or saw their lights. The first time they knew something was wrong in the alley was when they heard a string of gun shots.
And
, the first time they heard
sirens
and saw the
lamps
flashing in their windows was when
backup
arrived.”

Damiano pointed a half-eaten zucchini stick at him. “Come on, Boff. You know witnesses are routinely unreliable.” She finished the zucchini and picked up another stick. “I’ll take the word of my cops.”

“What’re the names of these hero cops?”

“Pearson and Janovich. Boff, where are the hell are you going with this? There was a rape and a murder. We killed the mutt who did it. Case closed.”

“Well, I have a theory that trumps your take on the crime. Finish your zucchini stick so you don’t choke on it when I tell you.”

Instead of eating the zucchini, she put it down and frowned. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

“I have hunch that the doer was contracted to rape and murder the victim. And the cops were hired to kill the perp before he could get away.”

Damiano scrunched her face. “Whoa! Even for you, that’s way off the wall. I mean, if the doer was paid to rape and murder Cullen’s girlfriend, give me one reason why the person who hired him would also want him dead?”

“To create an open and shut.” Boff replied. He finished his slice and picked up another one. “That way, the police wouldn’t bother to look into Marla’s life too deeply. If at all. Somebody apparently didn’t want you to do that.”

Damiano shook her head. “You’re grasping,” she said.

He tried to snatch one of her zucchini sticks, but she slapped his hand away. “Did you find out what the cop car’s patrol grid was that night?” he asked.

“They said the alley was within their perimeters.”

“Christ, Victoria. Don’t take their word for it. Look it up. Earn your pay. What I’m mainly interested in is how big of an area they had to patrol.”

“I can tell you right now it was probably pretty large. That’s a relatively low crime neighborhood. Only one car would be assigned.”

“But you’ll check it out for me, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Your wish is my command.”

“Based on the size of their patrol area,” he said, “don’t you think it’s an amazing coincidence that they were in the right place at exactly the right time?”

“They got lucky! It happens to cops all the time. Boff, I still don’t get your interest in this.”

“I’m doing it for Danny. I feel bad for him. What was the doer’s name?”

“Glenn Tarver. First name with two N’s.”

Boff scribbled it down on a napkin, then looked at her again. “Do you know where this mutt lived?”

“I’ll find out for you. Okay, now tell me what you dug up on the Cuban boxer.”

He took a sip from his supersize cola first. “The person I asked to do a workup on Oquendo found a lot of credit card charges at strip and dance clubs.”

Damiano spread her hands. “So the boxer and his wife went to clubs. What’s the big deal?”

“I seriously doubt he took her with him. She has a small girl at home. I can’t see her partying at clubs and asking the McAlarys to watch their daughter. Plus, she told me her husband usually went out alone.” He took a bite out of his slice. “And, he also took four trips to Miami. Alone.”

“Well, maybe he did
go to clubs alone. Where’s the relevance to anything? As for the trips he made to Miami, they’re easily explained. The guy moved to Brooklyn from there. He probably had family and friends in Miami.”

Boff smiled and shook his head. “Easily explained? Then how do you figure that each time he came
back
from Miami, he paid for two extra one-way tickets to New York.”

Damiano chewed on another zucchini stick as she thought about that for a minute. “There could’ve been any number of innocent reasons why he bought extra tickets. Like, maybe, friends of his in
Miami wanted to move to New York and he fronted them air fare.”

“Perhaps. But it still raises a red flag for me. I have a gut feeling those trips to Miami were part of the reason he was killed.
Just can’t tell you how yet.”

She suddenly caught the drift of his thinking. “So you think he was a womanizer.”

“Especially if you look at the facts as we know them.” He held up one finger. “First, his wife told me he went out alone.” He held up a second finger. “The guy went to strip and dance clubs.” He held up a third finger. “Three, the wife admitted she suspected him of cheating on her.”

Boff put his fingers down so he could use them to shake more red flakes on his slice before biting into it. “The wife also told me
that her husband had a bad temper. And while she didn’t come right out and say it, I’m certain he hit her. Being the great investigator that I am, I took it even further and obtained a list of all the calls the wife made during the past month.
Four
were to a guy in Miami who has
mob
connections.”

That perked her interest up a notch. “So…so you think she had this guy in
Miami put a contract out on her husband?”

Boff smiled. “Well,
Victoria, jealous wives have been known to do that.”

She nodded. “Okay, so we’ve got a violent guy who might’ve been cheating on his wife and going to clubs alone. I guess I can concede there’s any number of deadly scenarios that could’ve developed from that.”

“Right. So I’m going to check out the club he went to most often and see what I can dig up.”

Damiano suddenly looked away from him when the pizzeria’s front door opened and a young mother pushing a stroller with twin girls walked in. As she watched the mother push the stroller over to the counter to order, she frowned and looked back at Boff.

“Diane wants to get married and adopt a kid,” she said in a flat voice.

“You don’t sound all that excited. I gather you aren’t too hot on the idea.”

“Come on, Boff. Being a married gay couple on a police force isn’t exactly the best way to advance your career. Hell, I don’t even know if I want any friggin’ kids. Like, can you picture me bottle feeding or getting baby vomit on my shirt?”

Boff smiled. “Not really. Can you see
me
doing it?”

“No. But it’s definitely something I’d pay to watch.”

“Well, for you information,
detective
, Frank Boff—the world’s most brilliant and morally-challenged private investigator—actually burped and changed diapers for both of his kids. And, yes, he fondly recalls them vomiting on his shirt.”

Damiano made a sour face. “Ugh. Let’s get the hell out of here. All this baby talk is giving me agita.”

Figuring Cullen would take the day off from training, Boff called his home phone to see how he was doing. When he got voice mail, he hung up and tried to reach him on his cell. Same result. He either was not taking calls or….

At the gym, Boff found him sparring with Bellucci under the watchful eye of their trainer, who stood in one corner of the ring.

“Move your head more, Danny,” McAlary said. “Show me some angles.”

When they were done sparring, the trainer walked over to them and corrected a few moves they had been doing wrong.

Leaving the ring, Cullen grabbed a towel and strode over to Boff, who asked, “Are you feeling any better today?”

The boxer shrugged. “Not really. But training beats the hell out of sitting home staring at the walls and thinking about her.”

“After I left the gym last night, I drove to the alley where Marla was killed.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Oh, just a feeling I had.”

“And…?”

“Something’s not right about the way everything went down in that alley. So I’m going to nose around a bit.”

“What the hell are you talking about? The cops caught the scumbag in the act and killed him!”

Boff spread his hands. “Without going into details right now, I think there may be more here than meets the eye.”

Cullen threw his towel away. “More? Marla’s fucking dead! Nothing’s going to change that!”

That’s when Bellucci walked over. “What’s up?” he asked.

“The Great Boffer here thinks there’s something fishy about the way Marla was killed.”

“Like what?”

“He doesn’t know. Just one of his
feelings
.” Cullen frowned. He knew all too well that Boff’s little feelings had an uncanny way of being right on the mark. He turned back to Boff. “Well,” he said, “I want to know if you turn up anything concrete on this so-called
feeling
of yours.”

“You got it.”

Cullen didn’t want to talk about Marla anymore, so he changed the subject. “What’s happening with your investigation into Rafael’s murder?”

“After looking at it more closely, I’ve concluded his death was not politically motivated. I think it was personal. I’m going to check out a nightclub he went to a lot without his wife.”

Cullen looked puzzled. “Nightclub? What kind of nightclub?”

“An upscale one called Devil’s Own that’s apparently very popular with the thirty-something set. Rafael’s credit card shows that he went there frequently. And since he went without his wife, that raises a red flag for me.”

“If you’re going to this club,” Cullen said, “then pick me up after my early evening workout. I’ll go with you.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Look, I’d rather work on Rafael’s murder than spend a depressing night watching sitcoms and thinking about Marla.”

“I’m coming, too,” Bellucci said. “I know how to maneuver around clubs better than either of you two white breads.”

Boff frowned. “If you guys are coming, just make sure you bring a change of clothes to the gym.
And
deodorant. I don’t want two smelly jocks stinking up my car.”

While Boff was driving to the Bronx to visit his mother at the candy store she owned and operated, Damiano called him with the address of Marla’s killer.

What are you going to do with the address?
she asked.

“Poke around in this mutt’s life. See what turns up.”

As soon as he got off the phone with her, he called Wright. After suffering through the latest chemtrails news, he gave him the name and address of Marla’s killer and asked him to find out everything he could about the guy.

He was listening to a Buddy Holly CD when he arrived at his mother’s store in the Port Morris section of the Bronx. Thelma Boff still ran what in years past had been referred to simply as a candy store, although it also had a soda fountain
.
The store had been owned by his family ever since he was a kid.

Although Port Morris was largely Puerto Rican, he wasn’t surprised there were two white teenagers leaning against the store window. Much to his dismay, his sweet little old mother took numbers and the football sheets for a bookie named Bruno Benvenuti. These kids were the mobster’s runners. The boys also kept an eye on the place to make sure no one messed with Thelma.

Parking two doors away, Boff nodded to the young watchdogs and walked into the store. His mother was busy making ice cream cones for two Hispanic boys sitting on the red stools at the counter.

“Be with you in a minute, Frankie!” she called out.

Boff marveled how at seventy-two his mother was still spry and full of energy. The neighborhood kids had taken to her, affectionately calling her Mama Boff. Since his father’s death ten years ago and her sister’s move from the Bronx to South Jersey, the store had become Thelma’s whole life.

As he passed the candy case, Boff grabbed a box of Good & Plenty. When his mother was done with the cones and the boys had paid her and left, she came around the counter and handed him a clean white apron.

Boff made a face. “Mom, do I have to wear this damn thing?”

“You wanna be a soda jerk? Then ya gotta look like one.”

Knowing there was no point in arguing, he slipped the apron on and said, “Do you happen to have Bruno’s phone number handy?”

“Why call him when you can speak to him in person.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bruno’s coming over for an egg cream.” She looked at her watch. “He shoulda been here already. I can’t wait any longer for him, though, or I’ll be late for the hairdresser.”

After taking off her apron, she reached in the pouch for the bet slips and money she’d collected that day. Then she picked up a brown paper bag near the cash register, stuffed everything inside it, and held it out to him.

“Give this to Bruno for me.”

Boff threw his hand up. “Mom, I can’t take that. You know I never break the law.”

“Right,” she said with a sneer. “You just bend it to suit your purposes.”

She thrust the bag at him again. He backed up a couple steps.

“Look, Mom, in the remote possibility I get busted giving this to Bruno, I could lose my license and go to jail.”

Thelma stepped up close to him and poked him in the chest. “Do you know what’s in the bag?”

“Of course I know.”

“Who says you know? If you get busted, just say your mother left it for Bruno without telling you what it was.”

He sighed and took the bag.

“You remember how to make the egg creams, right?” she asked.

“Yes. I remember.”

“Put the chocolate syrup on the bottom of a soda glass,” she recited, “then slowly pour in the milk, and….”

“…and shoot the seltzer straight down the middle. Mom, I know how to do it.”

She still looked dubious. “Bruno likes extra syrup and milk, less seltzer. Can you remember that?”

He rolled his eyes. “I think I can manage.”

After kissing her son on the cheek, she picked up her purse. “Well, I’m off. Tell Bruno I waited as long as I could.”

He watched as she breezed out the door, then walked behind the counter and cringed, seeing the Remington pump-action shotgun she kept there for protection against robbery. It was only recently he had found out his parents had taken the numbers since he was a kid and had used the extra cash they earned to help pay for his college education. What worried him was that his mother could get busted. If the cops nailed her, he could picture the
Post
’s banner headline: COPS GOT GRANNY’S NUMBER.

Hearing the bell hanging over the front door jingle, he turned and saw three Hispanic girls he had served before come into the store and sit on stools at the counter. The one called Trini ordered milk shakes for all three. He quickly whipped up the shakes, poured them into three frosty glasses, stuck a red straw in each, and slid them across the counter.

After sipping hers, Trini looked at him. “Your mother makes better shakes, Mr. Boff.”

He shook his head. “That’s
only
because I’m out of practice. When I worked here in high school, I made the best shakes in New York.”

“Well, Mr. Boff,” Trini said with a grin, “you don’t anymore.” All three girls giggled.

“You want me to make you something else?”

He reached for Trini’s glass, but she pulled it close to her. “I’m okay with this,” she said. “Even if it’s not as good as your mother’s.”

The girls busted his chops for a while and then went out the front door. Each had left him a nickel tip.

A half hour later, the bell jingled again. This time Bruno Benvenuti walked into the store. At the mob boss’s side was a pint-sized kid in his twenties who couldn’t have been taller than Danny DeVito in high heels. In his late fifties, Benvenuti was around six feet tall and built like a linebacker whose muscles had turned to flab. He was wearing a tan sport jacket over a white button-down shirt and black trousers. The kid wore the exact same outfit.

“Hey, Frankie!” Benvenuti called out. “Long time no see.”

“Broken any laws lately?”

Benvenuti shook his head. “I’m a law abiding citizen.” He pointed at the runt. “This here’s my nephew, Nicholas.”

Boff wiped his wet hands on his apron, then shook hands with Bruno and the nephew.

“Nicholas,” Benvenuti said, “do your Uncle Bruno a favor. Run out and buy me one of those cheapo disposable cameras. I wanna take a picture of the soda jerk here to show to the guys at the poker game tonight.”

Boff groaned. “Aw, come on, Bruno. Is that necessary?”

The mobster laughed. “You bet. A picture of the great Frank Boff working behind a soda counter is a collector’s item. It might be worth money someday. Go ahead, Nicholas.”

When the kid was gone, Boff said, “So what’s Nicholas do for you? He sure as hell isn’t muscle.”

“Actually, he is. Nicholas is what I call a cutter. The kid’s like a genius with a knife. He’s been dissecting things since he was five. Frogs. Squirrels. Rabbits. Once he even did the neighbor’s cat.”

The mob boss pulled a napkin out of a metal dispenser and blew his nose. “Nicholas could’ve gone to medical school and become a heart surgeon.” He aimed the wadded-up napkin at the trash and scored. “But he got kicked out of high school for breaking into the biology lab and dissecting all the frogs and snakes and squids. He was in the process of wrapping the squid up to bring home for me to make fried calamari when they caught him.”

“What do you need a cutter for? I thought you got away from the wet stuff.”

“I did, to an extent. But, Frank, I’m a bookie. What am I going to do when somebody doesn’t pay the vig? Slap him on the wrist with a ruler?
I send Nicholas and some muscle to visit the
stunad
. Nicholas collects the money and cuts off the dipshit’s middle finger. The kid’s a nut about middle fingers. He keeps the ones he’s sliced off in a jar of formaldehyde. Anyway, where’s your mother?”

“She had a hair appointment. She said to tell you she waited as long as she could.”

“My fault. I’m late. You know how to make an egg cream?”

“Sure do.”

“Whip up two, would you? Did your mother tell you how I like mine?”

“More syrup and milk. Less seltzer.”

Benvenuti nodded. “The kid’ll take his the same way.”

Grabbing the bag his mother had given him containing the betting slips and money, he handed it to the mobster. “Mom said to give this to you. I don’t know what’s inside.”

“Of course not,” Benvenuti said with a smile. He set the bag down on a stool beside him.

“How’s my mother making out for you?”

“She’s a good earner.”

A teenage boy entered the store and walked over to the candy case.

“Bruno, let me take care of this kid first. Then I’ll whip up the egg creams.”

“No problem.”

The boy took a Twix and a Nestle KitKat. After he paid and left, Boff went to work whipping up the egg creams. When he was done, he slid one over to Benvenuti, who took a quick sip.

“Not as good as your mother’s, but decent.”

“Bruno, I have to check out a nightclub tonight called Devil’s Own. It’s in the meatpacking business. Do you happen to know if it’s mobbed up?”

“Devil’s Own? My son the big investment banker goes there. What I hear, the Bonanno Family has a piece.”

“I’m taking a couple of friends there tonight to check out something on a case I’m working on. I imagine there’ll be a long line out front. Do you think your son would know anybody who could get us past the Gestapo?”

“Emilio can do that himself. He spends like crazy there. They made him a member of the
VIP lounge. I’ll give him a call when I leave. What’re the names of your friends?”

“Danny Cullen, and a
paisan
of yours, Mikey Bellucci.”