The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) (12 page)

The next day, Boff took the boys to Cheffy’s for lunch again, hoping he could wiggle more information out of Cullen. After they finished their appetizers and were into the main course, he took a stab at getting Cullen to talk about Marla.

“You said she worked twice a week as a bartender in
Brooklyn Heights. Did she mention the name of the place?”

Cullen took his time before answering. “The Brazen Head. She said it was an upscale yuppie hangout and she made good money. Around four hundred a night.”

“Well,” Boff said, “if she was only working twice a week, four hundred a night wouldn’t have been nearly enough money to buy the kind of clothes she was apparently wearing at Devil’s Own. Designer dresses routinely go for five hundred bucks or more. Did you ever go to the Brazen Head while she was working there?”

Cullen shook his head. “She asked me not to. She said it was always real busy, and she wouldn’t be able spend time with me, and that’d make her feel bad.”

Boff put his fork down, took out his phone, got the number for the Brazen Head, called, and asked for the manager.

“My name is Frank Boff,” he said when some
body answered. “I’m looking for someone who might’ve worked as a bartender for you. Her name was Marla Ramirez … I see. Well, she sometimes used another name, Marla Hoban … Uh huh. Thanks for your time.”

“What’d he say?” Cullen asked.

“Never heard of her.”

“Figures.”

“Then where was the money coming from?” Bellucci asked.

“One possibility,” Boff said, “was that she had rich parents.”

Cullen shook his head again. “Nope. Not according to her. One time, we were talking in bed and she told me her parents had died when she was a teenager.” He suddenly shoved his plate away. “This is stupid. I’m just repeating her lies.”

“That may be so,” Boff said, “but tell me anyway.”

“You really want to hear her fucking soap opera story? Fine. According to
Ms. Marla
, her father was a lawyer who was indicted for bribing a judge. A day before her father was to go on trial, he hung himself.” Cullen blew out a sigh of disgust.

“Keep going.”

“
Ms. Marla
was fifteen at the time. She said after her father killed himself, her mother started drinking heavily. Two years later, the mother drove drunk into a telephone pole and was killed.”

“What happened to Marla then?”

“Oh, for chrissake! What’s the point? She probably found that story in some women’s magazine.”

“Be that as it may,” Boff said, “let’s hear the rest of it.”

But Cullen clammed up, fiddled with his napkin, and didn’t say anything. Ever patient, Boff used the time to eat.

Finally, a few minutes later, Cullen responded. “She said she moved in with her aunt, graduated high school near the top of her class, and got a full scholarship to
Princeton. After Princeton, she got another free ride. To Columbia law school.”

Boff put his fork down. “Did she live in the dorm at
Columbia?” he asked. “Or get her own apartment?”

“Her first year, she said she roomed with two other students in a
Bronx walkup. This year, she…she moved to Brooklyn Heights.” He winced. “Brooklyn Heights! Where the fucking rents are pretty fucking high. So how the hell did she afford
that
? Goddammit! I never even thought about that. How could I’ve been so stupid?”

Bellucci looked up from his plate. “Simple,” he said. “You were in love. People in love don’t think about stuff like that.”

“And, Mr. Cool, how would you know? The guy who’s never been in love.”

Bellucci shrugged. “Mikey’s been in love. Just not like you.”

“Let’s get back to the money,” Boff said. “Given that her parents were dead, my experience tells me there are three possible ways a very attractive woman like her could’ve gotten the kind of cash she needed to buy designer clothes and have an apartment in Brooklyn Heights.”

“And they are?” Cullen asked.

“One, she could’ve worked as a fashion model.
But
, that being said, if she really was a graduate law student, she wouldn’t have had the time to put in on long photo shoots or be ready to work on short notice, as often happens in that industry.”

When Cullen said nothing, Bellucci asked, “What are the other two ways?”

Boff looked at Cullen. “Danny, you’re not going to like what I have to say next.”

Cullen let out a bitter laugh. “I can’t imagine it being any worse than finding out that my girlfriend was a complete fucking liar. Just say it.”

“One way was she could’ve gotten a lot of money from a sugar daddy.”

Cullen waved that off. “I sincerely doubt it,” he said. “The Marla I knew wouldn’t even take money from
me
. I can’t see her taking money from some rich old fuck. Let’s hear the last way. Then I’m splitting.”

Boff had saved the worst for last. “Three, she could’ve been a high-class call girl and worked for an elite escort service.”

Cullen shoved his chair back and stood up. “Are you fucking crazy? That’s totally whacko. Marla would never do that.” But as soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted saying them. “Well…at least the version of her I knew.” Feeling defeated and depressed, he sank back down on his chair.

“Danny,” Boff began, “you’d be surprised at the kind of women who work for escort services. I’ve represented a couple of them. They told me some of the gals were business execs. Others were housewives. Accountants. School teachers, even. And in one instance, there was a high-powered lawyer who moonlighted as an escort.”

Bellucci made a face. “Man, why would women like
that
turn tricks?”

“Why?” Boff replied, raising three fingers and ticking the reasons off. “One, because it’s part-time work. Two, the money is very good. And, three, if you’re with an elite house, they carefully screen customers so your risk level will be very low.” He raised a fourth finger. “Also, they could just get off on living a secret life.”

As the waitress walked by, Cullen grabbed her arm and handed her his half-eaten plate of ackee and codfish.

“Something wrong with the food, Danny?” she asked.

“No. I’m just not all that hungry.”

“You want me to bring you something else?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

After the waitress left for the kitchen, he stood up again. “I’m going for a walk.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bellucci said.

“No. I need to be alone.”

Cullen brought out his wallet. “How much do I owe?”

“It’s on me,” Boff said.

Without another word, the boxer headed for the door.

To check on Marla’s family story, Boff called Armando Perez and asked him if he knew about a
Union City lawyer named Ramirez who had hanged himself before going to trial on a bribery charge.

Yes. It was a shock to the community. He was well-liked and did pro bono work for our people who couldn’t afford a good lawyer.

“Did he have a daughter named Marla?”

Yes
, he did. She was a very beautiful girl. She later suffered a double tragedy when her mother died in a car accident. Frank, I’ve always wondered what happened to that girl. Do you know?

“She was apparently going to law school at
Columbia and doing very well. But she was raped and murdered recently.”

Oh
, no! Pobrecita.
She survived so much. Then this happens. Are you investigating?

“Yes.”

Good. If anybody can get justice for her, it’s you.

After he got off the phone with Perez, Boff drove to the gym to meet with Damiano. He was leaning against his
Malibu waiting for her when Wright called.

“What’s up, Billy?”

The guy who killed Marla had a long rap sheet. But no violent crime.

“Which means nothing. There’s always a first time. And plenty of murderers have never committed any kind of crime before. What exactly did this mutt do?”

Burglary. Shoplifting. Petty larceny. Nickel and dime stuff. Also, the guy was seriously broke. He was two months behind on his rent and Con-Ed bills. Cablevision had already shut off his service. Plus he was in outpatient rehab for H three nights a week. The clinic said he didn’t show up last week. Frank, any way you slice it, this was one desperate guy. The kind who would’ve done anything to get his hands on some money. Even blood money.

“Thanks, Billy. How’re those chemtrails?”

You’re going to regret not listening to me
.

“I always listen to you.”

As Boff hung up, Damiano’s Dodge Charger pulled up and double-parked. She got out of the car and walked over to him.

“So whatcha you got for me?” she asked.

Boff filled her in on the possibility that Marla had led a double life.

Damiano looked surprised. “You really think she was a hooker?” she asked.

“Not with any certainty. But she apparently lived a lifestyle way beyond the means of a law student without any financial help from her parents.”

“Ummmm. So how did Danny take this little bit of news?”

“Not very well. Listen, do me a favor and find out how much the guy who raped and killed her had in his wallet when your cops killed him.”

“Why?”

“If the guy was paid to do the job, he might’ve had cash in his wallet he shouldn’t have had.”

“Why do you say that?”

“This mutt was seriously broke and way behind on his bills.”

“Okay. I’ll call the precinct.” As she started to take out her phone, he restrained her arm.

“While you’re at it,” he said, “see if the mutt had any credit cards in his wallet with someone else’s name on them. And also get the address of Marla’s apartment.”

“Anything else, boss?”

He smiled. “That’ll do for now.”

As soon as he released her arm, she dialed the precinct. “Bronko, this is Damiano. Can you dig up the report for me on the female vic who was raped and murdered in that alley off
St. Marks Avenue? … Sure. I’ll hold.”

When Bronko came back on line a couple minutes later, Damiano was ready for him with a pen and pad.

“Here’s what I want to know,” she said. “First, how much money did the dirtball have in his wallet ... Uh huh … Were there any credit cards?” … Uh huh. Okay, one last thing. What was the address of the vic ...?” Damiano scribbled on her pad. “Got it. Thanks, buddy.”

Putting her phone away, she turned to Boff. “The mutt had five Benjamins. Four singles. And no plastic.”

“Well, that’s a nice piece of change for a guy who was supposed to be broke. Don’t you think? I’m betting the singles were all he had in his wallet until someone laid the hundreds on him.”

“Not necessarily,” she replied. “The guy coulda robbed a store.”

Boff smiled again. “Tell me something, Victoria. In your vast experience in law enforcement, did you ever hear of a mutt rifling a cash register and grabbing just the hundreds? And leaving the twenties?”

Damiano frowned. “Okay, so maybe he mugged somebody.”

“Who just happened to have five hundred-dollar bills, but no twenties, no plastic?”

“Okay, genius. I’ll admit this sounds suspicious. But I need more convincing.”

“No problem. Meanwhile, let’s check out Marla’s apartment.”

“We’ll take my car. Yours looks like it’s gonna fall apart before we get there.”

Marla had rented a condo in a pre-war building in upscale
Brooklyn Heights. Damiano badged the doorman and told him they wanted to see the dead girl’s apartment.

“Two detectives were already here
to look at it,” the doorman said.

Damiano looked at Boff, then back at the doorman. “What were their names?” she asked.

“Let’s see….One was Jim Smith. That was easy to remember. The other….” He shook his head. “The other I can’t recall.”

“Did they show you their badges?”

“Yes, ma’am. I wouldn’t have let them in without seeing ID. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” Damiano replied. “We’re just here to make sure nothing was overlooked.”

The doorman let out a sigh. “Ms. Marla was such a nice lady,” he said. “Always friendly. And tipped generously. I felt really bad when I heard what had happened to her.”

After the doorman had fetched the apartment key, Damiano and Boff rode the elevator to the tenth floor, where they got out, opened the
apartment door, stepped in, and stopped dead in their tracks. The place had been tossed. Cushions were ripped open. Rugs rolled up. Desk drawers pulled out and the contents dumped on the floor.

“Well,” Boff said, “this was a strange way for two detectives to search an apartment, don’t you think?” He looked around some more, then turned back to Damiano. “And is there a Jim Smith in your detective bureau?”

“Nope.”

“Can you find out if there’s one in the precinct that covers this neighborhood?”

“That’d be the 84
th
.” Pulling out her phone, she called the local precinct.

“This is detective Damiano from the 77
th
. Shield number six-three-three. I was wondering if you have a detective in your precinct named Jim Smith … Uh huh … I’m interested because a woman from your jurisdiction was recently raped and murdered in my neck of town. Her name was Marla Hoban or Marla Ramirez. She used both names. Did you guys send any detectives to her apartment … Sure, I’ll hold on.”

She looked at Boff. “The desk sergeant is checking with their detective squad.”

A few minutes later, the officer came back on the line.

“I see … Well, thanks for your time.” She hung up.

“Negative,” she said. “Whoever these two yo-yos were, they weren’t sent here by the local precinct. Which begs the question: who the hell
were
these mutts?”

“One possibility,” Boff said, “is they were the same two cops who killed the doer in the alley.”

Nodding, the detective took out a two pairs of latex gloves, handed one to Boff, then slipped the other pair on. “Let’s sift through this crap,” she said.

In the middle of their search, Boff paused to survey the apartment. “You know,” he said, “if you can get past the mess, this place looks like it’d been extensively renovated.”

“So?”

“Just an observation.”

“Feed that line to somebody else,” Damiano said. “I know your little observations. What are you thinking?”

“I’m not really thinking about anything,” he replied. “Just a feeling that’s starting to percolate in my brilliant brain.”

He walked to a living room window, pulled lace curtains back, and looked out. “There’s a nice view of the Manhattan skyline,” he said. He turned around. “What does a view of New York from Brooklyn Heights go for these days?”

“How do I know? I’m not a realtor.”

“Take an educated guess.”

“Well….I dunno….Say, maybe,
three thousand a month? Or more.”

“That’s certainly a big nut for a college girl to be carrying. Let’s check out her bedroom.”

The bedroom was in the same shape as the living room. The mattress had been dragged onto the floor and gutted. Bureau draws had been emptied onto the floor. When Boff reached the two closets, he stopped a minute and studied them. Everything that’d been on a hangar or a shelf in both closets was now on the floor. What he found curious was that one closet was a deep walk-in, the other a lot shallower. He checked out the larger one.

“This one was obviously Marla Hoban’s closet,” he said. “Nothing but designer clothes.”

“And this one,” Damiano said, looking in the shallower closet, “was for Marla Ramirez. Lots of jeans. Shirts. Sneakers. A couple of inexpensive-looking jackets. What do you think these guys were looking for?”

“My guess,” Boff
said, “would be an address book. If Marla was a hooker, she’d have to keep her regular johns’ addresses.”

“Most people in the modern age use computers to store addresses.”

“True,” he conceded. “
But,
computers are not secure. They’re vulnerable to a hacker who knows what he’s looking for. And they can be confiscated and the information accessed. You or I would probably not be all that worried about somebody seeing our address files. A hooker, on the other hand, would feel differently.” Pausing, he looked around the bedroom again. “Speaking of computers,” he said. “Have you seen one anywhere in here?”

“Now that you mention it, no. They must’ve taken it. I guess there’s really no point in us looking through this mess for the address book.”

“Probably not. If it was here, they found it.”

“Let’s head back.”

But as they turned to go, Boff suddenly stopped. Something about the closets was nagging at him. Turning back, he looked from one closet to the other.

“Do you see something?” Damiano asked.

“It’s what I
don’t
see that I find curious.”

“What do you mean?”

He pointed to the closet Damiano had looked through. “The Ramirez closet is not nearly as deep as the other one.”

“So what?”

“So, detective, if you go through the expense and trouble to renovate an apartment, why would you make only one closet a walk-in?”

“Beats me.”

Walking to the smaller closet, Boff stepped in and tapped his knuckles on the back wall.

“Hollow,” he said. “Let’s look for a switch or a hinge.”

They searched inside a few minutes.

“Nada,” Damiano said.

Boff backed out of the closet and looked back and forth from the big closet to the smaller one. Finally he noticed something.

“The
Hoban closet,” he said, “has just one light switch on the outside wall. The smaller one has switches on either side of it.”

He flipped the switch on the left side of the smaller closet. A light went on inside. “
Victoria, hit the other one.”

As soon as she flipped the second switch, the back of the closet slid slowly aside, revealing a sizable hidden space
behind it.

“Oh, my,” Damiano said, looking inside. “This was one kinky lady.”

In the hidden space were dominatrix costumes, whips, and chains. All neatly arranged and undisturbed. Damiano picked a foot-long dildo off a shelf.

“I sure hope she didn’t use this on Danny,” she said.

“I think we can safely assume this kinky stuff was for business. And we can also safely assume the two guys who trashed this place did
not
find the hidden space because nothing in here was touched. Let’s look for the address book.”

After searching everywhere in the closet, they still came up empty.

“Damn,” Damiano said, sounding deflated. “Where the hell is it?”

As he often did, Boff stood still, cleared his mind, and tried to let things come to him, the same way he had done in the alley. After a minute, he glanced up at a bowl-shaped light fixture.

“There’s a light switch on the interior wall of this closet,” he said. “Flip it.”

She did, but the light didn’t go on. “Bulb’s probably out,” she said.

Boff was tall enough to reach up and put his hand inside the bowl. Although there was no bulb, the bowl wasn’t empty. He pulled out a palm-sized black book.

Damiano grinned. “Nice work, hotshot.”

“You expected less of the Great Boffer? Okay, let’s take a look at this thing.”