The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) (6 page)

“Not at all.”

After thumbing through the address book until he found what he was looking for, Perez picked up his desk phone and dialed. He talked for several minutes, then hung up.

“Frank, what Marcos said is he hasn’t heard a thing about a Cuban hit squad. He said he’d ask around to make sure, but was confident nothing would turn up. To him, the more likely reason Rafael was killed, was because he had gotten himself into some sort of trouble.”

“That’s what I think, too.” Boff stood up and shook Perez’s hand. “Thanks for making the call.”

“
De nada
.”

“As usual, the food was great. Next time I’ll bring my wife.”

“Good. I like Jenny.”

After draining what was left in his glass, the restaurant owner walked his friend out of the office. “Frank,” he said, “it’s a real pity what happens to some Cuban boxers who defect. Their talent just goes to waste because nobody in
America teaches them anything about how to live here. Just to box. They basically exploit them. And if the kid doesn’t pan out?” He shrugged. “They get rid of him.”

The woman from the Plaza was sitting in the back seat of a taxi rolling down
St. Marks Avenue, a quiet residential street in Crown Heights. She checked her Timex watch and frowned. It was eleven o’clock. She was late. But ignoring the time, she leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder.

“Sir, please stop here,” she said.

He briefly turned his head. “But the address you gave me is another block away.”

“Yes, I know. But I’d like to walk the rest of the way to get some fresh air.”

She handed the cabbie a twenty and a ten. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The woman getting out of the cab looked nothing like the elegant lady at the Plaza. In place of the designer dress, she was wearing a Gap button-down white shirt with only one tail tucked in and antique Levi’s jeans with holes in the knees. Replacing the high-fashion Manolo Blahnik black leather pumps were red canvas sneakers with kelly green laces. Gone also was the Gucci bag. In its place, slung across her shoulders, was a faded canvas backpack. She looked like a typically grungy college sophomore.

As she began walking down the deserted sidewalk, she passed a narrow alley where a ragged-looking man was jiggling a coin cup. Reaching into her pocket where she kept quarters for beggars, she stopped briefly and dropped four in his cup. Then, setting her backpack down on the sidewalk, she opened the flap, took out a cellophane-wrapped sandwich, and handed it to the man, too. The beggar smiled broadly.

“Thank you, ma’am. Beena hungra all day.”

Pleased with herself, the woman picked up her backpack and resumed walking. Soon she came to a three-story limestone with bay windows on the first and second floors. At the top of the stairs, she pressed an intercom button.

“Who is it?” a male voice asked.

“Kate Upton.”

As the door buzzed open, she walked in and climbed the stairs. Reaching the second floor landing, she smiled when she saw Cullen and Bellucci standing outside the door to their condo.

“You’re late, Marla,” Cullen said. “I was getting worried.”

Bellucci laughed. “I told Danny you dumped him for a better man.”

Walking over to Cullen, she kissed him on the lips, but within seconds, Bellucci tapped on her shoulder.

“Hey! What about some love for Mikey?”

Spreading her arms wide, she hugged him, too, pecked him on the cheek, then turned back to Cullen.

“Sorry about being late, Danny. I had to stay after class to speak with Professor Blasi. If I’d known you’d be worried, I’d have called to let you know.”

“Well, hell, Marla. I can’t help but worry. You ride the damn subway all the time. I wish you’d take a taxi instead.”

As she accompanied the young boxers into the condo, Marla said, “A taxi from Columbia is way too expensive.”

“So I’ll give you money for it.”

She shook her head. “You know I pay my own way. Meanwhile, I think I should be worried about
you.
” She touched his bruised face. “What happened?”

Bellucci held up a fist. “I pounded his ass in the ring,” he said.

“Like hell you did,” Cullen snapped back. He turned to Marla. “I was doing a sparring drill in which I wasn’t wearing gloves. Mikey was the only one allowed to throw punches. Damn McAlary.”

“Well, it would seem,” she said, “that you need more work on your technique.” She giggled. “At least I’m glad that Mikey didn’t bruise your mouth.”

After another quick kiss, she set her backpack down on the coffee table. It made an audible clunk.

“Whatcha keep in there?” Bellucci asked. “Rocks?”

“Mostly books. Plus sandwiches for beggars. And my iPhone.”

Bellucci picked up the backpack. “Man, you’re humping some weight here,” he said. Setting the backpack down again, he opened it, took out a thick book, and read the title out loud
. “
Ethical Dilemmas and Decisions in Criminal Justice
.” He looked at her with a mock serious face. “This good? D’you think I can borrow it when you’re done?”

Marla laughed, pulled the book out of his hand, dropped it back in the backpack, and led the boys into the kitchen. Cullen took jars of peanut butter and jelly off a shelf and grabbed a loaf of wheat bread from the countertop. After collecting three paper plates and plastic utensils, he set everything down on the kitchen table. Then he opened the refrigerator, took out a quart of milk and a pint of low-fat cottage cheese, and brought these to the table, along with three clean glasses. As he poured their milk, he said, “So, Marla, tell me about your class tonight.”

“You’d just be bored.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Well Mikey’s interested,” Bellucci said as he reached for the bread. “I studied street law after they kicked me outta high school. Got me a bachelor’s degree in how to get busted for picking fights.”

Marla gave him a playful punch, then took the bread out of his hand and started making sandwiches for him and her. Ever mindful of his weight, Cullen dipped his fork into the bland cottage cheese.

“Danny,” she said, “do you
really
want to know about my class?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“It deals with ethics in the CJ system.”

“In English,” Bellucci said.

“CJ for Criminal Justice. The course basically covers all three segments of the CJ system—police, courts, and corrections.”

“I took me some classes in courtroom justice,” Bellucci said. “I know a lot about being arrested.”

After handing a sandwich to Bellucci, she turned to her boyfriend. “Danny, how’s your class going?”

“One more night and I finish and get my certificate,” he
said.

“That’s great! Does Boff know?”

Cullen let out a short laugh. “Hell, no. If I told him I’m taking a course in investigation, he’d just laugh at me. The Boffer doesn’t think I’m very smart. That’s because I didn’t go to college. He’s always telling me that anyone who makes his living punching people in the face can’t be all that bright.”

Marla put her sandwich down. “You’re smart, Danny. Trust me.”

“But nowhere near your level,” he said. “I mean, you’ve got a friggin’ B.A. from Princeton and you’re a second-year law student at Columbia. Now
that’s
smart.”

Marla touched his hand. “Danny, college degrees don’t mean you’re smart. You’d be surprised at some of the idiots in my classes.”

Cullen ate another forkful of cottage cheese. “And how’s that paper you’re writing for your thesis coming along?”

“Good. I’m about halfway done.”

Bellucci looked up. “What’s it about?”

“Judicial corruption in
Brooklyn.”

“Did you choose that,” Bellucci said, “because of what happened to your father?”

Marla turned to Cullen and frowned. “Danny, some things are just between us, okay?”

Cullen nodded. “Sorry. It was stupid of me to tell Mikey.”

“That’s okay. I still love you.”

She took another bite of her sandwich, then leaned over while still chewing and gave him a kiss on the lips.

“Hmm,” he said. “Peanut butter lips! How about another taste?”

As she set her sandwich down, Bellucci stood up. “That’s my cue to hit the road,” he said. “I’ll just dine in my room so you two lovebirds can be alone.”

He started to go, then stopped and turned back. “Will I need my ear plugs again tonight?”

At which point Marla threw the loaf of bread at him. Easily catching it, he tossed it back and left the kitchen with his sandwich and glass of milk.

“He’s a great guy,” Marla said.

“Well, he can be a pain in the butt. But on the whole, yeah, he’s a really good friend.”

Cullen put his tub of cottage cheese down. “Someone I knew was killed last night. I’m helping Boff find out who did it.”

Marla frowned. “You shouldn’t be running around with that Boff character when you have a championship fight coming up. I’d hate to see you get killed. I’d have to break in another boyfriend.”

“Like you’d ever find another one as good as me! Especially in bed. Admit it. I’ve taught you a lot of new things.”

She smiled. “Yes, you have. I’m used to more…
passive
men.”

“Uhhh, how many men have you been with?”

Marla made a face. “Danny, you know how you always say you don’t trash talk because you do your talking in the ring?” He nodded. “Well I’m the same way about sex.”

She quickly finished off her sandwich, stood up, and grabbed his arm. He dropped a whole forkful of cottage cheese.

“Come on, stud. Let’s go to bed and see what you’ve got to say.”

Two days passed before Kate felt Gina was ready to talk to Boff. Now she showed him into the den, where Gina was waiting on the couch. There were a pot of coffee, two mugs, and creamer sitting on the coffee table.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Kate said. “Gina, if you need me or want to stop the interview, just holler. Boff can be very annoying.”

As she left, Boff sat in a chair opposite the widow, poured coffee for both of them, and smiled. “Kate was just kidding just now when she said I could be annoying.” He handed a mug to her.

“Was she? I’ll judge that after this interview.”

After pouring cream into his coffee, he took a sip and set it down. “I understand how difficult this is for you,” he said
.

She merely pointed a finger at him. “Let’s get something straight, Mr. Boff. I only agreed to talk to you because Danny told me you’re very good at catching killers.” She paused to sip her coffee. “I want you to find whoever murdered my Rafael and punish him.”

“You mean put him in jail.”

“No. Punish him. Danny told me about your ‘frontier justice.’”

“Well,” Boff said with a forced smile, “Danny tends to exaggerate. Don’t pay any attention to him.”

The widow checked her watch. “Let’s get started,” she said.

“Gina, I have to ask you certain questions that you might not like. But your answers will help me find Rafael’s killer.”

“Okay. Start asking.”

“After his debut fight, Rafael went out without you. Did he ever do that before?”

She took her time before answering. “Yes.”

“Where did he usually go?”

“He never told me. Rafael was a very macho guy. He didn’t like to be questioned by a woman. Even his wife.”

“Then I assume he did all the paperwork on your credit card bills.”

“Yes. I never saw what charges there were. I never really cared. Just as long as he treated me and our daughter well. Which he did.”

“Do you have a duplicate card?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Could I see it?”

“What for?”

“I’d like to write down the card number. May I?”

“Why?”

“Having the number will help me know where your husband had been lately.”

Gina hesitated. “If you do find out where Rafael was, please don’t tell me. I’d prefer it that way.”

“No problem.”

She was gone a few minutes before she returned with a Visa card. She handed it to him and sat back down on the couch. Boff copied the numbers on his pad, then gave her the card, which she tucked in a pocket.

After a quick sip of coffee, he said, “Next question. Do you have a cell phone?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Can I get your number?”

Gina shook her head. “No. I don’t want you calling me whenever you feel like.”

“I only—”

“No is no. Ask me something else.”

At this point, Boff decided to ask the first of his questions he knew could be a conversation killer. “Did Rafael see other women?”

“Why do you ask such a thing! I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

“Unfortunately, Gina, it is. I need to know everything I can about Rafael. The good. And the, uh, shall we say, the bad.”

She looked down at her hands for a minute before looking up. “Yes, he did. Or at least I think so. I mean, a…a woman knows when her man’s shirt smells of perfume that’s not hers.”

Boff nodded. “I understand. Did you ever confront him about this?”

“Absolutely not. He wouldn’t have told me the truth, anyway. Rafael was as good a liar as he was a boxer.”

He noted the bitterness in her voice before continuing. “In the last few weeks, did you ever hear him arguing loudly on the phone?”

She let out a short laugh. “Rafael was
always
arguing with people about something. Not only was my husband pigheaded, but…but, well, he had a very bad temper. Rafael could erupt over the smallest thing.”

Boff knew he was on thin ice now. “Did he ever get angry with you?”

Gina pursed her lips. “I told you, Rafael could erupt over anything. Use your imagination, Mr. Boff.”

Now the nuclear question.
Making his voice sound as gentle as he could, he said, “Did your husband ever hit you?”

At this, Gina shot up off the couch. “That’s it! I’m done talking to you.” She walked quickly out of the den.

But it didn’t matter to him that she hadn’t answered his question. Her abrupt departure was answer enough.

As he finished his coffee and put away his pad and pen, he added up the things he had learned from the wife. The guy hit women. He had a bad temper and a macho personality. Taken together, those were the kind of things that could’ve made someone mad enough to want to kill him. He suspected the boxer’s wife might’ve felt that way herself many times. Damiano was right. He
shouldn’t cross the wife off the suspect list.

On his way to the gym, Boff heard from DEA agent Schlosberg, who said his CIA source was not aware of any Cuban gang operating for Raul Castro in the States. Coupled with the things his friend Armando Perez had told him, Boff decided he was ready to drop that angle and look elsewhere for a motive. After giving a parking meter a case of blue balls, he climbed the gym stairs, walked inside, and took his customary spot, leaning against the wall closest to the door. He waited for McAlary to take a break so he could ask him for Gina’s phone number.

At the moment, the trainer looked like he was about to put Cullen through another of his unorthodox drills. He pointed to a beer keg standing upright in front of his boxer. “Go ahead now, Danny.”

Frowning, Cullen squatted, grabbed hold of the keg with both arms, lifted it to his chest with a grunt, and then slowly raised it overhead until his arms were fully extended. Then he reversed the process, set the keg down, and paused a moment to catch his breath.

“No stopping!” the trainer said. “Give me ten more reps!”

Boff watched as Cullen did as told. From the way the boxer was straining hard to do the drill, Boff figured the keg must be full. After nine reps, Cullen could barely get the barrel over his head and was unable to fully extend his arms.

“I can’t do it!”
he said.

“Keep trying!”

The veins in his neck bulging as he tried one more time to get his arms fully extended, Cullen made it only half way.

“Can’t!” he gasped, then dropped the keg down hard on the floor, which caused it to bounce and start rolling straight at McAlary. The trainer slammed a foot against it to stop it. He glared at his fighter, who was bent over gasping for breath.

“Tired?”

Cullen didn’t even look at him. “Of course I’m fucking tired.”

“Too bad. Now go do the sled.”

“No way! Screw that! I need a break first.”

McAlary smiled. “A
break
? Tell me, lad, what happens in the ring when your body feels like it does now? Does the ref give you a…
break
?”

When Cullen said nothing, the trainer pointed across the gym to a small bobsled. “Go ahead now, Danny. Play Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer and pull the sled.”

Inhaling, then letting out a heavy sigh, Cullen obeyed. The bobsled was sitting next to stacked weights. He lifted a two-hundred pound weight and set it down on the bed of the sled, grabbed another one the same size, and put it on top of the first one.

“Now give me four laps,” McAlary said.

Cullen started to open his mouth to bitch, but thought better of it. “If I keep complaining,” he muttered, too low to be heard across the gym, “the friggin’ guy’ll just make me do additional laps.”

So
he grabbed the thick rope knotted to a hole in the sled’s front, slung it over his shoulder, and started hauling the heavy rig toward the ring. Reaching the ring, he began circling it with the sled. After four slow, grueling laps, he dropped the rope, plopped down on the apron of the ring, gasping for breath.

With a sly smile on his face, McAlary walked over. “Tired, son?”

Cullen figured if he said yes, the trainer would only make him do something equally back-breaking. So he tried to outfox him. “Nope! I’m just fine.”

“Good boy. Then give me fifteen whacks on the truck tire. After that, I’ll be kind enough to grant you a…
break
.”

Cullen groaned. There was no winning with this guy. Walking over to the huge truck tire, he picked up the sledgehammer, raised it overhead, and then slammed it onto the rubber. After he had pounded the damn thing fifteen times, he tossed the sledgehammer away, grabbed a water bottle and a towel, and shot his trainer a dirty look as he walked past him toward Boff.

“Danny, look on the bright side,” Boff said. “If you crap out as a boxer, you can always find work hauling kegs around at a brewery. Excuse me a moment.”

With Cullen tailing him, Boff walked over to McAlary, who was standing by the ring taking his own Gatorade break.

“Ryan,” Boff said, “I’d like to get Gina’s cell phone number.”

The trainer shook his head. “No way. I don’t want you bothering her.”

“I have absolutely no interest in calling Gina. I just need the number to help me get a look at the calls she made and received recently.”

McAlary sucked down some Gatorade. “And why is that?”

“I have reason to believe Rafael may have been cheating on her. From experience, I know that jealous wives have been known to hire someone to kill their husband.” Boff spread his hands. “That being said, I don’t think it’s the case here. But I still need the number.”

McAlary pointed his Gatorade bottle at Boff. “Gina is not the type to kill anyone,” he said. “Especially the father of her daughter.”

“I’m sure that’s true. But in my line of work, I can tell you with some certainty that killers come in all shapes and sizes. Male
and
female. If I have Gina’s phone records, it’ll help me determine if I can eliminate her as a suspect.”

After another swig of Gatorade, the trainer told him the number. Boff wrote it down on his pad.

“Now I have to get back to my training,” McAlary said. He pointed a finger at Boff. “You make sure you don’t start calling her. Understand?”

“You have my word. And, uh, one last thing before you go.”

McAlary frowned. “What now?”

“I was wondering if Rafael ever had days in the gym when he seemed like he wasn’t all there. Like, maybe, he’d been out late the night before and had been drinking.”

McAlary thought about this. “Well, a few times, I guess. But he always got himself up to speed by mid-session. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious to know if he led a night life.”

The trainer let out a weary sigh. “Look, Boff, the only thing I can tell you for certain about Rafael is that he worked his butt off here. What he did outside the gym, I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep tabs on my boxers.”

Cullen stepped forward
. “That’s certainly news to me.”

McAlary turned to him. “You, my friend, are a special case.”

“Why’s that?”

McAlary looked at Boff, then back at Cullen. “You have too many distractions.”

As the trainer walked away, Boff nodded toward the front door. “Danny, let’s step out on the stairs for a minute. The smell in here is unusually ripe today.”

On the landing outside the door, Boff told Cullen about his conversation with Gina. He also admonished him for telling the widow about his frontier justice.

“Well, I agree with Ryan,” the boxer replied. “It’s hard to picture Gina as a killer.”

“And like I told Ryan, she probably isn’t. But if Rafael was a womanizer—as I suspect he was—he could’ve pissed off a jealous husband or a boyfriend.”

“I’m not sure I buy that without more proof.”

“Fine. Tell me something. Do you know if Rafael had money to burn?”

Cullen nodded. “Yes, he did. But not from fighting. He’d had only one professional bout. But he got a decent shoe contract with Adidas and endorsed Cuban-made rum. The bulk of his cash came from his promoter, Gary Shaw. Gary gave him a half-million dollar signing bonus.”

“A half million, huh? That’s a lot of money for a boxer who didn’t get paid anything in
Cuba.”

“So? What’s your point?”

“My point is that it’s possible Rafael had trouble handling his sudden wealth. Young athletes in all sports have experienced problems with sudden wealth.”

Cullen took a big hit on his water. “I gather you’re not putting much stock in the defector angle.”

“At this point, no.”

“Well, my break is up now. I gotta get back inside.”

“Okay. When you’re done with your session, I’ll pick you and Mikey up. We’ll have lunch at Cheffy’s. My treat.”

After Cullen had gone back inside, Boff called his information broker, Billy Wright and dictated Rafael’s credit card numbers and Gina’s cell number to him.