The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery)

by Nathan Gottlieb

  “Are you going to win the case?”

  “Unfortunately, yeah. The assistant DA is young, ambitious, and a bit overeager. He rushed this case to court and left enough holes in it for me drive through for a slam dunk.”

  “You sound like you have some remorse,” Boff said. “That’s out of character.”

  “Frank, I don’t mind defending people who kill other people. That’s been going on since the beginning of time. But desecrating the dead just seems especially vile.”

  “Be careful. You might be developing a conscience.”

  Galloway shrugged. “Maybe I always had one. I guess in the past I was always able to shove my conscience aside and lose myself in the challenge of winning a case. But since my wife had our twins, it’s becoming harder to move from this world to my family’s world. Does it ever bother you like that?”

  “Not yet. Anyway, what I wanted to ask you is have you eaten at a restaurant near this courthouse called Giancarlo’s.”

  “Sure. Everybody who works this court goes there.”

  “Ever meet the owner, Alberto Mantilla?”

  Galloway took another sip from his foamy mug before answering. “Let’s just say I’ve had some dealings with him.”

  “Did you hear any scuttlebutt about him that goes against the grain of his squeaky clean image?”

  Galloway glanced around before speaking. “I once had a client who was involved in a fist fight with Mantilla in the bar at Giancarlo’s. Mantilla suffered a broken nose and got an ugly cut over his right eye, which required cosmetic surgery. The cops couldn’t pin down who’d started the thing, so they cited them both for breach of peace and left it at that. Mantilla then sued my client for medical expenses and punitive damages. I didn’t like our chances in court because Mantilla had a solid reputation as a good guy and my client had a history of violence. So before we went to court, I hired your pal, Pete Wallachi, to investigate Mantilla to see if he had any skeletons in his closet.”

  “And did he?”

  The lawyer nodded. “Pete dug up some pretty interesting stuff. When I confronted Mantilla with what Pete had found out, he dropped the suit. Guess he didn’t want his dirty linen aired.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I’ve forgotten most of it, but the guy got into all kinds of trouble when he was younger. He was apparently one nasty kid. Pete can tell you more. Who’re you defending, by the way?”

  “I’m not. My wife has me on a third straight mission for truth, justice, and the American way.”

  Galloway looked amused. “You’d better be careful, Frank, or the next thing you know, you’ll be taking a job with the D.A.’s office.”

  “I’d work as a janitor before I’d stoop that low.”

  Boff met private investigator Pete Wallachi at the Nathan’s Famous on Myrtle Avenue in Williamsburg. Wallachi had grown up in Coney Island, where the first Nathan’s was opened in nineteen-sixteen, and had a soft spot for their dogs. They each ordered three with sauerkraut, plus crinkle cut fries topped with cheese and bacon. Although Wallachi was a fitness freak, Nathan’s was the one bad habit he had never been able to break.

  “How’s business?” Boff asked.

  “Hired my eighth investigator today. An ex-Fibbie. Normally I’d never even look at a fed, but this guy had a good reputation in cybercrime. I need someone in that area because I get a lot of business from corporations worried about being ripped off. With hackers like your friend Billy, I don’t blame them.”

  Boff had first met Wallachi when they were part of a team hired by the owner of a securities firm accused of fraud. They had worked well together and dug up enough holes in the prosecutor’s case to win an acquittal.

  “I brought Mantilla’s file,” Wallachi said. Quickly finishing the dog he was working on, he wiped his hands on a paper napkin and pulled a thick folder out of his briefcase.

  “This is a copy,” he said. “Shred it when you’re done.”

  Seeing the size of the file, Boff raised his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty hefty file, Pete. Can you give me the CliffsNotes version now? I’ll read this later.”

  “Sure. But I’m curious about something. Aren’t you the guy who defends killers? Not hunts them down?”

  “My wife’s been forcing me to do pro bono work. Finding Oquendo’s killer is part of her latest attempt to reform me.”

  Wallachi smiled. “Man, I never thought I’d live to see the day that Frank Boff did pro bono work.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Okay, here’s what I have. Alberto and his family got out of Cuba on a fishing boat and settled in Miami. His father had been a financier in Havana and did well enough in Miami to eventually open his own bank. The father wanted Alberto to follow in his footsteps, so he enrolled him at an elite prep school. But it turned out Alberto wasn’t quite as industrious as his old man. Fact is, he was a fuckup. After the kid got bounced out of school for cheating on exams, daddy put him into another elite school. This time, Alberto got booted for being caught with two prozies in his dorm room.”

  “Paid for with daddy’s allowance.”

  Wallachi nodded. “By now, daddy was more than a little disgusted. So he decided to put the kid in a tough military school that still practiced corporal punishment. This time, when Alberto stole money from his roommate, they didn’t throw him out. A couple of upperclassmen from the football team were sent to visit him in the middle of the night. After they kicked the crap out of him, the kid saw the light, settled down, got decent grades, and graduated. It seemed like he was back on track.”

  “I’m guessing there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

  “Yup. The kid’s grades were not good enough to get into an Ivy League school, so the father made a big endowment to a small private college with a highly-regarded finance program. Away from the harsh discipline of the military school, it didn’t take long before Alberto reverted to his old ways.”

  Wallachi picked up another hot dog, squeezed a heavy dose of mustard on top, and started on it while he continued his narrative.

  “The college had a nice wooded campus a few miles from a small city in a northern state that had fallen on hard times. Mantilla spent more time partying at bars in town than in the classroom. He met a lot of pretty townies in those bars. The girls were out of work and hurting for cash. This is where Alberto’s financial genes finally kicked in, although not in a way his father would’ve hoped for. Alberto talked three of the best-looking townies into being part of a prozie ring he started on campus. The cash-strapped girls were only too glad to take half of the fee he charged. One-fifty an hour.”

  Boff whistled as he speared a cheese fry with a two-pronged fork. “Sounds a little steep for college students.”

  “Normally, yeah. But most of these kids came from money. They could afford it. The students who didn’t have rich parents couldn’t handle the fee, so Alberto, out of the goodness of his heart, offered them a group rate. Two guys could share one girl at two hundred an hour.”

  “Still sounds a bit steep.”

  “Not to mention creepy. After one of his girls experienced rough treatment from a student, Alberto hired the hockey team’s goalie to be his muscle. Everything went smoothly for a while. Alberto was able to sock away some good money. But, as usual, trouble finally found its way to his doorstep. One of the girls got pregnant.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yeah, oops. The girl’s parents went ballistic. They demanded she tell them who the father was. When she said she didn’t know, they pressed her harder. Finally she broke down and told them about what she’d been doing at the college.”

  “I imagine this didn’t end well for Alberto.”

  “Correct. The girl’s father went to the cops, who arranged a sting with the campus police. Alberto pleaded out, got probation and a stiff fine and was booted out of school. Which was only the beginning of his problems. The tabloids jumped all over the story: student from a respected banking family runs a prozie ring on an elite
college campus. His hometown Miami Herald saw it on their AP wire and played the scandal for all it was worth. Which I’m sure embarrassed his father in the Cuban community. The long and short of it was daddy washed his hands of the kid and cut off a trust fund he had set up for him.”

  Boff started his third dog. “How’d he wind up on his feet here?” he asked.

  “After getting kicked out of college, Alberto went to live with a friend in New York, where he waited tables for a few years. And hung out at clubs. At one of the clubs he met and bedded down an older gal who owned a boutique advertising agency. Alberto moved in with her. For a couple years he handled the firm’s finances.” Wallachi smiled. “I’m sure you can guess what comes next.”

  “But….”

  “And once again it was woman trouble. While living with the older gal, Alberto started an affair with a stripper from Scores. The advertising lady eventually got suspicious and hired a private investigator, who gave her proof that Alberto was cheating.”

  “So she tossed him out on his ass,” Boff said.

  “Correct again. Now this is where background info on Alberto gets fuzzy. He seemed to disappear for several months, and then he turned up in Brooklyn as manager of Giancarlo’s Restaurant. Without any prior experience in the field, I might add.”

  Boff put his dog down. “Manager? I thought he owned the joint.”

  “No way,” Wallachi said. “Alberto didn’t have remotely enough cash to buy it. He just runs it.”

  “Did you find out who the owner really is? My guess would be some woman who has the hots for him.”

  Wallachi shook his head. “That’s where I ran into a wall. All I dug up was that the restaurant was owned by a shell corporation. Whoever set it up knew their stuff.”

  Boff grinned. “You should’ve asked Billy for help.”

  “In hindsight, yeah. But I guess my ego was too big in those days to go that route. Anyway, Alberto didn’t want what I’d dug up getting out—especially in a restaurant where many of his patrons were judges, lawyers, and cops.”

  “So he dropped the suit.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Boff laughed. “Me? I would’ve never gotten into a fix like that in the first place. I’m much too smart.”

  Wallachi nodded and finished his last dog.

  After polishing off his own last dog, Boff wiped his hands with a napkin, grabbed the file, and stood up. “You’ve been a big help, Pete. I’ll show the file to Billy and see what he can add to it.”

  “If Billy finds out anything more about the owner, let me know, okay? I’m curious.”

  “Will do. So how’s your new wife? What’s this, the third or the fourth? I lose track.”

  “Third. She’s the best of the lot, too. Cooks great food. Never complains about anything. And lets me do what I want in bed.”

  “Sounds like you found your perfect mate. Only one better would be a sexy android.”

  Wallachi laughed. “I wish they made those androids. Then I wouldn’t have to go through all the messy divorces.”

  Chapter 29

  As Boff had instructed, Cullen called the university and was connected to the office of Professor Blasi, who confirmed that Marla had been one of his students. After Cullen told Blasi about Boff’s investigation into Marla’s murder, he set up a meeting with the professor for after his morning training session.

  On the drive to Columbia, Boff laid out what he had discovered about Mantilla. When he was done, Cullen said, “If he had history with prostitutes and was close with Rafael, maybe Mantilla’s the owner of the service.”

  “Not a chance. From what Pete told me, the guy wouldn’t have had the money to fund a grocery store, let alone an elite escort service. For now, I’m going to assume someone else owns it.”

  After knocking on the professor’s door and being invited in, they found Blasi working on his computer and bobbing his head in rhythm to some tune he was listening to on headphones.

  “Be right with you,” the professor said. “Take a seat.”

  He typed for a few minutes, then slipped his headphones off and swiveled in his chair to face them.

  “What were you listening to?” Boff asked.

  “My students would make fun of me if they ever found out.”

  “I won’t tell a soul.”

  “The Everly Brothers album, Songs Our Daddy Taught Us.”

  Boff smiled. “My favorites on that album,” he said, “are ‘Long Time Gone’ and ‘Roving Gambler.’”

  “A fellow devotee of Fifties music!”

  “That’s all he listens to,” Cullen said.

  “Well, Mr. Boff, we must compare notes sometime.” Blasi set the headphones aside. “Danny told me you’re investigating Marla’s murder. I was surprised, because from what I read, the police say they killed the man who did it.”

  “Without getting into details, I believe Marla was a contract hit.”

  The professor gave them a startled look. “What? I find that hard to believe. She was a wonderful student. Everybody seemed to like her.”

  Boff figured he might as well drop the bomb now and get it over with. “She was also a high-class call girl.”

  “No way! That can’t be! You must be mistaken.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not.”

  Blasi turned to Cullen. “Danny, is this true?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know about that side of her until after she was killed.”

  The professor inhaled and blew out a loud breath. “Wow. I’m dumbfounded. I don’t know what to say. She was such a brilliant student. A wonderful girl with a bright future. Why would she work as a hooker?”

  “I can’t say for sure why,” Boff said, “but it’s not uncommon for respectable women, including college students, to work for escort services.”

  “This is a real stunner,” Blasi said.

  “I understand completely,” Boff replied. “Danny tells me you were a mentor to Marla.”

  “In an unofficial capacity. She was so eager to learn about the law that I went out of my way to help her. Most of my students are here only to use their degree as a vehicle to make money. Idealism is not a trait germane to this generation.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Boff asked.

  “A few days ago.”

  “Did she seem agitated or worried about something?”

  Blasi thought about it a minute. “Well, there might’ve been one thing. She said she’d overheard a Brooklyn judge say something that sounded like he was taking a bribe.”

  “Did she mention the judge’s name?”

  “No. And she wouldn’t tell me how she came to overhear what he said.”

  Cullen looked at Boff. They both had a pretty good idea who the judge was and how Marla had heard it.

  “Can you remember what she said to you?” Boff asked.

  “Word for word. When you spend a lifetime memorizing things as a student and a professor, you develop a heightened pre-frontal lobe. What Marla heard the judge say was…” Blasi closed his eyes. “‘What the hell do you mean he wants me to take less? This is a big case. Silverstein stands to lose a lot of money here. You tell the bastard that’s the price.’” The professor opened his eyes.

  “Why did she come to you?” Boff asked.

  “She wanted to phone an anonymous tip to the Brooklyn D.A.’s Office about this judge, so she asked me if I thought they’d take her seriously without more facts. I told her it wasn’t likely. I said the only way they might is if she told the judge’s clerk she was doing a paper on overloaded judges, and wanted to see his docket. If the name Silverstein was on it, I told her that might get the D.A.’s attention.” Blasi frowned. “But I strongly advised her not to do it. If the judge was corrupt, chances are so was his clerk.” The professor looked down a moment, then back up at Boff. “If Marla didn’t take my advice, do you think that might’ve had something to do with her getting killed?”

  Boff spread his hands. “I guess it would depend on whether
the clerk suspected she had a different agenda. I’ll check it out.”

  Blasi shook his head. “I should’ve been tougher with her.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered, professor,” Cullen said. “Once Marla made up her mind to do something, she generally did it. No matter how hard you tried to talk her out of it.”

  Blasi let out a short laugh. “You’ve got that right,” he said. “She was the toughest debater in my class.”

  “I’m curious,” Boff said. “Was she actually doing a paper on overloaded judges?”

  Blasi leaned back in his chair and let out another sigh.

  “No…. It was about judicial corruption in Brooklyn.”

  Chapter 30

  On the drive back to Brooklyn, Cullen said, “So you think Judge Morant had Marla killed for trying to expose him?”

  “Not directly, no,” Boff replied. “It would be very risky for a judge to contract a murder, because then the hit man would have something to hold over his head. I’m guessing Morant told whoever owns the escort service what’d happened and that person or persons took care of things.”

  “And you said Mantilla knew the judge. That’s another thing pointing to him owning the service, isn’t it?”

  “As I told you before, he wouldn’t have had the money. There’s not even any evidence yet that Mantilla has anything to do with the service.”

  Boff glanced at his watch. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  After they had ordered at Cheffy’s, Cullen said, “If Marla was killed because of the judge, it doesn’t look like her murder and Rafael’s are connected.”

  “I disagree. Both of them were involved with the escort service in one way or another. That’s a solid connection. My hunch is if we nail the owner, we’ll solve both murders.”

  The waitress walked over to their table with two plates. One with beef patties, which she set down in front of Boff, the other, jerk chicken for Cullen. “Enjoy,” she said, and then took off for another table.