The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery)

by Nathan Gottlieb

  “Why do you think Rafael was allowed to go out with the escorts?” Cullen asked.

  “As a reward.”

  “For what?”

  “Based on his credit card records, I believe Rafael was a key player in starting the service.”

  “Really? How do you figure that?”

  “Remember the trips I told you he took to Miami?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think they were for recruiting purposes. He was a legend in Miami’s Cuban community. Women would flock to him at the clubs. He’d target two of the most beautiful and propose that they worked for the escort service. Almost certainly, the girls were from working class families.”

  “Why working class girls?”

  “Because the lure of escaping home and seeing the Big Apple would help override any hesitation they might’ve had about hooking. I imagine another part of the deal the women were offered was an apartment in New York and money to buy designer clothes. That could explain why Rafael always flew down alone and then bought two extra one-way tickets on the flight back to New York.”

  “What puzzles me,” Cullen said, “is why Rafael was sent all the way to Miami. There are plenty of beautiful women in New York.”

  “True. But in New York, Rafael was just another handsome guy among a million good-looking men. In Miami, his boxing made him a celebrity. Another reason for recruiting in Miami is that by bringing girls here who’d be a thousand miles from home, it’d eliminate the possibility of normal conflicts. Say with families and friends.”

  “What kind of conflicts?”

  “A woman far from home wouldn’t have to explain to anyone where she was going at night, or why sometimes she didn’t come home at all. If Rafael went hunting in Miami, I believe all the girls he brought back were Cuban.”

  Boff’s cell phone rang.

  “What’s up, honey?” he said.

  Our apartment’s been ransacked. Steven has a concussion. He’s getting treated at Columbia Presbyterian.

  “Are you okay?”

  Yes. I was doing my volunteer work at the soup kitchen when it happened. Steven came home from school and walked in while the place was being searched. The cops said the concussion was caused by a blow to the head, probably from a gun butt.

  “I’m on my way.” Boff put away his phone and stood up.

  “What happened?” Cullen asked.

  “Somebody tossed my apartment and clocked my son on the head.” He threw a twenty on the table and headed for the door.

  Chapter 31

  When Boff walked into his condo, he blew past two detectives from the 42nd Precinct and went room to room, carefully inspecting the damage. Not only was the apartment a total mess, but the perps had also searched through all his personal stuff and put their grimy hands on his wife’s underwear. What especially pissed him off was that for no reason he could understand, they had ripped pages out of his high school yearbook, broken the glass encasing his college diploma, and urinated on the master bedroom carpet only a few feet from the bathroom.

  The only saving grace was that Jenny didn’t look rattled. After being married to a DEA agent for ten years, she had developed the steely attitude of a cop’s wife.

  When Boff had finished his inspection, he walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Honey, you’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Just another day in the life,” she said.

  He was still fuming when the two detectives walked over to question him. To him, these cops represented yet another intrusion into his personal life.

  “I’m Detective Hauser,” one said. “This is Detective Marquez. Do you have any idea why this was done, sir?”

  “No. How’s my son?”

  “Other than a bump on the head, he’s fine. They’re going to hold him for a couple hours just to keep him under observation.”

  Marquez stepped forward. “Do you have any enemies, Mr. Boff? The kind that would’ve done this?”

  Boff gave the detective a stony look. “Too many to count,” he said. “Including some of New York’s Finest.”

  Marquez narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been in trouble with the law?”

  “No, but I’ve been trouble for the law. I’m a private investigator specializing in making monkeys out of cops like you.”

  “Frank!” Jenny exclaimed. “I know you’re angry, but don’t take it out on these officers.”

  Detective Hauser pointed his pen at Boff. “You help get felons off?” the cop said. “Is that what you do?”

  Boff was about to unload on the two cops when his wife put a restraining hand on his arm. Then she turned to the detectives.

  “I apologize for my husband. He rarely gets angry. But when he does, he says things to purposely antagonize people.”

  Not wanting to upset her, Boff got himself under control. It wasn’t these clowns he was mad at, anyway. It was the people who had invaded his apartment and hurt his son. Turning to her, he said, “I’m going to see Steven. Can you get Ramona to come over to help you clean up the mess?”

  “Sure. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  Brushing by the cops again, Boff went out the door and took the elevator down to the lobby. Instead of wasting time going to the garage for his car, he walked out the front door and flagged a cab.

  “Columbia Presbyterian,” he said, climbing into the taxi. “As fast as you can without getting me killed.” Taking out a twenty from his wallet, he handed it over the seat to the driver. “Keep the change.”

  The driver nodded thanks and hit the gas pedal hard.

  Taking out his phone, Boff called Cullen and told him about the apartment. “I’m on my way to the hospital now to see Steven.”

  What do you think they were looking for in your apartment?

  “My best guess would be Marla’s address book.”

  The only people who knew you had the book besides me, Mikey, Damiano, and your friend Billy, was Mantilla.

  “There was one more. Emilio. Hopefully I can find a reason to eliminate him. Meanwhile, I think it’s time to send a little message to Mantilla and his mysterious benefactor.”

  You said you weren’t sure Mantilla was involved in the service.

  “I’m not. But as you just said, he did know I had the book. And I’ve got to take my anger out on somebody. He’ll do just fine.”

  After hanging up, he called mob boss Bruno Benvenuti.

  “Bruno, Frank Boff. I have a friend named Alberto Mantilla. He manages an Italian restaurant called Giancarlo’s. It’s near the Kings County Courthouse. I was wondering if you could check his kitchen for fire safety, because I worry if he ever had a fire, even a small one, he’d have to close down for a couple of weeks or more. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Sure. No problem. What did you say this guy’s name was again?

  “Alberto Mantilla. The restaurant is Giancarlo’s.”

  Hold on a second. I want to check on something. After a minute, the mobster came back on. Frank, don’t you read the newspapers?

  “Not really. Why?

  It’s right here in the Daily News. This guy Mantilla is dead.

  “What? How’d he die?”

  Somebody planted a bomb under his car. After he closed his restaurant last night, he turned on the ignition and went to the Big Kitchen in the Sky.

  Boff frowned. “Thanks for the heads up, Bruno. If you don’t mind, I need another favor.”

  Ask it.

  “Can you replace those two kids watching my mother’s store with some serious muscle?”

  No problem. Why?

  “I’m worried about her because of the case I’m working on.”

  When Boff arrived at the hospital, Steven was sitting in a curtained cubicle in the emergency room reading Sports Illustrated.

  “You okay, son?”

  Steven looked up from his magazine, glared at his father, and then went back to reading without saying a word.

  “How soon
can I take you home?”

  When Steven still didn’t answer, Boff, who was still plenty angry about the apartment, ripped the magazine out of his son’s hands and hurled it across the cubicle.

  “When I ask you a question, answer me!”

  “Screw you, Boff!”

  Boff took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “What are you mad at me for?”

  “This was your fault. Those guys came from your world.”

  Boff grimaced. He couldn’t argue with that. The kid was right. “Did you get a good look at a face?” he asked.

  The boy shook his head. “No. As soon as I opened the door, it felt like my head exploded and I passed out. I never saw your scumbag friends, Boff.”

  His anger flaring again, he stepped up to his son, leaned down close to his face, and said, “The name is Dad,” he said. “I’m sick of you calling me Boff all the time.”

  “Anything you say, Boff.”

  Steven got up from his chair, retrieved his magazine, sat back down, but didn’t open it. Boff knew his son had only seen him angry like this once before. They’d been on the second floor walkway of a mall in Las Vegas when a guy came up behind them, slapped Jenny on the ass, and ran away. He’d chased the guy down, grabbed him by the throat, and pushed him up against the railing. It must’ve looked to Steven like his father was going to throw the guy off the balcony before his mother rushed over and restrained him.

  “They told me,” Steven said after a minute in a softer voice, “that I can go home in another hour.”

  At this, Boff sat down on the other chair. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “Don’t bother. Just give me money for a cab.”

  “I want to be here in case the doctors find something else wrong with you.”

  Steven glanced down at his hands and said nothing. He looked almost contrite. Perhaps, Boff thought, the little talk Jenny’s priest had recently had with the kid was paying off. According to Jenny, the priest had told Steven that by shutting his father out, he was not just punishing his dad, but himself, too. He’d told him that later in life he would regret having grown up without ever having had a relationship with his father.

  Steven looked up at Boff. “Thanks…uh…for staying…Dad.”

  Boff smiled. “I’ve always told your mother that just once before I die, I want you and Sharon to call me Dad.”

  Steven nodded. Then totally out of left field, he asked, “Why’d you quit the DEA?”

  Boff looked surprised. Steven had never asked him about that or anything else about his past. Although he didn’t like telling people about his split with the DEA, this was his son. He had a right to know.

  “I lost respect for law enforcement.”

  “Why? Mom said you were once, like, this real patriotic guy committed to ridding the world of bad guys. The same kind of bad guys you help now to stay out of jail. What changed you?”

  Boff hesitated. This was harder to talk about than he had thought it would be. “It’s like this, son,” he finally said. “I got sick and tired of not being able to do my job because of interference from agency bureaucrats, powerful politicians, and people rich enough to override the rules. The whole system is corrupt.”

  He hoped Steven would drop it now, but the kid wasn’t through. “Were you any good as an agent?”

  “One of the best they ever had.”

  “Why’d you switch sides when you left the DEA?”

  His standard answer to that question was always that the money was better. It wasn’t the real reason, but it kept people from probing any further.

  “Well, I was bitter and angry at the agency, so I became a private investigator and took as many drug cases as I could.” He shook his head at the memory. “I thought by doing so, I was spiting the DEA. Which, as the years went by, I realized was pretty stupid. But by then I had a very good practice and was just too damn stubborn to admit I’d been wrong.”

  Steven paused to take all this new information in. “But now Mom’s rehabilitating you, right?”

  Boff laughed. “Yeah. I always tell her I hate doing pro bono work. But the truth is there are things about it I like. It reminds me of the days when I actually thought I was doing some good in the world. Or at least trying to when my hands weren’t tied. Promise me you won’t tell that to your mother. She likes to feel she’s changing my life.”

  Steven smiled and ran a finger across his mouth. “My lips are sealed, Dad.”

  Feeling awkward about this sudden new intimacy with his son, he got up, picked up an old Time magazine, sat down, and began reading. Steven took the cue and opened his Sports Illustrated. Neither said anything further until the doctor arrived, examined Steven, and told him he could go home.

  Chapter 32

  When Boff and Steven walked into their apartment, Jenny and the cleaning lady had just finished straightening it up. Boff handed the cleaning lady some money.

  “Thanks for coming, Ramona,” he said.

  “De nada, Mr. Boff.”

  After Ramona had left, he turned to his wife. “Anything broken?”

  “A couple lamps and a vase. No big deal.”

  “We’re lucky they didn’t rip up the cushions and the beds,” he said. “I guess they figured they wouldn’t have much time before one of us returned.”

  “Why’d this happen, Frank?” Jenny asked. “Does it have to do with your case?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  Hearing this and ignoring his apology, Jenny turned her back and stormed off toward the kitchen. Father and son followed her. They stood there a moment watching her stir a big pot on the stove.

  “Smells heavenly,” Boff said. “What is it?”

  Still without looking at her husband, she shot back, “Irish stew with Guinness stout and apple cider.”

  “Can’t wait to taste it.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Honey, we need to talk.”

  Jenny whipped around. “Oh, for God’s sake, what’s wrong now?”

  “Come into the living room,” he said with as much patience as he could pull together, “and I’ll tell you.” He pointed at his son. “You, too, Steven.”

  Steven made a face. “But, Dad, I wanted to play this new game I got on my Xbox. What’s so important, Dad?”

  Hearing Steven call her husband Dad not once but twice, Jenny’s eyebrows shot up. She gave Boff a silent look that said Did he really just call you Dad?

  “Let’s go back into the living room,” Boff repeated.

  Still frowning, Jenny lowered the heat under the pot and followed her husband into the living room, Steven close behind. Once they were seated, Boff said, “I was thinking now would be a great time for you two to visit Sharon at UCLA.”

  “Why?” Jenny’s voice could not have been frostier.

  “Well, I’m a bit worried that the people I’m up against might pay you and Steven another visit.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Absolutely not! If you’re in danger, Frank, I’m not leaving.”

  Steven looked up. “Hey, Dad, I’ll go to California! School’s been a real drag lately.”

  Jenny looked sharply at her son. “You’re not going, either,” she said. “What happens if your father gets hurt? He’ll need us to be here for him.”

  Boff sighed. “Honey, any chance of me talking you into going?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Knowing it was useless to try any further and convince her, he went into damage control mode. Taking a business card from his wallet, he picked up the telephone and dialed.

  “Teddy, Frank Boff. How’s business?

  Could be worse.

  “Well, it’s about to get better. I need a LaserShield security system put in at my apartment. How soon can you be here?”

  Let me get my son to watch the store. I’ll be over in about forty-five minutes. What’s up?

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.” He hung up.

  “Can I go back to my Xbox now?” Steven asked.

  “In a m
inute,” his father said.

  Steven glanced at his wrist watch. “But I’ve got a pickup game in forty minutes.”

  “I want you to skip that.”

  “Why? We’ve got these dudes coming down from Harlem. They play for a nationally-ranked school. I’m, like, totally psyched for the challenge.”

  “Well get un-psyched. I don’t want you out walking the streets for a while.”

  “You think somebody might try to whack me?”

  “No. But just to be on the safe side, I’m giving you a sizable bump in your allowance to be used only on cabs to and from school.”

  “Aw, come on, Boff—I mean Dad. School’s just eight blocks away. The guys’re gonna think I’m a nerd if they see me arriving in a cab.”

  “Be that as it may,” Boff said, “you’re going to use taxis.” He turned to his wife. “Honey, I’d like you to limit the number of times you go out shopping. Try to hit more than one store in the same day.”

  “Oh, no!” she said. “I will not, repeat, I will not be a prisoner in my own home.”

  “Then go to UCLA.”

  “Listen to me, Frank Boff,” she said. “If this case is so dangerous, maybe you should hand it over to somebody else.”

  “You know I can’t do that. So don’t even get started.”

  “No, I don’t know! Give me a reason why.”

  “Because if I let someone intimidate me by attacking my family, word will spread and encourage more episodes like this in the future. That’s why.” He waited for his wife to say something. When she didn’t, he continued. “I’m going to give both of you pepper spray and a gadget that emits a siren. Carry them on you whenever you’re out of the house.”

  Jenny poked him in the chest with a finger. “And who’s going to protect you, Mr. Macho? At least carry a gun, for God’s sake.”

  “You know I haven’t worn one since the DEA.”

  Steven touched his mother’s arm. “Mom, why won’t Dad carry a gun?”

  She looked at Boff, apparently to see if it was all right to tell Steven. He nodded.

  “When your father was in the agency,” she said, “he was once part of drug raid in which he accidentally shot a little girl who was about the same age as your sister. It was not a life-threatening wound, but your father was very shaken up and stayed at the hospital until the girl was released. He told me that night he’d never wear a gun again once he left the DEA.”