The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) (16 page)

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

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 j
udicial corruption in Brooklyn.”

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.

“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.

When Boff walked into his condo, he blew past two detectives from the 42
nd
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 real
ly. 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.