The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) (11 page)

“Consider it done.”

When Nicholas returned with the camera and handed it to Benvenuti, Boff grabbed a clean towel and put it over his head to cover his face.

The mob boss grinned. “Come on, Frank, don’t be camera shy.”

“Can’t you take the picture like this?”

“Nope. Gotta see your face.”

After Boff reluctantly pulled the towel off, Benvenuti backed a few steps away from the counter, apparently so he could frame the soda jerk and the fountain together, then snapped off a flash shot. “Try to smile, Frank. Act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“But I’m not.”

“Fake it.”

Boff snarled, and Benvenuti snapped off five pictures in all before putting the camera down on the counter near his egg cream.

“Why’d you take so many shots?” Boff asked.

“One for each guy at the table tonight.”

On his way to the gym to pick up Cullen and Bellucci, Boff phoned Wright to see if he had found out any more about the Cuban in Miami Gina had been calling.

Yeah
, I did. I checked with an ex-DEA pal who’s a member of the Miami PD. Organized Crime Control Bureau. This Gamboa guy the wife called is connected, yeah, but he’s low on the totem pole.

“Does he have a rap sheet?”

Yes on that, too. He went inside for awhile on assault and battery. Last year, he was arrested as a suspect in a murder, but they couldn’t make a case and let him go. My source also said Gamboa’s not the brightest bulb. He didn’t think he has the smarts to pull off a contract hit in New York.

“You’d be surprised how many idiots I’ve defended for murder.
For now, the wife stays in play.”

When Boff arrived at the gym, Cullen and Bellucci were waiting at the bottom of the steps, both looking very dapper in sport shirts and slacks. They climbed into the back of his car.

“Did you use deodorant?” Boff asked.

Cullen leaned toward Boff and raised one arm. “Wanna sniff my armpit?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

On the way to Devil’s Own, Boff stopped at a three-story townhouse on West 10
th
Street in the Village to pick up Emilio Benvenuti. Scarcely a minute after Boff phoned to tell him he was downstairs, the young man walked out of the house and strode over to the car. In his mid-thirties, he was a handsome guy who looked like he stayed fit. Stepping into the front seat of the Malibu, he shook hands with Boff.

As Boff signaled and pulled away from the curb, he said, “Those guys in the back
seat are boxer friends of mine.”

Emilio turned around and looked. “Boxers, huh? Cool. I box in white-collar fights at Gleason’s Gym. Are you guys amateurs or pros?”

“Pros,” Cullen said.

“What’re your names? Maybe I’ve heard of you.”

“I’m Danny Cullen. He’s Mikey Bellucci.”

“Cullen? Are you any relation to Dan Cullen, the Hall of Famer?”

“He was my dad.”

“Wow! Your father was one helluva fighter. How about you, Mikey?”

“I don’t got no pedigree. My old man was a real bum. But I had a very good amateur career and am unbeaten in nine professional fights.”

Emilio shook their hands. Then he turned back to Boff and tapped on the dashboard.

“This car, Frank. You can’t afford a better one?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Emilio laughed. “What’s
right
with it? When’s the last time you had this bomb washed?”

He shrugged. “Who can remember back that far?”

“It’s going to blow my image if I arrive at Devil’s Own in this car. I usually show up in a Town Car. Or a taxi.”

“You want me to let you off a block away?”

“Nah. I’m just messing with you.”

“Tell me about this club,” Boff said.

“Devil’s Own is the place to be below mid-town for young suits like me. It has a two-level restaurant with three bars and a disco downstairs. Once in a while you run into a celebrity. They’re usually the ones who can’t hold their liquor and make jerks out of themselves. What’s your interest, Frank? You don’t strike me as the club type.”

“A Cuban boxer who was murdered used to go there a lot.” 

Emilio nodded. “Yeah, I read about that boxer on the Internet. He was supposed to be pretty good.”

“More than pretty good,” Cullen said. “He was an Olympic gold medalist and a legendary amateur.”

“Really? Knowing how hard you guys train, I wonder how this Cuban found the time and the energy to party.”

“Me, I couldn’t do it,” Cullen said. “Most guys can’t. But there’ve been many top boxers who’ve been party animals.”

Boff decided it was time to steer the conversation away from boxers and boxing. “Emilio, I’d like to talk to someone who works at the club and might’ve known the Cuban.”

“Sure, Frank. I’ve got just the guy for you. Matt Ricci, the head bartender. I’ll introduce you.”

After Boff drove past the limos stacked up in front of Devil’s Own and parked his car in a garage around the corner, they walked back to the club. Just as he had suspected, there was a long line behind a velvet rope waiting to get in. But Emilio led them over to a guard who was holding a clipboard. The guard smiled at Emilio and bumped fists with him.

“I’ve got your friends on the list,” the guard said. “Go ahead in.”

In keeping with the style of the meat-packing district, Devil’s Own had an industrial chic look, with exposed brick walls, a pipeline foot railing at the weathered-wooden bar, hanging lights enclosed in cast iron, bar shelves made of plank wood and steel piping, and bowls made from cap nuts and filled with
pretzels.

It apparently
was too early for the jet set, so the place wasn’t too crowded. As Emilio led them toward one of the bars, the bartender waved to him, then picked up a bottle of Grey Goose, poured liberally into a rocks glass, attached a long, twisted lemon peel to the rim, and set the drink down in front of the mobster’s son as soon as he sat on one of the polished, knotted pine stools.

“Thanks, Matt,” Emilio said. “These are friends of mine.”

“What can I get you guys?” Matt asked. He was about the same age as Emilio.

“Diet Coke for me,” Cullen said.

After Bellucci ordered a regular Coke with lime, Boff threw caution to the wind and took a glass of Simi Russian River Chardonnay. At home, he only drank inexpensive boxed Almaden Chablis, but he knew Emilio was picking up the tab.

After the bartender had brought the other drinks, Emilio said to him, “Frank’s a private investigator. He wants to speak to you about someone who used to come in here a lot.”

Matt frowned. “Emilio, you know I can’t talk about customers.”

“This one won’t mind. He’s dead.”

The bartender nodded. “Okay. What was the guy’s name?”

“Rafael Oquendo,” Boff said.

Matt nodded. “The boxer. I remember him. He was a big spender. He could hold his liquor.”

“When he came here,” Boff said, “was he usually alone?”

Matt laughed. “Hell no! This guy
never
came alone. He had him a regular stable of beauties. Not only were these babes hot, they were also classy-looking girls. Dressed in expensive designer clothes. As I recall, the boxer seemed particularly fond of one girl. She came in with him quite a few times.”

“Do you remember her name?” Boff asked.

“Sure. It was Marla.”

Cullen looked at Bellucci.

“Chill, Danny,” Bellucci whispered. “There’s a million Marlas in New York.”

Cullen turned to the bartender, “What was her last name?”

“The boxer introduced her as Marla Hoban,” Matt replied. “I’ve got a good memory for customers. Especially really pretty ones.”

It wasn’t his girlfriend.

“When the boxer drank here,” Boff said, “did he pick up the tab all the time?”

“Yes. But not with Marla. She insisted on paying for her own drinks. And in cash.”

Cullen looked at his friend again. This time Bellucci shrugged.

“You’re sure her last name was Hoban?” Cullen asked.

“Absolutely. I make it my business to know my regulars and what they drink.” The bartender paused. “Actually, though, now that I think of it, one time she was short on cash and gave me a credit card. I happened to glance at the last name and it wasn’t Hoban. A Latino name…. Let me think….”

“Ramirez?” Cullen asked in a tight voice.

The bartender thought about this a few moments, then said, “Yeah, yeah, that sounds like it. But I’m not a hundred percent sure. She only used the card once.”

Digging out his wallet, Cullen handed a snapshot of Marla to the bartender and held his breath.

Matt stared at it and nodded. “Yup. This is her. Only she didn’t dress funky like this. She always wore top-of-the-line dresses.”

Cullen hesitated. “Do you think she and Rafael were lovers?”

Matt shook his head. “Not really, Danny. No.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, see, Rafael was a real touchy-feely type. You know? And he loved to handle the merchandise. With Marla, he kept his hands to himself.”

“They didn’t kiss or anything?”

“Not that I ever saw. My take was they were just friends. Although I got the distinct impression from the way he looked at her, he would’ve preferred a different arrangement.”

Boff could tell Cullen was getting ready to lose it. He drank off half his wine, put the glass down, and extended a hand to the bartender. “Matt, you’ve been a big help,” he said. “We’ve got to take off now.”

Emilio, who had been half-listening, touched Boff’s arm. “Frank. You guys leaving already? You only just got here.”

“I’d love to stay,” Boff said, “but these boys take their training curfews very seriously.”

Emilio smiled. “All work, no play, huh?”

Cullen felt like he was suffocating. He needed to get away from this place. Sliding off his stool, he bolted for the front door. Bellucci hurried after him.

The bartender said, “Did I say something wrong?”

“Marla was his girlfriend,” Boff replied.

“Oops. Sorry about that. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have talked about her. I bet he’s going to give her hell tonight.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“She’s dead, too.”

Silence reigned in Boff’s car on the way back to Brooklyn until Bellucci said, “So, Danny…what are you feeling?”

“What the fuck you think I’m feeling? She cheated on me. I was such a jerk.”

“Slow down,” Boff said. “You heard the bartender say Rafael never touched her. They were just friends.”

“My ass they were! Maybe at the club they agreed just to act like friends.
And…and if Marla went out with him regularly, who’s to say there weren’t other guys she was seeing, too? Not to mention the friggin’ expensive clothes she wore and the drinks she bought. She told me she only worked a couple nights a week at a bar in Brooklyn Heights and couldn’t afford a cab ride to my place from Columbia—like, if she really even went to law school. Everything was a goddamn lie!”

“Come on, Danny,” Bellucci said, “you know she loved you.”

Cullen dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “She probably faked that, too.”

Boff glanced at Cullen in his rearview mirror. “Why would she fake that?” he asked.

“Who the hell knows,” Cullen snapped back. “Maybe she was a fucking weirdo who got off leading a double life. Man, the only fucking thing I know for sure is I didn’t really fucking know her at all.”

Boff made his voice softer. “Danny, you’ve got a right to be upset. But I want you to try and distance yourself from her for a moment. We’ve got two murders that might be connected. So I need to know everything Marla told you about herself. Whether you think she was lying or not.”

In response, Cullen took out his wallet, pulled out a snapshot Bellucci had taken of him and Marla, and was about to tear it in half when Boff, who glanced in the mirror, said, “Don’t do that! Give it to me. I want a picture of her.” 

“Be my fucking guest.” He tossed the photo over the seat. It landed on
the dashboard. Boff picked it up and set it down beside him. 

Figuring it would be better to question Cullen after the initial shock wore off, Boff didn’t say anything further about Marla until they were in the boxer’s apartment. After Bellucci fetched sodas, they sat on the couch in the living room.

“How’d you meet her?” Boff asked. “Were you introduced by someone? Just met by chance?”

Cullen took his time before answering. “She was sitting in a Starbucks at the table next to me. I don’t remember how we started talking. Maybe I said something to her, I dunno. What’s the difference how we met?”

“I want to know if she tried to pick you up.”

“I…I don’t think so. I mean, she was, like, friendly and all that, but she wasn’t coming on to me. In fact, when I asked if I could call her, she said something like it wasn’t the right time. She was getting over somebody. It was only after I kept pestering her that she finally wrote her phone number down on a napkin. Then she stood up a minute later and walked out.”

Boff paused a moment so it wouldn’t seem like he was hammering the kid with questions. “Where’d you go on your first date?”

“Dinner.”

“Was it a nice place? The kind where people dress up?”

“Sort of. I mean, I wore a sports jacket.”

“And what’d she wear?”

Cullen grimaced. “What she always fucking wore. Fucking jeans and a fucking stupid shirt. I guess she sent her designer clothes to the cleaners that night.”

Boff could tell Cullen was getting ready to shut down, so he pressed on while he could. “Okay, so eventually you two got involved. Did she tell you anything about where she was from?”

“
Jersey. Union City.”

“Probably Cuban, then. Did she ever talk about her parents?”

“Stop fucking asking me fucking questions!” Cullen snapped. “What the hell’s the point of all this? It was just bullshit she made up.”

“That may very well be,” Boff said, “but just in case it isn’t, I need to know.”

“Why’s that?”

“You know why. Marla could be the key to finding out why Rafael was killed.”

“Isn’t it obvious why that shithead was killed? He was a cheater. He probably messed with the wrong woman and some jealous guy killed him.”

Boff shook his head. “No,” he said, “I think that’s too simple. Something else is involved here.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for starters, I’m pretty sure Marla’s murder was staged and the cops were involved.”

Cullen shot up off the couch. “What the
fuck
are you talking about?”

“If you’ll sit back down, Danny, I’ll explain.”

Although Cullen wanted to bolt, part of him also wanted to hear what Boff had to say. Reluctantly he sat back down on the couch. “Let’s hear it,” he said. “Fast.”

Boff recounted how the cops had just happened to be in the right place at the right time that night,
and how they hadn’t followed the standard response procedure.

“So?” Cullen was ready to stand up again.

“So, I believe the whole murder scene was rigged,” Boff said. “A setup. The contractor paid the killer to take Marla out. And he also paid the two cops to be on the scene to take the rapist out. That way, the murder would look like an open and shut case and nobody would bother to look too deeply into Marla’s life.”

Looking disgusted, Cullen stood up and disappeared into his bedroom, slamming the door after him.

“Boff,” Bellucci said, “I think he needs some time to deal with this before you question him again.”

“True. But knowing him, no matter how pissed he is now, he’ll come to his senses. He’s been around me long enough to know I wouldn’t have said what I just said if there wasn’t some truth to it. You wait. By tomorrow, he’ll be bugging me to let him help out on Marla’s case.”

Bellucci shrugged. “I dunno about that. Like, you know, Danny’s had a rough time. First Marla gets killed. Then he finds out she had money and frequented places like Devil’s Own. And now? Now you’re connecting the two murders. That’s a helluva lot to digest. He could just shut everything out and not talk to you.”

Boff smiled. “I doubt that, Mikey. Even if he thinks Marla cheated on him and lied, he’s going to want to find the killer or killers and punish them. It’s his nature.”

Bellucci laughed. “Tell me about it! If you embarrass him in the gym, he turns into a junkyard dog. Danny has pounded the shit out me on more than one occasion. Also, let’s not forget that when you two vigilantes found the guys who killed Nino Biaggi, you made sure they never lived to see a courtroom.”

Boff stood up. “See you tomorrow. Thanks for the soda.”