The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) (21 page)

As he drove to Wright’s shop, he mulled over Benvenuti’s connection to Alicia. He didn’t believe much in coincidences. The odds of Benvenuti having been the lover of his main target were pretty high. Toss in Emilio having used three of Alicia’s girls, and it was even higher. Could Benvenuti be an owner of the service? He certainly had experience in running girls. When the mobster first rose to power, prostitution had been one of his family’s main businesses. Whether he was still in that line of work, Boff wasn’t completely sure, but what he did know was Benvenuti had scaled back considerably on his operations over the years, basically limiting his family to gambling. Or at least that’s what he said. It would not be farfetched, however, to make a case that both the mobster and his son were the brains and the brawn behind the service. The only piece that didn’t fit was that Benvenuti had volunteered that he knew Alicia. If the mobster was actually running the service and knew Boff suspected it was tied to some murders, why would he say that? He frowned. Butting heads with the powerful mob boss was not something he would relish.

Taking out his cell phone, he looked up a number and called Vincent “Vinny Gorgeous” Alfano, a
caporegime
of the Lucchese crime family.

Hey, Frankie, what’s up? The boss ain’t in trouble, is he?

“Not that I know of. The reason I’m calling is I was wondering whether Bruno Benvenuti was still running girls.”

No. He stopped doing that a long time ago. Why are you asking?

“I’ve got a case dealing with an elite escort service, and I’m wondering if he’s connected with it.”

You want me to ask around
? Just to make sure?

“Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather you didn’t do that. The last thing I need is for Bruno to think I was checking up on him.”

I hear you. Come around some time before I die.

“Will do.”

Then he called Damiano.

“I thought you should know there’s a very slight chance that Bruno Benvenuti might be involved in the escort service,” he told her.

That’d be bad for you. Great for me. If I nailed him, I’d get promoted to sergeant.

“Do you know anybody in the city’s Organized Crime Control Bureau?”

An ex-girlfriend.

“Can you ask her if she knows if Benvenuti still runs girls?”

No can do. She hates my guts. We didn’t have an especially pleasant breakup.

“So bring her flowers.”

She’d spit in my face. Bye, Boff.

He checked his watch. It was
ten forty-five. Cullen’s date would be gone by now. He called the boxer’s land line.

“How’d it go, Danny?”

Actually, pretty good. She was friends with Marla.

“That
is
good. Did you get her phone number?”

Y
up. And she asked for mine, too.

“Now I’m
really
impressed. Did you ask her who runs the escort service?”

Yes. But s
he wouldn’t tell me. She got spooked, and then, just a few minutes later, she cut the date short. Where are you?

“Driving to my information broker’s place.”

What for?

“I’m going to mess with Alicia’s head. See you tomorrow.”

When Boff walked into Wright’s back room, he found his ex-DEA pal in a karate uniform performing hand tactics, elbow strikes, and kicks. Overweight as he was, Wright looked like a beached whale trying to move around on land. Boff sat on the couch and watched the whale work.

After a few more kicks and hand tactics, the information broker called it a day. Grabbing a towel, he wiped the sweat off his face and bald head and said, “I’m a bit rusty. But it’ll all come back in a few weeks.”

“Can I ask why after all these years, you’re suddenly taking this up again?”

“When you brought those young boxers over, and I saw how great they looked, it made me feel old. I want to get my mojo back.”

Boff laughed. “Why bother? You’re probably going to die from the chemtrails, anyway.”

Shooting Boff a sour look, Wright sat down at his computer, grabbed a pint bottle of water, and drained it before putting his hands on his keyboard. After a minute of typing and clicking, he apparently found what he was looking for. He turned back around to Boff.

“I did a little research on that divorce judge’s cases.”

“And….?”

“The national average for who gets the kids and house is roughly eighty-five to ninety percent in favor of the woman.”

“And what about Morant’s cases?”

“About seventy-five percent for the women. I called my daughter’s divorce lawyer and asked if this was unusual. He said it was. When I told him the judge’s name, he said he’d never tried a case before Morant, but he’d heard rumors. Pretty much the same things you did.”

Boff helped himself to a can of Pepsi in the mini-fridge and sat back down. “I’ve got some news you aren’t going to like,” he said as he popped the top. “There’s a slight chance Bruno Benvenuti may be involved in the escort service.”

“You’re right. I don’t like that.”

After taking a tug on the soda, he told Wright about Benvenuti’s old affair with Alicia.

“Why would he tell you he knew her if he was involved with the escort service? That makes no sense.”

“I agree. But as much as I don’t believe in coincidences, this may be one.”

“Let’s hope so. In the meantime I had some fun with the escort service’s website. Come and take a look.”

Boff rolled a chair over and looked at the computer screen.

Wright pointed. “I hacked into the Club Cachet website. I was able to do this because it had a flaw in its programmed dynamic script. Don’t ask me to explain. Once I got in through a backdoor, I was able to discover the webmaster’s password. That essentially allowed me to do anything I wanted to the site.”

He typed in some commands, then he pointed to the screen again. “Here’s the Club Cachet website as it usually looks. See where it says OUR BEAUTIFUL GIRLS in blue? I click on that link and—voilà, it takes me to a page displaying all the lovely ladies. Okay, now let’s return to the home page.”

Wright typed more commands. “This time, when we click on OUR BEAUTIFUL GIRLS, instead of luscious babes, we get—” 

Boff leaned closer and smiled. “Male escorts in bikini briefs. My guess is that Club Cachet’s clients will
not
be amused.”

“You better believe it.”

“How long will it take before the webmaster finds out what’s been done and can fix it?”

“Could be fifteen minutes. Could be two hours. Depends on the webmaster. The main thing is we’re going to catch their attention. And they won’t know if the hacker is some pimply high school geek or the FBI.”

Boff smiled. “Good. That’ll rattle them. Do one other thing for me, Billy. Can you work up a dossier on Alicia? One that includes a copy of her rap sheet and her connection to Pleasure Island.”

“I can do even better.” He began typing again. “I’ll get you a printout of the
Pleasure Island site.”

“How can you do that? It undoubtedly was taken down after the bust.”

“True. But when a scandal like that breaks, bloggers jump all over it and cut and paste parts of the site onto their web pages. Lemme see if I can find it…. First, I’ll Google ‘Pleasure Island scandal’…ahh…here we go. The Huffington Post ran with it.” He clicked on the link.

“But where are the girls?” Boff asked. “All I see is the Huffington Post headline and the story about the bust.”

“Hold your horses, my friend. Watch. Now I scroll down and…there it is. A duplicate of the Pleasure Island site.”

Boff studied the site a minute. “It looks very similar to Club Cachet’s website,” he said. “Sexy women. Short descriptions. The tops of their heads cropped out. Okay. Now let’s see if we can find Alicia. I imagine she wouldn’t have used her real name. So let’s check for something like Cuban Beauty.”

As they started reading about the girls, Wright suddenly tapped a finger on the screen. “Here she is,” he said. “This’s our gal.” He started reading out loud. “‘Josephina is a fiery Cuban model with an uncompromising zest for novel experiences.’” He moved his cursor to the right of the picture. “Over here, it tells you our fiery Cuban’s height, weight, hair color, and eye color.”

Boff read the description. “Yeah, that sounds like her. Good work, Billy. Besides putting this in the dossier, can you include a printout of her current business? And I don’t mean the restaurant.”

“Technically, Frank, her name’s not listed as owner of the escort service.”

“True. But the initials ACM will resonate with the person I’m sending the dossier to.”

“Who might that be?”

“Someone very dear to her heart.”

The next day,
Boff was walking past a newsstand on the way to Giancarlo’s when his attention was caught by the front page headline in the
Daily News
:

2 COPS MURDERED

EXECUTION STYLE

The photo under the headline showed the bullet-riddled patrol car with the two bloody bodies slumped inside. He bought the paper, flipped to the story, and looked for the names of the dead cops. Pearson and Janovich. The same two who had killed Marla’s rapist, ripped up her apartment, and then trashed his. As he continued reading, it became clear that the
News
was speculating that the cops had mob connections because of the gangland style of the murders.

Tossing the newspaper in the nearest trash can, he called Damiano.

“Well,” he said to her, “it looks like our cops are out of play.”

Yeah
. IA is hot to grill me. This sucks.

“I’m figuring after IA questioned these two mutts about the trashed apartment, they put in a panic call to Alicia.”

Mantilla’s girlfriend? Why her?

“She own
s the escort service.” He explained to her how he had found this out.

So you think
she had the two cops eliminated and made it look like a mob hit to throw us off?

“
Or…maybe it really
was
a mob hit.”

What
cha mean?

“The hit could’ve been done by connections of Emilio or Bruno.”

Whoa, Boff. We don’t have any proof yet that either one of the Benvenutis is involved with the escort service. Although I admit that with six dead bodies and counting, we know this was the work of a pro or couple of pros. Do you think Alicia has that kind of mob connection?

“It’s certainly possible in her line of work.”

Meanwhile, I’ve got some news on the IED. The bomb squad said the one that killed Mantilla was nitrogen-based, and the materials used to make it were very common. Meaning no signature. And in other uplifting news, the fucking homicide I’ve been assigned to is dragging on. I wish the hell I could join you on this
.

“I understand. Just do what you can in your spare time. I’ve got to go now.”

When Boff entered Giancarlo’s, he was met with a smile from the hostess.

“Hi, Daysi. What time does Alicia usually come in?”

“Around
four o’clock, Mr. Boff. Then she works in her office for awhile, eats dinner, and after that hangs around and makes everybody’s life miserable. She usually leaves between eight and nine. Occasionally, a little earlier.”

“Do me a favor. When Alicia comes in today, call me on my cell phone.”

“Sure.”

He gave her his business card.

“By the way,” she said, “I got a callback for a candy bar commercial. I only had two lines, but apparently they liked the expression on my face while I was eating it. It’s a dumb commercial—aren’t they all—but it’s a union one. Meaning if they hire me, I’ll be eligible to apply for my SAG card.”

“Well, good luck with that. When the commercial comes on one of my favorite sitcoms, I’ll cheer for you.”

Back outside the restaurant, he called Wallachi and told him he was ready to use his services.

“I want you and another good op.”

No problem. What’s the job
?

He gave him a quick rundown of what he had in mind, told Wallachi to park his car near Giancarlo’s about
seven o’clock, and then hung up.

At the gym that afternoon, Boff took up his post near the door and watched as McAlary put Cullen through what looked like another oddball drill. Cullen’s right arm was tied to his side while he sparred with a boxer Boff didn’t recognize. As Big Alonzo walked by, he grabbed the boxer’s arm.

“Got a second?”

Alonzo stopped. “Sure, Mr. Boff.”

“Why does Danny have his arm tied?”

“Coach said he wasn’t jabbing with his left enough. And when he did use it, he wasn’t putting enough pop into it. Now, with his right arm tied, see, Danny
has
to jab hard or else Darnell—the dude he’s sparring with—will get inside and rough him up.”

Boff had never been much of a fan of boxing. Like most people, he saw it as a violent sport in which two guys climbed into the ring and
just slugged it out. But after watching Cullen train so many times, he conceded that there was a lot more to boxing than just brawling. Intense conditioning, strategy, and technique were as important as punching power. He could certainly relate to technique and strategy. Right now, he was training to do battle with Alicia. Interfering with her website was just a crisp jab. The knockout punch was coming.

Daysi called at four-thirty to tell him Alicia had arrived. After collecting Cullen when he finished his workout, Boff drove over to Giancarlo’s and parked near the restaurant. It was six-forty five.

Minutes later, Wallachi showed up driving an old model Crown
Victoria with black wall tires. Probably an ex-cop car. Boff and Cullen left his Malibu and walked over to the Crown Vic. There was an investigator in the back seat screwing a big zoom lens onto a thirty-five millimeter camera. Boff climbed into the front seat, Cullen the back.

“Frank,” Wallachi said, “who’s your assistant?”

“Danny’s a professional boxer. I bring him along because he gets a thrill out of watching me weave my magic.”

Wallachi glanced in the rear view mirror at Cullen, who shook his head. “Frank, my crack op in the back seat is Manny Lipinski.”

Boff turned around to get a look at the
crack op
. He was immediately skeptical. The guy was in his early thirties and looked more like a stockbroker than any operative he had ever seen. Manny Lipinski’s hair was slicked-back with gel, and he wore a charcoal gray suit, a blue button-down shirt, and a yellow tie with a shiny silver clip attached to it. Boff felt like telling the yo-yo if he tailed somebody looking like he did, he’d be spotted in New York minute. Instead, he turned to Wallachi.

“Pete, you must pay your investigators well. Manny looks like he works on Wall Street.”

Wallachi merely smiled. Then, “So, Frank, is this gal Alicia inside now?”

“Yes. Expect her to leave somewhere between eight and nine. In the meantime…,” he pointed across the street, “I’ll run over to that bagel shop and get us some ammunition.”

After Boff left the car, Manny turned to Cullen. “Are you any good as a boxer?”

“My next fight’ll be for a world championship.”

The crack op looked impressed. “That’s pretty good.”

Cullen took at closer look at him. “What about you? Are you a good investigator?”

Manny saw Wallachi staring at him in the mirror. “
I
like to think so,” he said, “but,
Pete
, on the other hand, says I’m a work in progress.”

A few minutes later Boff returned with a bag full of assorted bagels, a couple tubs of cream cheese, plastic knives, and four coffees. He offered the bag first to the crack op.

“No, thanks,” Manny said. “I don’t want to take a chance on messing up my suit. Cost me a bundle at Barney’s.”

Cullen normally didn’t eat bread, but he was starving, so he grabbed the bag from Boff, took a plain bagel out, cut it open, and used his fingers to dig out most of the bread inside the crust. Taking the bag back, Boff offered it to Wallachi, who pulled a salt bagel out and bit into it without even using any cream cheese.

“Frank, how many of these salty babies did you get for me?”

“Four. That should hold you.”

Pulling a poppy-seed bagel out, Boff cut it open, slathered a big clump of cream cheese on it, put it back together, and took a healthy bite. Turning back to Manny, he said, “You want coffee? Or are you worried about spilling it on your clothes?”

“Coffee’s fine. Thanks.”

After passing the coffees around, Boff added, “So, Manny, what did you do before you became a crack op?”

“I was a gym teacher. I liked working with kids, you know. But after awhile, man, it got really boring.”

“And you find this more exciting?”

“Hell yes.”

“You
enjoy
surveillance?”

Manny laughed. “Shit, no. It’s more boring than teaching school. But it pays a lot better.”

“There are plenty of jobs,” Boff said, “that pay better than teaching. Why’d you pick this one?”

Wallachi turned to Boff. “Frank, stop grilling the kid.”

“Just making conversation, Pete.”

“Then tell me more about this surveillance.”

When Alicia left the restaurant at eight-fifteen, Manny snapped off a few shots. “She’s hot,” he remarked.

At which Wallachi turned around and wagged a finger. “Are we going to have this problem again?”

“No, Pete, but….”

“No buts. Keep your dick in your pants and your mind on business!”

As Alicia climbed into a cab, her short skirt hiked up, showing off her shapely legs.

“Oh, man,” Manny said, “did you see those legs?”

“Last warning, Manny,” Wallachi said as he started the car. He tailed the cab with another car between them as a buffer, and when it dropped Alicia off at a hair salon, he parked across the street half a block away.

“Pete,” Boff said, “I didn’t know salons were open this late.”

“New trend. My wife told me that some salons are figuring out that people work longer hours these days, so they open in the afternoon and close later at night. My wife goes to one of those night owl salons.” He pulled another salt bagel out of the bag. “Guys, this could be a long wait.”

Manny tapped Wallachi on the shoulder. “Why a long wait? When I get a haircut, I’m in and out in fifteen minutes.”

Wallachi looked at Boff and smiled. “Manny’s never been married. He doesn’t understand women.” He turned to face his crack op. “When you have your hair cut, do you get highlights? Or dye your hair? Or have a manicure and pedicure?”

Manny scrunched his face. “What, are you crazy?”

“Well, going to a hair salon for a woman is like being a kid at an amusement park. They want to try everything.”

An hour passed. To help kill the time, Boff and Wallachi relived some of their capers from the securities fraud case they had worked together.

The crack op, meanwhile, was growing increasingly antsy. He tapped Wallachi’s shoulder again. “Maybe she spotted the tail and snuck out the backdoor,” he suggested. “You want me to check and see if she’s still in there.”

“Stay put, Sherlock.”

When Alicia finally left the salon, her brown hair was now blonde, and her long locks were snipped into a bob.

Manny snapped off more shots. “Why’d she get rid of that long, sexy hair?” he asked.

“It’s a girl thing,” Wallachi said. “Women feel compelled every few months—especially when they’re bored—to do something radical with their hair. Right, Frank?”

Boff shook his head. “Not my Jenny. She wears hers exactly the way she did when I took her to our senior prom. Sleek and with long, fringed bangs.”

“Your wife’s one of a kind,” Wallachi said. “With mine, just when I’m starting to get used to her new do, she changes it.”

As they spoke, Alicia hailed a cab, which took her to a three-story row house in Park Slope. Getting out of the cab, she walked up the steps of the row house, opened the outside door, and disappeared inside.

“Think she lives there?” Manny asked. “Or is she just visiting somebody?”

Wallachi blew out a sigh. “Jesus Christ, Manny! That’s why I call you a project. How can you ask a stupid question like that?”

The crack op looked puzzled. “Whaddaya mean?”

“She didn’t ring the doorbell,” Cullen said. “And she had a key.”

“Very good,” Wallachi said.

There were no spaces near the building, so Wallachi double parked. Forty-five minutes later, Alicia came back out wearing a more sophisticated dress. When a Lincoln Town Car pulled up, she climbed in the back seat. When the Town Car drove off, Wallachi followed.

“Manny,” he said, “what did you just see?”

“The hot babe called car service.”

“How do you know a date didn’t pick her up in his car?”

“Because she sat in the back.”

“Maybe the date sent his chauffeur,” Wallachi said.

“Well,” Manny said, “I guess that’s possible.”

Cullen intervened again. “No, it isn’t. The Town Car had livery plates.”

“Good again,” Wallachi said. “Maybe I should fire Manny and hire you.”

Boff turned to his friend. “Pete, all you need to know about Danny’s investigative powers is that he took classes with Herman Jerkoff.”

Wallachi laughed. “On second thought, I’ll stick with Manny.”