The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) (23 page)

Just before dinnertime that night, Wright called Boff to say he would have the dossier on Alicia a bit later. Jenny had gone to Schaller & Weber, the famous German butcher on East 86
th
Street, and had bought knockwurst, bauernwurst
,
imported sauerkraut, German potato salad, and the shop’s own brand of pickles and mustard.

After dinner, Boff took the elevator down to the building’s garage, got in his car, and was about to turn on the ignition when he realized he hadn’t used the bomb detector. He debated a moment whether to bother. For over a year now, he had been using the device and had never gotten anything but a green light. Still, he said to himself, getting out of the car was a lot less inconvenient then having your ass blown to kingdom come.

With a weary sigh, therefore, he stepped outside the car and turned on the device. His heart leapt in his chest. The light was blinking red. The device’s screen told him there was something attached to the bottom of the engine block. He trotted over to an elevator, which was about sixty feet away, let his racing heart slow down, then called Davie Akers in Las Vegas.

Akers was Jenny’s cousin and a former member of both the NYPD and
Las Vegas bomb squads. He had retired after losing an arm and an eye in a blast that had made flesh confetti out of his partner. Now he ran the spy shop in Vegas where Boff had bought his bomb detector and various other paraphernalia.

Hey
, Frank. How’s life in the Big Apple?

“Nothing exciting. Unless you count the IED that’s under my car right now.”

You’re kidding? Thank god you had my detector.

“Actually, I almost forgot to use it. I almost turned on the ignition.”

Oh man, if you had, they’d be picking up pieces of you for days.

“I don’t even want to think about that. You got any buddies left in the bomb squad here?”

A few. Why?

“Well, obviously, I need this device removed. But I don’t want NYPD coming here in an official capacity and asking me a lot of questions I don’t want to answer.”

So…you want me to send over a couple guys on a moonlighting detail, right?

“Right. That’s exactly what I had in mind. And I’ll make it plenty worth their while. Can you do it?”

Let me make some phone calls. I’ll get back to you. And make sure you don’t go near that car again.

“No problem
.” 

While Boff stood there, waiting, a couple of men walked out of the elevator and headed for their cars. For no logical reason, Boff held his breath as each man started his car. Fifteen minutes later, Akers called back.

Two of my friends’ll be there. Give me your address and where your car is
.

Boff fed him the info.

They should be there in about twenty minutes.

“You’re a good man,
Davie. I owe you big time.”

That’s right, you do. So
have Jenny cook one of her awesome cider-braised pork roasts and ship it to me. My wife will go nuts. She loves it.

“You got it.”

Boff hustled out of the garage on foot, went to his bank, and used his debit card to draw out his daily limit of one thousand dollars. Then he returned to the garage and waited by the elevator again. About ten minutes later, a SUV with civilian plates showed up. Two men got out of the car and walked over to him.

“You Frank Boff?” a short, wiry Hispanic asked.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Ray Quintana. My partner here is Jake Glover. Which one’s your car?”

Boff pointed. “The Malibu. Where’s your bomb suits?”

“In the back of the car,” Quintana said. “Only Jake will be wearing one.”

“Why just him?”

“We’ve got a remote device called a PAN Disrupter. We can disarm the bomb remotely from a safe distance. But first one of us has to position the PAN by the car. Jake won a coin toss for the honors.”

Glover opened the rear door of the SUV, brought out a simple-looking device with a hollow tube secured to a frame, set it down on the ground, and started putting on his bomb suit.

“How does that thing work?” Boff asked Quintana.

“It fires a blank twelve-gauge shotgun shell. We load it and aim it at the bomb, then Jake comes back here out of range and remotely discharges the shell. Ideally, the projectile disables the bomb. Well, ninety-five percent of the time it does.”

“And the other five percent?”

Quintana smiled. “You’ll need a new car. But from the looks of yours, you’re due for one, anyway.”

Boff frowned. If the damn car blew up, Jenny would be hell to deal with. Glover wheeled the device over to the car, cranked it down low, and lined it up with the bomb.

“Davie told me you could be trusted to not let anyone know we did this,” Quintana said. “We’d get fired if the Department found out.”

“I’ve never broken a confidence in twenty years as a DEA agent and investigator.”

“Also, in the highly unlikely event your car
does
blow up, my partner and I will tear ass out of here before the boys in blue arrive.”

“Understood.”

Hustling back to the SUV, Glover reached inside the car, pulled out a remote device, then looked at Boff. “You ready, Frank?” he asked.

“Not really. But fire the thing.”

“Bombs away!” Glover pressed the device’s button.

The Pan Disrupter’s barrel discharged a shot. Boff counted fifteen seconds, then breathed a sigh of relief.

“If it didn’t blow up,” he said, “that means it’s disabled, right?”

“Most likely,” Quintana replied. “Jake’s going back to your car. He’s gonna use our bomb detector now. If it says the thing’s disarmed, he’ll remove it.”

As Glover walked toward the Malibu, Boff reached into a pants pocket, pulled out a thick wad of twenties, and handed them to Quintana. “If that’s not enough, tell me. I’ll get more.”

Quintana pocketed the money without counting it. “You’re a friend of
Davie’s,” he said. “Whatever’s there will be enough. I owe my life to that guy.”

“It’s disabled!” Glover shouted at them. “I’m gonna remove it now.”

As Glover worked, Boff said to Quintana, “You guys like doing this shit?”

Quintana grinned. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Hey, why do people jump out of airplanes? It’s the rush. And it sure beats working in an office.”

While Boff talked to Quintana, Glover removed the bomb, then walked back to the SUV with the Pan Disrupter and the disarmed IED, which he held out to Boff. “You wanna keep this as a souvenir?” he said.

Boff held his hands up and backed up. “Keep that thing away from me.”

Glover laughed. “I was just messing with you,” he said. “This thing still has to be blown up.”

“In a remote place,” Quintana added.

At that, Glover walked to the rear of the SUV, grabbed a large metal container from the back, put the IED inside it, then closed the lid.

“Jake,” Boff said, “can you tell me off the top of your head what that bomb was made of?”

The cop took a moment before replying. “Without studying it closer,” he said, “I’d guess it’s nitrogen-based. The parts appear to be very common. You can buy ’em on the Internet or at a lot of stores.”

Same as the one that blew up Mantilla
, Boff thought.
No signature
. But that fact alone actually gave it a signature. Undoubtedly the person who’d wired Mantilla’s car to blow up was also responsible for this bomb.

After the moonlighting bomb squad guys left, Boff walked back to his car. Even though he knew the bomb was gone, he used his detector.
Just in case there was a second one
, he told himself. It stayed green. He did it twice more just to further reassure himself. When he stepped into the car again, he held his breath. He turned the key. No explosion.

What a glorious day. 

Still feeling shaken, Boff picked up a six-pack of Bud Light before he drove to Wright’s shop. The information broker was in his usual spot in front of his biggest computer when Boff walked in. Without turning around, Wright said, “You’re late.”

“Sorry. I had to wait while two bomb squad guys removed an IED from under my car.”

Wright swiveled his chair around. “Of all the excuses you’ve ever used for being late,” he said, “that’s gotta be the lamest.” He pointed to the six-pack Boff was holding. “What’s the beer for? We celebrating something?”

“Yeah. The fact that I’m still alive.”

“You’re
serious
about the bomb?”

Boff nodded. “Even a bullshit artist like me wouldn’t make up something like that.”

The information broker let out a whistle. “Wow! What did you do when you discovered the bomb—besides crap your pants and run like hell?”

“I put out an
SOS to my wife’s cousin in Vegas. He used to be on the NYPD bomb squad. He found two former colleagues on the bomb squad for me. They came out, disabled the thing, and removed it.”

Boff tossed Wright a can and grabbed one for himself. Before Wright could even pop the lid, Boff had guzzled half the beer down.

“Whoa,” said Wright. “Frank, you
must’ve
been nervous. That’s the fastest I ever saw you drink a beer.”

Boff finished off the rest of the can in one long swig, then crushed it and tossed it onto Wright’s sofa. “You’d be nervous, too, Billy, if you forgot to use your bomb detector and almost turned the key. Thank God I decided to get out of the car and use the device. Or else—”

“Or else you’d be really, really, dead. Man, that would’ve sucked. Because you haven’t paid for my services yet.”

“Thanks for the compassion, pal.”

Wright popped his can, took a long drink, then set the can on his computer table. “So who do you make for putting this little present under your car?”

“The same people that blew up Mantilla. When I find ’em, I’m going to make sure they reimburse me for the grand I gave the two cops.”

At that, Wright flashed a grin. “Among other forms of payment, I’m sure.”

Ignoring that, Boff said, “So where’s the dossier on Alicia?”

Wright picked up a folder near his computer and handed it over. As Boff began leafing through it, he stopped to read two or three pages, then smiled and closed the folder.

“This should do the trick, Billy. Good job.”

“What are you planning on doing with it?”

“I’m going to FedEx it to Alicia’s father tomorrow. Once he reads it, I have a hunch Alicia’s trust fund will disappear as quickly as I would’ve if that bomb had gone off. Meanwhile, I have some other news that could be as explosive as what was under my car.”

As Boff told him about Emilio’s affair with Alicia, Wright shrugged.

“Just because Emilio’s diddling her, it doesn’t mean he’s involved in the service.”

“Obviously I’m still hoping he isn’t.”

“Maybe you should start wearing Kevlar, Frank. I hear bullets can kill you just a dead as bombs.”

Boff spread his hands. “If your chemtrails are going to wipe me out, anyway, why worry about a mere bullet?”

Wright turned back to his computer.

***

In the morning, Boff used FedEx Priority Overnight to mail Alicia’s dossier to the bank her father owned in
Miami. Then, after calling Wallachi with a new assignment, he drove to the gym, waited until Cullen and Bellucci went on a break, and waved them over.

“Somebody put a bomb under my car,” he announced in a calm voice.

“Really?” Cullen said. “Wow! It’s a good thing you had your detector.”

“How’d you get rid of the thing?” Bellucci asked.

“I had some bomb squad friends take care of it.”

“So,” Cullen said, “do you think me and Mikey are at risk?”

“I doubt it. But just in case, do you still have the bomb detector I gave you in Las Vegas?”

“It’s packed away somewhere in my closet.”

“Well, dig it out and get some new batteries.”

“Why? I don’t have a car anymore.”

“They could plant a bomb in your apartment. You wouldn’t want to come home, plop on the couch, and wind up sitting in your upstairs neighbor’s living room watching the six o’clock news. Or up in heaven watching their news about a boxer who didn’t use his equipment. Whenever you’ve been out, as soon as you get home, turn the detector on and walk from room to room with it. Also, if you receive a package in the mail without a return address or with an address you don’t recognize, use the detector on that, too. Okay, guys, now I’m off to run a few errands.”

After Boff left the gym, Bellucci looked at Cullen. “You still want to be an investigator?”

“Sure. Why not? My chances of dying in the ring are probably greater than getting blown up.”

“What do you think Boff’ll do to the person that planted the bomb?” Bellucci asked.

“Dunno. What I do know is I wouldn’t want to be Alicia or Emilio if they own the escort service. First they trash his apartment and hurt his son. Now they try to blow him up. I imagine he’s pretty pissed. This could get really ugly.”

Bellucci made a face. “Well, if it was Emilio, and Boff does mess with him…now
that
could get really ugly. For
Boff
.”

Cullen shook his head. “Only if Emilio’s father finds out. And Boff’s too smart to let that happen.”

At which point McAlary shouted over at them. “Cut out the gossiping. Get your butts back to work!”