The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) (4 page)

“What do you make of the defector angle in the note?” she asked.

“Well, my experience is that the majority of murders are personal in some way. Not politically motivated. But I’ll have to check this defector thing out.”

“There’s another angle in play,” Damiano said.

“And that is?”

“When I spoke with the wife, she said some curious things.”

“Such as?”

As the detective took out her notepad, he bit into his Danish. It was stale, but he was hungry, so he chewed and swallowed, washing it down with mediocre but hot coffee.

Reading from her notes, the detective said, “When I introduced myself to her, the wife said, ‘Is Rafael in trouble.’” She looked up from her pad. “That’s a curious thing to say, don’t you think?”

Nodding, he took another bite on the crummy Danish. “It might indicate that late night visits from the cops weren’t all that unusual for her when they lived in
Miami. If it had happened here, Ryan would’ve mentioned it.”

“Then, when I told her
that her husband was dead, she gasped and trembled, but didn’t shed a tear.” The detective turned a page. “She asked me, ‘Where was he found? Was he alone?’”

After taking another quick sip of coffee to wash away the taste of the Danish, Boff said, “It’s possible she was afraid he’d been shot in bed with another woman. I’ll have to find out if this guy had trouble keeping his pecker in his pants.”

Damiano closed her pad. “If he was cheating on her,” she said, “and she knew, then that puts her on the suspect list.”

“True. But I want to investigate the defector angle first. If only to eliminate it.”

After sliding the crime scene pages back into the envelope, he handed it to her, then took out his phone, and hit the speed-dial.

“Honey, I’m on my way home now. If you want to go to bed, I’ll understand … Okay, thanks. Love you.”

He put his phone away.

“You know, Boff, I have a hard time seeing a devout
Catholic like your wife falling for a guy like you. You must have some charm that eludes me.”

Boff had to smile. “Well, Victoria, my wife loves me for my good qualities and overlooks the ones she considers somewhat less admirable. Speaking of relationships, how’re things going between you and Diane?”

Damiano shrugged. “It’s not as hot as it was in the beginning.”

“They never are. The trick is to accept that and keep working at the relationship.”

The detective let out a short laugh. “Boff, the marriage counselor.”

He shrugged. “I’m a man of many talents.”

Draining his coffee, he put five dollars down and left without another word.

Back in his car, the first thing he did was call an ex-DEA agent friend, Billy Wright, who was an information broker and a computer whiz.

“Billy, Frank. Did I wake you?”

Nah. I was watching
Star Trek
on Nickelodeon. What’s up?

“A Cuban boxer who was also a defector was murdered tonight. His name’s Rafael Oquendo.” He spelled the last name for him, then took out his pad and opened it. “His cell number was nine-one-seven, three-six-three, four-one, four-one. I’d like you to find out who he’s been talking to lately.”

Can you give me a day or so? My daughter’s divorce case is getting really messy. She needs me to be there for her. My ex is siding with the friggin’ son-in-law. Can you believe that?

“Take as much time as you need. Family comes first.”

Thanks, Frank. Hey, did I tell you the latest about the chemtrails? This photographer in Indiana took terrific shots of government planes crisscrossing and seeding the air with—

“Billy, it’s late, and I’m not in the mood for your latest paranoid fantasy.”

It’s not fantasy, Frank. It’s all happening now. And you and your family are in danger. All of us are. And nobody is doing—

Boff hung up.

That night, a taxi pulled up in front of a luxury, high-rise condo building on East 53d Street near Beekman Place. The female passenger waited until the doorman strode over and opened the door, then she stepped out of the cab.

“Good evening,” the doorman said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” said the woman from the Plaza.

Although the night was a bit cool, it hadn’t stopped her from wearing a pale pink, sleeveless Versace dress with Goldstone straps. She had beautiful skin and liked to show it off.

“I’m here to see the Flemings,” she said.

“I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Slipping the doorman a twenty, she headed for the elevator. On the fifteenth floor, the elevator doors opened directly into the foyer of a magnificent condo with glass walls on the south and west sides. The view of New York’s skyline was spectacular.

The moment she stepped out of the elevator, she was met by a handsome man in his forties wearing a lavender button-down shirt and Blue Blood jeans.

“How beautiful you look tonight,” he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

“Why thank you, Ellis.”

Taking her hand, Ellis led the way down a hallway lined with oil paintings by Klimt, Van Gogh, and Picasso. Then he brought her into a spacious bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides.

Lying on the bed was a naked woman about Ellis’ age. She had enhanced breasts, a tiny waist, and legs sculpted on a StairMaster. Those legs were spread now as she was using a lavender chrome vibrator on her vagina.

“I’m warming myself up,” she said in a breathy voice.

Ellis looked at her for a moment. “Is it okay if I warm up, too, Suzanne?”

The woman suddenly pointed her vibrator at him. “Ellis, I don’t give a crap what you do! Just! Don’t! Talk!”

Nodding that he understood, Ellis sat in a chair near the door and watched as the visitor slipped off her dress and laid it on a chair. Seeing the woman’s beautiful body, Suzanne became highly aroused and quickly had an orgasm.

Naked now herself, the visitor reached out and took the vibrator from Suzanne. “Let me do that for you,” she murmured.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slowly began moving the device around the hood of Suzanne’s clitoris. As Suzanne sighed with pleasure, Ellis extracted his already swollen penis, began stroking it, and let out a groan.

Hearing this, Suzanne shot him dagger eyes. “Ellis, I told you to shut the
fuck
up! Next sound out of your mouth and you’re outta here!”

Running a finger across his lips to imply his mouth was zippered up, Ellis reached with his free hand for a wall switch, turned off the lights, and watched as the two women made frenzied love in the soft glow of city lights.

After the women were spent, they rolled onto their backs, bodies soaked in sweat. Ellis had cum in a black silk handkerchief and was stroking himself again with a new hanky in his other hand.

“Turn on the lights,” Suzanne ordered him.

As he flipped the switch, the visitor put a hand on one of Suzanne’s thighs. “That stock tip you gave me last time,” she said, “really took off. Thanks so much.”

“I have another one for you, sweetheart. It’s a startup company I’m funding that’s on the verge of a medical breakthrough.”

As she had done with the previous tip, Suzanne brought her mouth close to the visitor’s ear and whispered the company’s name, undoubtedly so her husband wouldn’t hear and be able to make money off it.

After thanking Suzanne for the tip and kissing her on the lips, the visitor slid out of bed and got dressed. Then, heading for the bedroom door, she glanced down at Ellis—who was vigorously beating off—and said as she opened the door, “Save some for my next visit.”

As she went, Ellis came.

The next morning, Boff called a former partner of his from the DEA and arranged an eleven o’clock meeting in the park in front of the New York Public Library on 6
th
Avenue. When Boff arrived, agent Marty Schlosberg was sitting on a bench near a food cart eating a chili dog with sauerkraut. As Boff sat down, Schlosberg handed him a similar dog.

“I put ketchup on it so you won’t bitch that I forgot,” Schlosberg said. He was around Boff’s age and wore an off-the-rack suit and a black tie with a chili stain.

“I would’ve preferred sausage and peppers,” Boff said, “but I’ll eat it.”

“If I’d bought you a sausage, you’d have said you’d rather have a dog. Do you ever
not
complain?”

Boff smiled. The first thing he’d noticed was his ex-partner had slimmed down. “You look like you lost weight, Marty.”

Schlosberg nodded as he chewed. “Wife said I was getting fat. She was gonna leave me if I didn’t go on a diet. Now all she lets me eat at home is salad with fat-free, tasteless dressing, skinless boneless chicken, and broiled fish. Once a week, in her supreme benevolence, she lets me have a quarter pound of ultra-lean hamburger…which she measures on a friggin’ scale. No bun. No ketchup. Tastes like shit.”

“I bet she feeds your dog better.”

The DEA agent nodded again. “Jake gets nothing but organic, designer dog food from the health food store. Costs me a damn arm and a leg. When I was a kid, we fed our mutt Maxie nothing but Alpo, and he lived to fifteen.” Schlosberg shook his head. “Man, being on this lousy diet is starting to make Jake’s food look tempting.” He smiled and shook his head. “The other day? I had to fight off the urge to open up a can of Jake’s hypoallergenic lamb and rice.”

Pointing to the half-eaten hot dog in his ex-partner’s hand, Boff said, “I gather you went off your diet today.”

“You bet your ass I did! If I have to put up with you, I figured I deserved a treat.” After stuffing down the last of his hot dog, Schlosberg licked his greasy fingers and looked longingly at the nearby vendor’s cart. “Christ, I could eat three more of these things.” Then he turned to Boff. “I hope you brought me a tip on a drug shipment like you did last time.”

“I need info.”

“In return I get?”

“If something on the case turns out to involve drugs, I promise to bring you in.”

Schlosberg looked disappointed. “I was expecting more,” he said. “What kinda info you looking for?”

“I’m working on a case involving a Cuban boxer named Rafael Oquendo. He defected and was murdered yesterday.”

The DEA agent looked confused. “If the boxer is dead, he can’t hire you to help defend him. So what’s your interest here?”

“It’s painful to say this, but I was hired to find out who killed him.”

Schlosberg smiled. “Chasin’ down a murderer again? I thought you learned your lesson last time you did that.”

Boff frowned. “Down to business, Marty. The dead boxer had a note pinned to his body.”

“And…?”

“And the note said he was killed as a warning to other Cuban boxers who were thinking of defecting.”

The DEA agent shrugged. “So where do I fit in?”

“You still have a connection with the
CIA, right?”

“I might.”

“Can you ask your source if he knows anything about a rogue Cuban gang doing Castro’s dirty work here in the States?”

Schlosberg stretched his arms and yawned. “I’ll see what I can do.” He stood up to go.

“When can you get back to me?” Boff asked.

“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after.”

“Why so long? It’s only a phone call.”

“Well, you see, Frank, some of us have to actually
work
for a living.” And with another wistful glance at the food cart, he walked away.

***

Biaggi’s Gym, where McAlary trained his fighters, was on the second floor above a Laundromat on a busy stretch of Nostrand Avenue in Crown Heights. A third floor was in the process of being constructed for use as a health club. There was a sign over the door:

NINO BIAGGI’S ONE PUNCH GYM

A Champion is so
meone who gets up when he can’t.

--Jack Dempsey

Bounding up two flights of rickety stairs attached to the side of the building, Cullen and Bellucci entered the gym, which was an old-world, no-frills facility with a quality ring, an assortment of bags, and one treadmill. The only high-tech devices were a pair of
seventy-two inch plasma TVs suspended from the ceiling at opposite ends of the gym. The screens played a continuous loop of the brutal three fights McAlary and Biaggi had fought years ago that were considered one of the best fight trilogies in boxing history. From opening until closing the fights played on the TVs. A bench was positioned in front of each screen so fighters could sit and watch while on break.

At the moment, there were about fifteen boxers, all in their twenties, working out. Most of them were products of the
New York streets and housing projects. Cullen noted that the gym was uncharacteristically quiet today, undoubtedly because of Rafael’s murder.

Before changing into their workout gear, Cullen and Bellucci paused a moment to watch one of the screens.

“This’s the second fight,” Bellucci said. “Round six. Ryan knocked Nino down three times in the round, and he kept getting up.”

Cullen nodded. “Yeah, and Nino fought the last eight rounds with a broken hand.”

They stared at the screen for a few more minutes before Cullen said, “Nino broke Ryan’s nose in the second round and cracked one of his ribs in the third.”

Then they turned away and entered what passed for the gym’s locker room: a closet-sized bathroom, some beat-up old lockers, and one bench. After changing and wrapping their hands, they left the locker area. McAlary was waiting for them.

“Danny, I want to work today on your defense.”

Cullen
frowned. “What’s wrong with my defense?”

“Let’s just say…there’s a few things you need to improve on.”

“Like what?”

McAlary smiled. “Like, you’ve got to learn how to slip punches better with body movement. If you want to take Marco Diaz’s title, you’ll need to be better prepared to handle the hundred punches or so he throws per round. You won’t be able to pick off all his shots with your gloves.” The trainer looked at Bellucci. “Mikey, glove up. Go into the ring and warm up.”

After McAlary’s assistant, Angel Sierra, helped Bellucci put on his gloves and laced them, the young boxer climbed through the ropes.

“Now you, Danny,” McAlary said. “Into the ring you go.”

Cullen looked puzzled. “But…but what about my gloves?”

“You aren’t going to be wearing any.”

Cullen made a face. “No gloves? You want me to hit Mikey with my bare fists?”

“No,” McAlary said patiently. “You, my cantankerous young friend, aren’t going to be throwing any punches.”

“What the fuck? If I can’t punch, then what the hell am I supposed to do? Just go in there and be a friggin’ punching bag for Mikey?”

Shaking his head at Cullen, the trainer turn to Bellucci, who was throwing combos in the air to get his blood flowing. “Mikey, I want you to use your fast hands to throw as many punches at Danny as fast as you can. Like Marco Diaz does.”

Cullen grabbed his trainer’s arm. “Ryan, what kind of stupid drill is this?”

McAlary removed Cullen’s hand, then said, “This
stupid
drill is a defensive one I learned from the late great trainer, Eddie Futch. It’s designed to force you to use foot work and body and head movement to slip Mikey’s punches. And when I yell ‘switch,’ you’re going to put your hands behind your back and roll up your shoulders to absorb the punches.”

Cullen let out a groan. “And how the hell do I do
that
?”

“Like this.” McAlary climbed into the ring and put his hands behind his back. “Okay Mikey,” he said, “try to hit me in the head.”

As Bellucci moved in on his coach and started throwing punches, the trainer bunched his shoulders up high, turned sideways to let them absorb the blows, and kept moving his head and body side to side.

“See, Danny?” McAlary said.

Wearing a sour face, Cullen joined them in the ring. “Why can’t I at least use my hands to deflect punches?” he asked.

“Because I said so. That’s why. Okay, box!”

Bellucci found his roommate a much easier target to hit than his wily coach. Within a minute, he was landing punches liberally.

“Hey, Danny—let me know if I’m hurting you too much,” the younger boxer taunted.

With each punch Bellucci landed, Cullen grew angrier and angrier. Without gloves, he was unable to dodge all the shots his roommate was throwing at him.

“Now switch!” McAlary shouted.

Reluctantly putting his hands behind his back, Cullen tried to move his shoulders like his trainer had done, but it was a lot more difficult than it looked. Every time Cullen slowed down, Bellucci nailed him in the face.

By now, the unusual sparring drill had caught the attention of the other fighters, who were gathering around the apron of the ring to watch.

Great,
Cullen thought.
Now I have an audience to look stupid in front of!

After a couple more minutes of being used as a punching bag, Cullen’s anger finally got the best of him, and he began planning his revenge. After sliding to Bellucci’s right, he suddenly lunged forward and head-butted his friend just below his right eye, opening up a small cut.

“STOP!” the trainer cried out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I told you not to fight back.”

“But, Coach,” Cullen said with a sly smile, “all you said was not to throw punches. You didn’t tell me I couldn’t use my head.”

McAlary spit out a sigh of disgust. “That bloody temper of yours is gonna cost you a fight one day,” he said. Then he turned to Bellucci. “Mikey, have Angel tend to your cut.”

Feeling suddenly contrite, Cullen turned to his roommate. “Mikey? I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.”

“Hey, no problem, Danny boy. I’ll get even with you. Count on it. Either here or at the apartment.”

“As for me,” the trainer said, “I’ll get even right now. Danny, I want you to pound the truck tire for twenty minutes.”

“What? I can’t do it for twenty minutes. My arms’ll fall off.”

McAlary smiled. “Tough shit. And for complaining, when you’re done with the tire, I want you to hit the heavy bag for another fifteen minutes.”

As Cullen climbed out of the ring, the other boxers parted to let him pass. He walked to the rear of the gym, where there was an enormous truck tire on the floor and a sledgehammer nearby. Picking up the twenty-pound hammer, he lifted it over his head and began pounding the crap of the tire. What he was seeing was his trainer’s face.