Before she could continue, Boff changed the subject. “Hey, honey, how about a sneak preview of that stew?”
Jenny shook her head. “Not before it’s ready,” she said. “Meanwhile, when will this case be over so our lives can return to normal?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But I can tell you this. I’m going to find the people responsible as quickly as possible so there won’t be any more incidents involving my family.”
“And then you’ll let Damiano arrest them, right?” When Boff remained silent, she exploded. “Dammit, Frank! If you keep practicing frontier justice, I’ll never get you into heaven.”
“What’s frontier justice, Mom?” Steven asked.
Jenny turned to her son. “You can go back to your Xbox now.”
She waited until the boy was gone before saying anything else. “Promise me, Frank. Promise me that you won’t take matters into your own hands again.”
When he just looked away, Jenny shot him her dirtiest look and went back to the kitchen.
Chapter 33
Before Boff got into his car the next morning, he turned his bomb detector on and off three times to reassure himself that he was getting an accurate reading. He was halfway to the gym when Kate called.
I don’t know if this will help your investigation, but Gina’s been crying a lot. She told me it was because a friend of hers had been killed. That’s all she would tell me.
Boff recalled Gina’s numerous phone calls to Mantilla. “Did she mention the friend’s name? Or how he was killed?”
No.
“When Gina calms down, try and get her to tell you more.”
Does it have to do with Rafael’s murder?
“It’s very possible.”
Then I’ll see what I can do.
Having set up a meeting with Damiano for later in the day, Boff killed time in the gym watching Cullen train. When he got a break, he walked over to Boff.
“Is your son alright?” he asked.
“He’s fine. Just got a concussion.”
Cullen lowered his voice. “So what are you going to do to Mantilla for this?”
“There’s nothing I can do to him now.”
“Why not?”
“He’s dead.”
Bellucci walked up. “Who’s dead?”
“Mantilla,” Cullen said.
“No shit! What happened?”
“Someone planted a bomb under his car,” Boff said.
Cullen whistled. “I guess I was wrong about him being the bad guy.”
“Not necessarily,” Boff said. “Maybe there’s more than one bad actor here, and the other person wanted Mantilla out of the picture for some reason.”
As Boff pushed off the wall to leave the gym, Cullen said, “I want to tell you something. And don’t laugh…. I took a class in investigation and got my certificate.”
Boff grinned. “Great! How soon will you be hanging out your shingle?”
Cullen sneered. “I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously. And by the way, hotshot, modern investigators don’t refer to themselves as private anymore. They prefer to be called professional investigators.”
Boff looked amused. “And why’s that?”
“My instructor said it was in response to the negative and seedy image that people attribute to the profession.”
“Oh? Am I seedy?”
“No, but your morals are certainly questionable.”
“Indeed. What was this instructor’s name?”
“Herman J. Minto.”
Boff grinned again. “And did Herman ever tell you what the J. stands for?”
“No.”
“It’s for Jerkoff. Herman J. worked for the D.A. for a few years. But after I crushed his work so many times in court, the D.A. canned him.” As he headed for the door, he tossed back over his shoulder, “Anything Herman J. taught you, forget it. Stick to boxing.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“You’re welcome.”
Damiano was waiting for Boff on a bench in Brower Park near the cage-enclosed basketball courts. He took a seat beside her.
“I showed photos of our two hero cops to the doorman,” she said.
“Same guys that trashed Marla’s pad, right?”
“Yup. I reported what I’d found out about them to IA.”
“My own apartment was tossed yesterday. My son was clocked with a gun.”
“Really? Is he all right?”
“It was just a minor concussion.”
“Maybe these cops did that, too,” she said. “One thing’s for sure. Whoever sent these clowns, it wasn’t Mantilla. I assume you heard about him.”
Boff nodded. “So the question is what did Mantilla do to get himself killed?”
“If he was involved in the escort service, maybe they no longer had any use for him.”
“Or, they could’ve blamed him for Oquendo beating up the service’s biggest earner.”
Damiano looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“Before I get to that,” he began, “let me say I have reason to believe Rafael recruited most of the girls for the escort service from Miami’s Cuban community.”
“Oh, yeah? Why do you think that?”
“Remember those trips Rafael took to Miami? And how he always bought two extra one-way tickets back to New York?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, keeping those trips in mind, consider this: the bartender at a nightclub called Devil’s Own told me when the boxer came to the club, he always had a beautiful woman with him. Including Marla. He also came in with the escort service’s most expensive girl, Laurie. Her fee was four grand an hour.” He paused to let the detective digest that. “Then, almost two weeks ago, Laurie disappeared from the website. And about the same time she vanished, Rafael showed up at the gym with cuts on his hand. Cuts, McAlary’s assistant told me, that couldn’t have happened in the gym.”
Damiano nodded. “Okay. I see where you’re going with this.”
Boff nodded back at her. “I talked to the bartender again and asked him if Rafael ever tried to get touchy-feely with Laurie. He said he did, but she always pushed him away. The bartender also recalled that one time Rafael and Laurie got into a heated argument about that.”
Damiano thought all this through. “So…given that he had a bad temper and hit his own wife—”
“—it wouldn’t be a big stretch of the imagination to think he tried to have free sex with Laurie. When she refused, he lost his temper and punched her in the face. Given his strength, he probably messed her up pretty good. Bad enough to where she might’ve needed cosmetic surgery. If so, she won’t be earning money for the service anytime soon.”
“And your theory is whoever owns the site put a contract out on Rafael and Mantilla in retaliation for all the lost revenue?”
“That’s certainly a plausible scenario,” he replied. “However, in the case of Mantilla, I think it’s also possible his girlfriend had him whacked.”
“Girlfriend? Now what’re you talking about?”
Boff recounted how the raging-mad Alicia had interrupted his meeting with Mantilla because she suspected he was cheating on her. “She was in a murderous mood,” he concluded.
“I dunno, Boff. I mean, as you well know, wanting to kill someone you’re angry with and actually doing it are different things.”
“Of course. But if Mantilla was cheating on her, and she found proof of it, she struck me as the type who might make him pay. Say, with his life.”
“Do you know her last name?”
“Not yet. But I’m going to find out.”
The detective looked off a minute while she processed everything he had told her. Then she looked back at him. “As far what happened to your apartment and your son, if only two people outside our little group knew you had the address book, and one of them is dead…well, you know, that leaves Benvenuti’s son.”
Boff spread his hands. “Yes and no. Mantilla could’ve easil
y told somebody else I had the address book. Like, for example, the owner of the service. Or Judge Morant. But that being said, there, unfortunately, are other things that point to Emilio.”
Boff ran down his meeting with Benvenuti’s son and how the banker couldn’t remember how much he paid in cash to his escorts.
Damiano didn’t look impressed. “Hell, Boff, maybe the guy just has a bad memory.”
“No way. The only people I’ve ever known with memories that bad were potheads and senior citizens with dementia. As much as I don’t want to, I’m going to have to look more closely at Emilio’s possible role in this mess. In the meantime, I want you to find out from your bomb squad what kind of device it was that killed Mantilla.”
“Why?”
“Because, of course, the material used might’ve been specific to a known bomber or explosives dealer.” He stood up. “Let’s head back.”
“I wish I could get more involved in this,” Damiano said as they walked. “But they shifted me to working full-time on a priority homicide. The son of a state assemblyman from Brooklyn was shot and killed in an apparent mugging. The politico used his influence to bump the case to top priority.”
“Well, detective, I value any help you can give me.”
She made a face. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“Not at all.”
“You never compliment me.”
“I’m just feeling especially good today because my son called me Dad.”
“So?”
“Steven and his sister have been calling me Boff instead of Dad since they were little. It looks like I made a breakthrough with my son.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 34
To find out more about Alicia, Boff called Daysi, the hostess at Giancarlo’s.
“How’s the restaurant’s staff dealing with Mantilla’s death?” he asked her.
Everybody’s really, really bummed out, Mr. Boff. Not just the staff. The regular customers, too. It was crowded today, but unusually quiet. It was like working in a funeral home.
“Daysi, I’m a private investigator. The death of Mr. Mantilla figures in with a case I’m working on. I’m wondering if we could speak after you get off your shift.”
I have an acting class right after work, she said. But we could meet later tonight. Say, around seven?
“Sounds good. Where?”
There’s a Starbucks four doors down from the restaurant. I may be a little late because my teacher sometimes holds me after class for private instruction. She feels I’m going to become a very good actress.
“I’m glad to hear that. Seven it is. See you later.”
At six o’clock, Boff headed over to Giancarlo’s in the hope of seeing Judge Morant. After looking around the restaurant and not spotting him, he took a seat at the horseshoe bar and ordered a cola with lime. While sipping it, he realized he was just as pissed at himself as he was with the dirtbags who had tossed his apartment. Any way he spun it, he had broken his number one rule: never put your family at risk. In letting people know he had Marla’s address book, he had done just that.
He glanced up at the bartender. The guy had to be pushing seventy-five and had probably worked behind this bar forever. Meaning he knew everybody’s dirty little secrets. He quickly drained his soda and called out to the bartender, whose name tag identified him as Bingo.
“Another soda, sir?”
“Please.”
Boff pushed the glass forward. Moving as gracefully as a much younger man, Bingo set the empty near his sink, grabbed a fresh glass, poured another cola, added a lime, and came back to his customer.
“Bingo,” said Boff, “mind if I ask you a question?”
The bartender looked quickly around his bar, apparently to see if anybody was waiting for a drink. Then he replied, “Not at all, sir. Go ahead.”
“Do you know Judge Morant?”
“Sure do. Wild Turkey on the rocks. He usually comes in about this time for a few. Why?”
“I’m hoping to speak with him.”
Bingo leaned over the bar and lowered his voice. “If you are, I’d wait till after he’s had his first drink. The judge tends to be a bit ornery when he comes here from the courthouse. After a while, though, he mellows a bit. Not much. But enough to where you can carry on a semi-civil conversation with him.”
As predicted, about ten minutes later, the judge walked in alone and took a seat at the bar. Following Bingo’s advice, Boff waited until the judge had finished his first drink and was well into his second before he moved down the bar to an empty seat beside him.
Morant looked up, saw Boff, and frowned. “What the hell do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“Get lost. I knew I’d heard your name somewhere. I asked around and found out you’re a private investigator with a big rep for crushing felony cases.”
Catching the disdain in the judge’s voice, Boff smiled back. Then he reached into his pants pocket and brought out both the address book and Cullen’s photo of Marla. He laid them down on the bar near Morant’s drink, and waited for a reaction. The judge took a quick look, seemed to wince, then looked away.
“That little book,” Boff said, “contains client addresses for a high-class call girl named Marla.” He nodded at the photo. “She was murdered recently. There’s someone listed in this book that I’m sure you know very, very well.”
Morant downed his bourbon and signaled to Bingo for another. “Let’s take a table,” he said in a tight voice.
Boff collected the address book and photo of Marla and put them away. After Bingo brought Morant a new drink, the judge got up and led Boff to a table far away from the other patrons. A waitress walked over, greeted the judge, then took his order of fried calamari. Boff didn’t want anything.
After taking a long tug on his bourbon, Morant put it down and glared at Boff. “Extortion is a crime.”
“Yes, it certainly is. But I’m not threatening you in any way or asking for money.”
“So what the hell is it you want?”
“Information. I don’t have any interest in exposing you and the other people in this book.” He noticed that Morant’s hand trembled a little now when he raised his glass, took a quick sip, and set it back down. “I want the name of the escort service’s owner or owners.”
“Why would I know?”
Boff said nothing.
“Even if I did,” Morant said, “I couldn’t possibly tell you.”
“And why’s that?”
“They’d kill me if they found out.”
“I doubt it. This isn’t a Third World country. It’s very risky business to kill a judge. Few people would take the chance.”
“Yeah, well, these people would. You haven’t the slightest idea who you’re dealing with.”
“So enlighten me.”
The judge turned away. “That’s all I have to say to you,” he muttered.
“Fine. But one last question. Then I’ll leave you to drown your sorrows in whisky.”
“I’m not answering—”
Boff cut him off. “Do you have a case on your docket involving a man named Silverstein?”
That caught Morant’s attention. He turned to Boff with a look of surprise before he regained his equilibrium. “I have so many cases pending,” he said, trying to sound casual, “that I don’t remember who’s involved in any particular one. Why are you interested in that case?”
Boff smiled. “I’m sure you know why. He brought out the address book again and held it up. “I have copies of this stored somewhere nobody will find them. So you tell your friends that if I or my family are ever bothered again in any way, a copy of this book will be delivered to both the News and Post. With names attached to the addresses.”
Pocketing the book again, Boff stood up, strode across the restaurant, and walked out the door.
Chapter 35
/> Daysi showed up for her meeting with Boff a half hour late and looking energized.
“I’m guessing you had a good class,” he said as she plopped down into a seat opposite him.
“It was awesome! I did a Roxie Hart monologue from Chicago. The teacher said I was every bit as good as Renee Zellweger!”
“Congratulations. Would you like some coffee?”
“Oh, I couldn’t. I’m already too buzzed from my class. But I’ll have a Poland Spring.”
Boff fetched one from the counter and returned. “You know, Daysi, I wanted to be an actor when I was in high school. I saw myself playing roles in westerns. Like Clint Eastwood.”
“Did you take classes?”
He shook his head. “I never got that far. The first part I played was Sky Masterson in my high school production of Guys and Dolls.”
“How’d you do?”
“My mother thought I was great. She couldn’t understand why the audience was laughing during my dialogue and my songs. Needless to say, I gave up any thought of acting and concentrated on basketball and goofing off.”
Daysi laughed.
“Anyway,” he said, “the reason I wanted to see you is that when I was with Mr. Mantilla, a very attractive woman named Alicia came in. She was really angry with him and pretty nasty to me, too.”
Daysi made a face. “Alicia was his girlfriend. Although he never came right out and said it, but you could just tell.” She shook her head. “I never could understand what a nice man like Mr. Mantilla saw in a bitch like her. Pardon my language.”
“Do you know her last name?”
“Yes, of course. Alicia Celina.”
“Spell that last name for me.”
After he wrote it down on a pad, he asked, “Why do you call her a bitch?”
“You saw why. She’s like that all the time with me. One minute she’s civil, the next she goes off and attacks me over the smallest thing. She makes me nervous.”
The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) Page 17