The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery)

by Nathan Gottlieb

  “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.”

  Chapter 42

  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 owns 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.”

  Whatcha 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.”

  The Lincoln took the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel into Manhattan and let Alicia off at the trendy Gotham Bar and Grill on East 12th Street. Wallachi pulled over at a hydrant.

  “Manny,” he said, “you’re dressed right. Go in, sit at the bar. If she’s with somebody, take a picture on your cell phone. Make sure you’re discreet about it.”

  “No problem. I’m on it.”

  As Manny opened the back door and started to get out, Wallachi added, “Order a Coke and stay at the bar ten minutes so you don’t look suspicious.”

  The crack op frowned. “I know that,” he said, slamming the back door. As he started to hustle across the street, he nearly got hit by a cab, forcing the driver to swerve and slam on his brakes. The cabbie hammered his horn. Not even glancing at the taxi, Manny entered the restaurant.

  Boff turned to Wallachi. “How much are you paying this whack job?”

  “Just entry level.”

  “Which is?”

  “Thirty-thou.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  Wallachi let out a weary sigh. “Look, in order to get good young investigators today, you’ve got to pay them.”

  “Yeah, Pete, but this yo-yo isn’t good.”

  “He’s better than he’s shown us tonight. Trust me. I think you intimidate him. Bottom line, you and I are old school. And this, sadly, is the new generation of gumshoes. Manny’s sole saving grace is that he’s very good with high tech. The intuitive stuff they didn’t teach him at investigator’s school.”

  “Nobody taught us, either.”

  Exactly ten minutes later Manny left the restaurant and got back in the car.

  “Couple of lovebirds,” he said.

  “Who?” Boff asked.

  “Alicia and some guy. They were holding hands. The guy kissed her three times while I was there.”

  “Did you take a picture?” Wallachi asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Give Frank your iPhone and let him see the picture.”

  After putting the shot of the two lovebirds on his screen, Manny handed it to Boff, who took one look and grimaced. “Shit,” he said.

  “What’s the matter, Frank?” Wallachi asked.

  He showed Wallachi the screen.

  “Pete Wallachi, meet Emilio Benvenuti.”

  Chapter 43

  An hour and a half later, Alicia and Emilio, still holding hands, left the Gotham and stepped into the waiting Town Car. Wallachi followed the car to the West Village, where it stopped at an address Boff and Cullen recognized. Emilio’s townhouse on 10th Street. Walking up the steps to the building, Emilio led Alicia inside. Boff checked his watch. It was eleven-fifteen.

  Wallachi turned to Boff. “I thought this gal was in love with her brother,” he said. “She sure got over him pretty fast.”

  “My bet,” Boff said, “is she’s been seeing Emilio while she was also screwing around with Mantilla.”

  “You’re probably right. I guess Alicia’s ‘no-cheating rule�
�� applied only to poor Alberto. I hope for your sake this doesn’t mean Emilio’s involved in the escort service.”

  Manny leaned forward. “Boff, how come this Emilio is such bad news for you?”

  “He’s the son of Bruno Benvenuti,” Wallachi said.

  “And? Who’s he?”

  Boff turned around to the crack op. “Did they teach you anything about organized crime in your investigators’ class?”

  “Sure. They told us how it works. The Five Families. Shit like that.”

  “Can you name one of the heads of the Five Families?”

  “Yeah. Don Corleone.”

  Manny laughed. Boff didn’t. Turning away, all Boff could do was shake his head.

  “For your information, Manny,” Wallachi said, “Bruno Benvenuti used to be a caporegime for the Genovese family. Even after Benvenuti split off from the Genovese and started his own family, he still kept strong ties to them.”

  “Oh. I see,” Manny said.

  “Do you?” Boff challenged him.

  “Of course. So if you mess with the son of a powerful mobster, you get what Sollazzo got from Michael in The Godfather. Bullet in the head.”

  Boff didn’t even bother to respond to that.

  “We could be here a long time,” Wallachi said after several quiet minutes. He turned around to Manny with an assignment less taxing than knowing about the Five Families. “There’s a bakery-café just ahead on 6th Avenue called Ciao for Now. Get us four coffees. They also make pecan sticky buns to die for. Buy one for me and two for Frank. If you aren’t afraid of getting your hands messy, get one or two for yourself.” Wallachi glanced in his mirror at Cullen. “I’m guessing Danny the boxer who watches his weight doesn’t eat sweets.”

  Cullen nodded. Wallachi handed Manny some cash.

  “What if something happens when I’m gone?” Manny said.

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” Wallachi told him. They went inside to get laid.”

  After Manny left the car and started walking the half block to 6th Avenue, Boff shook his head at Wallachi. “Don Corleone?” he said. “Are you sure this kid is certified and licensed?”