Which is why, when she found the house, Hammett simply walked up and rang the doorbell. The obligatory Mexican maid answered, and Hammett asked, in Spanish, if Señor Lupowitz was in. He was at work, naturally, so Hammett gave her the SD memory card she’d prepared—pictures and emails he had sent Rod, along with a hundred dollars for her trouble. After an exchanged muchas gracias, Hammett wandered back to Rodeo and spent a few hours trying on ridiculous outfits and shoes and handbags that cost more than her first car. Dior, Gucci, Prada, Fendi, Vuitton. Fashion gluttony. Turning fifty cents of cow leather into five thousand dollars on stilettos.
Hammett adored it.
But she was traveling light and not making any purchases. So she disappointed shop girl after shop girl, because although she had the airs and bearing of a rich bitch, she didn’t help anyone land a single commission, even though she was feted with champagne and caviar and a lovely brie that was the best Hammett had eaten outside of, well, Brie.
When she grew tired of playing Beverly Hills Barbie, she found a pastry café where the cupcakes cost as much as a steak dinner in New York and killed another hour sipping cappuccino and watching the rich, overfed, clueless gentry pass by in an endless decadent parade. Hammett mused, briefly, about being one of them. Staunch patriotic killing machine becomes kept woman for some ultra hunky movie star. But she knew that after the fourth or fifth banal Hollywood party, she’d no doubt take up killing again out of boredom. Or perhaps she’d specifically target studio heads who insisted that sequels, remakes, and movies based on old TV shows and comic books were the only way to sell tickets.
Six o’clock rolled around, and Hammett made her way to the Starbucks on Wilshire. Upon walking in, she instantly spotted an obviously agitated Stuart Lupowitz. Ten years older than his IMDb.com picture, gray and soft and scuzzy looking even in a five thousand dollar suit, he stood next to the men’s toilet, fidgeting and looking a lot like a pedophile who’d just been caught.
Which is exactly what he was.
“Mr. Lupowitz,” Hammett met him with a big smile and a surprise embrace, brushing the gun he’d placed in his jacket pocket, ruining the lines of his tailored Ralph Lauren. “So pleased to meet you. Did you bring a car?”
He nodded, then began to say something. Hammett put a finger to his lips, than slipped her arm around his like they were old friends.
“We’ll talk in the car, where it’s private.”
He nodded, then put on a brave face and gave the parking attendant a ticket. Hammett had to smile.
Beverly Hills. Of course Starbucks has a valet service.
He drove a Mercedes S-Class, white, a new model. When it pulled up and Stuart fished out his wallet to tip the driver, Hammett slipped the revolver from his pocket. A .38 snub nose Colt Cobra. Older, reliable, but far from the luxury firearm a man like Lupowitz could afford.
“What is it you want?” he asked once he took the driver’s seat. “Money?”
“Drive,” Hammett said, studying the car’s instrument panel. “Head to West Hollywood. We’ll talk on the way. And buckle up for safety.”
Lupowitz fumbled with his seatbelt. Hammett left hers off. If he tried anything stupid, like running into a tree, she figured the Benz’s airbags would be enough to save her.
After driving in silence for half a minute, Lupowitz nervously and obviously patted his jacket pocket.
“Looking for this?” Hammett pulled the .38 from under her cover-up. She opened the cylinder, saw it was full, and also noticed scratches on the crane where the serial number should have been.
“Nasty little toy you’ve got here, Stu.”
“I… I just wanted to scare you.”
“Sure you did. And see how scared I am?” Hammett smiled wide, genuine.
“Look, lady, I’m… I’m important in this town.”
“And you wouldn’t want your buddies at the studio to find out your extracurricular habits.”
He squeezed the steering wheel so hard his knuckles faded to white. “It’s not like that. I just have a couple of pictures on my computer. I never hurt anyone. I’m married, for chrissakes.”
Hammett went cold inside. “Do you have kids?”
“No.”
Lucky for him. She would have shot him in the head right then.
“But you like kids, don’t you, Stu?”
“It’s… complicated. You don’t know how it is to be… I mean, imagine if you did something you thought was normal that society found reprehensible?”
You have no idea.
But Hammett wasn’t going to explain the differences between killing scumbags for the government and violating innocent kids for kicks.
The silence that followed must have made Lupowitz uncomfortable, because he quickly followed up with, “What do you want from me? I have money. I can pay.”
Oh, you’ll pay all right.
“I want names, Stu. Where you got the pictures of the children.”
He glanced sideways at her, eyes narrowing.
“Are you a cop?”
“No. Cops follow rules. I’m not arresting you. And I’m not blackmailing you, either.”
“So what do you want?” She saw hope flit into his eyes. “To star in one of my movies? Are you an actress?”
An interesting question. Hammett did consider herself an actor, but not the kind Lupowitz usually associated with.
“I want names, Stu. Who sent you the pictures. Who you sent them to.”
They came to a red light. Hammett kept the gun at hip level so passersby didn’t see it.
Lupowitz’s eyebrows creased, as if he was in deep thought. “No one uses real names online,” he eventually said. “We don’t know each other.”
“There’s no annual conferences? No meet-and-greets with a secret pedo handshake?”
“Jesus, no! I mean, the secrecy, the security. Everyone is extremely careful. It would be easier to hack into the Pentagon.”
That made sense. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what Hammett wanted to hear.
“Somehow you got into one of these groups. How?”
Lupowitz’s lips pressed together.
“I bet a big wheel like you knows someone. If I were looking to score some kiddie porn in this town, who would I talk to?”
The light turned green. Lupowitz didn’t move. Hammett slipped the scalpel out of her fanny pack and palmed it. She also kept her head down—lots of intersections in L.A. had cameras. If they recorded her, all they’d see was her floppy hat. Cars behind them honked.
“Can’t think and drive at the same time, Stu?”
He stepped on the gas. Hammett watched the gears turn in his head.
“And if I give you a name, you go away? How do I know you won’t hold this over me forever?”
“You’re a smart guy. You can get rid of your computer, delete your online accounts. Since I contacted you, I bet you’ve already done that. I’ve got the laptop computer you sent those pictures to. It’s got the emails on it. A unique IP address. You give me some names, I give you the laptop and let you go. Promise.”
Her offer made no sense. She could easily copy the emails, or the hard drive. And if he thought about what she was asking for—information and not money—he should have been questioning her motive, following it to the inevitable conclusion.
But Lupowitz was looking for a way out, and desperate men didn’t think clearly. Which is why the pervert had called one of his seedy friends and bought himself a throwaway piece, no doubt to use on her. What a charming man.
Apparently Hammett’s acting skills were good enough for him to believe her, because he said, “Tex Darling.”
“Tex Darling? That’s his real name?”
Lupowitz made a face like a bad smell had entered the car. “I doubt it. He’s a porn producer. But he’s connected. And I’ve gotten certain… um… materials… from him that aren’t for sale through regular channels.”
“Does he shoot these materials himself?”
Lupowitz went
silent again. Hammett gave him a quick jab in his thigh with the scalpel, in-and-out like a snake striking. It took a moment for the pain to register, the blood to come. But when it did, Lupowitz acted appropriately surprised.
“JESUS CHRIST! YOU STABBED ME!”
“Press your palm to it. Keep pressure. I may have hit an artery, and you could bleed to death. Plus, think of the upholstery.”
He pressed a hand to the widening circle of red on his leg.
“Now I’ll ask again, and I’m done with your lengthy pauses. Does Tex shoot these materials himself?”
“Some of them.”
Hammett noted in Lupowitz’s expression and tone that he’d gone from worrying about his secret getting out to worrying about his life.
“Have you ever been in one?”
“What? No! Are you nuts? Me, being in a video?”
“But you bankrolled a few of these productions, didn’t you, Stu?”
Lupowitz hesitated only long enough to glance at the scalpel again.
“I gave him some money, cash, no record of anything.”
“And he made a movie just for you?”
Lupowitz’s eyes began to get glassy. Perhaps he was finally realizing what a monster he was, but Hammett guessed it was self-pity.
“I gave you a name, like you asked.” His lower lip trembled. “But… but you want more than just a name, don’t you?”
“Gas station, on the right. Turn in.”
He did. Again Hammett kept her face down, away from the pump cameras.
“The automatic carwash. Pull up.”
He stopped the car next to a credit card kiosk, which allowed a person to pick the wash they wanted.
“You’re a rich guy, Stu. Get the Ultimate Wash. Comes with an undercarriage cleanse and Turtle Wax. Seems like a good deal.”
“My credit card is in my wallet.”
“So whip it out, stud.”
Hands shaking, wincing in apparent pain, he reached for his back pocket and managed to pull out an AmEx Platinum from a calf leather wallet. The kiosk thanked him in a robotic voice, saying his Ultimate Wash would take three minutes.
“Roll up the window and pull in,” Hammett ordered.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“I’m going to give you a chance to live, Stu. That’s the truth. Now pull into the goddamn carwash.”
He drove into the Y-shaped conveyor track which caught his left front tire.
“Put it in neutral.”
He did, full-on crying now. The conveyor engaged with a mechanical whir, pulling them into the carwash. Foamy soap dripped onto the windshield in obscene clumps.
“Now unzip your fly,” Hammett told him.
“What?”
Hammett stabbed the scalpel into the top of the dashboard.
“You have exactly sixty seconds to castrate yourself, Stu, or I’ll shoot you in the head.”
Lupowitz stared at her, jaw dropping open.
“Fifty-five seconds.” Hammett raised the .38.
Lupowitz glanced at the scalpel, then reached for his car door. He got it open, but his seatbelt prevented him from jumping out, just as she’d anticipated. Hammett jabbed the barrel of the gun under his flabby neck.
“Close the door and start cutting. Fifty seconds.”
Lupowitz closed the door, some foam speckling his expensive suit.
“I… I can’t,” he blubbered.
Hammett kept her eyes on him, seeking the radio with her free hand. She turned it on and cranked the volume up. Some obnoxious Top 40 crap.
She continued to count down in her head.
When she got to thirty, Lupowitz unzipped his fly.
At twenty, he tugged the scalpel out of the dashboard.
The car passed through the mitter curtain—hanging cloth strips that undulated across the foamy windshield.
With ten seconds left, Lupowitz surprised Hammett and actually began to cut.
The music covered his screaming. It also covered her shot to his temple, because he didn’t finish in time, only managing to complete half the job.
Hammett took his wallet and cell phone from his jacket, putting them into her pack. During the rinse cycle, Hammett opened her door and stepped out into the steamy waterfall. She walked back the way she came, tucking the gun into her fanny pack, and strolled out the carwash entrance. Head down, she walked off the gas station property before Lupowitz’s car made it through the other side.
In the California sun, she was dry within three blocks.
By the time she’d walked back to her parked rental car, she’d ditched the floppy hat, tossing it into a sidewalk garbage can. She should have also wiped down and ditched the gun. Getting caught with it would be an instant conviction, and the agency she worked for would no doubt deny she existed. Also, because she hadn’t used gloves, there were microscopic powder burns on her hand from when she’d fired it. A simple test could link her to the gunpowder residue on what was left of Stu’s head.
Yet she kept the weapon. In expectation of things to come.
It had been a sloppy hit. But Hammett was beaming just the same. While she should have been exhausted, she felt even more alive, more wired, than when she’d killed Rod.
And she was just getting started.
“Stick to the op,” The Instructor said. “As long as you do, you’re an asset to be protected. Once you stray, you become a liability.”
The room Hammett found in L.A.’s Chinatown was one normally rented by the hour. Hammett knew Chinese, and Hóu hòisàm gindóu néih was the Cantonese pronunciation of the characters on the marquee, which meant pleased to meet you.
The Pleased To Meet You Motel. A perfect name for a dive where Triad gangsters pimped their recently acquired hookers. Prior to arriving, Hammett had found a Fredrick’s of Hollywood shop and bought some appropriate slutwear. Fishnets, thigh high stilettos, a black PVC micro mini skirt and a black lace bustier. She rounded out the ensemble with a peaked PVC dominatrix cap, the kind brought into vogue by the military during WWII.
She paid for the room in cash, which was another reason for her seedy choice in lodging. All legitimate hotels demanded ID, and her current fake driver’s license and credit cards were traceable by her employer. Her handler, a man on the phone with an electronic voice modulator she knew only as Isaac, wasn’t one to fuck around with. If he knew she’d gone off-mission, there would be consequences. Better for him not to know.
It was the kind of motel where there was no lobby, and all the rooms faced the parking lot. As expected, her accommodations were bare bones. Cheap bed, cheap dresser, missing tiles in the shower, a TV that used quarters to turn it on. But it had an L.A. phonebook in the nightstand, and Hammett quickly found Tex Darling’s studio number under adult video production.
Using Lupowitz’s cell phone, a Motorola RAZR, she called the number and wasn’t surprised to get Darling’s answering service. Hammett hung up without saying anything. Then she went out to the rental car and found some quarters in the cup holder that she’d been using for toll roads. Back in her room Hammett pushed a few into the coin-op TV and flipped through a few porno stations until she found local news about the car wash murder. She watched for a moment, but apparently they hadn’t released the victim’s name.
She only had a small window of time, but Hammett decided to go for it.
Besides the coin-op adult movies and bedbugs infested with STDs, this motel offered free WiFi included with the room. Hammett logged onto the Internet, then entered Hydra’s backdoor to the U.S. Treasury Department. A minute later she had Tex Darling’s last three years’ 1099s, along with his current address and two phone numbers, and she assumed one was his home and the other his cell.
She tied her hair in pigtails and laid out on the scuzzy bed, bra down and nipples exposed, one arm over her head to make her breasts flatten out to look less developed. With her other hand she took a pic of herself, chewing her lower lip, using Lupowitz’s RAZR. Then she texted the pic
to both of Darling’s numbers, followed by this message.
It’s Stu L. Got a PYT that’s hot to trot. Vid for $$$?
In pedophile parlance, PYT was pretty young thing. If this didn’t get Darling’s attention, she could always pay him a visit at his home. But Hammett didn’t know if he was there. He might be out for the night, or the week. He might be having a party with twenty gangsters. He might be home alone, but with a killer burglar system and a footlocker full of constitutionally protected Second Amendment ordnance. Luring him out was easier, and allowed Hammett to control the setting.
She waited, watching Asian pornography on the pay-per TV until her change ran out. Though Hammett felt empowered by her sexuality, even when used in the line of duty, she believed porn was a small step down from stripping and a small step up from prostitution. Lots of exploitation and victimization there. That didn’t bother her. Adult women were free to make their own decisions, even bad ones. Children, on the other hand, were innocent. There was a difference between making poor life choices and being abused under the age of consent.
Eighteen minutes later, Lupowitz’s phone buzzed with a text reply.
Have camera, will travel. Where?
Hammett punched in the motel’s address, and gave her room number.
C U in 30, Darling texted back.
Perfect.
She changed out of her slutwear and into steel toe combat boots, relaxed fit chinos, and a tight shirt, replacing her pigtails with a ponytail. She kept the PVC military domme hat. Any possible witnesses would remember the distinctive hat, not her face.
Then she went out to her rental car and hunkered down with Lupowitz’s cell phone and gun, waiting for Darling to arrive. She was only mildly surprised when an SUV screeched into the motel parking lot, and four guys piled out.
None had movie equipment. All were armed.
Either Hammett had violated some sort of code of contact by impersonating Lupowitz, or Darling had gotten wind of his murder and had come prepared.
She would know soon enough.
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