Naughty (2 page)

She grabbed him between the legs, pulled him inside, and then kissed him when the door was closed and locked. He tasted like mint floss, and his teeth were as perfect as his face and body. After a very hot meeting of tongues he bent down to pick her up, and became confused when she braced her legs and placed a hand on his chest, throwing off his balance and leverage just enough to make it impossible. While Hammett knew his only intention was to carry her to the bed, she wanted to stay in control, especially with someone almost twice her weight. So instead she led him to the bed, lay back with her knees apart, and let him dive in.

He was better with his mouth than she’d been with her fingers, obviously happy in his work. He read the subtle movements of her hips and her moans to know when to apply more pressure, and when to back off. A real pro, he used his mustache to highly pleasurable effect.

After several orgasms she beckoned for him to undress, and he followed her silent commands for how fast and hard he should fuck so she could come again. When she did, she let him take the lead for a bit, turning her this way and that, varying depth and speed, maintaining exceptional control until she found herself growing less interested in him and more interested in what was on the laptop.

She allowed him to come—something she sometimes refused to allow escorts to do because she liked to see them break character and pout or beg—but he’d been good enough that he earned that. Then, when he was half-hard with his condom still on, she ordered him to immediately dress and leave.

He did, without having said a word the whole time. Which worked for Hammett, because when a man that good looking said something, it was usually vapid and ruined the whole fantasy.

Maybe the guy had a PhD in philosophy and would have been thrilled to discuss Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, but Hammett guessed he’d rather talk about how the Lakers are doing, why Adam Sandler was hilarious, and how he wanted to see her again. Yawn.

Content and wonderfully sore, she locked the door behind him, booted up Roddy’s laptop using the passwords he had so generously provided, and delved into his private email account.

It was a good thing Hammett had gotten laid before tackling the computer, because it took less than ten seconds for her to dry up and go cold. After viewing some of the images of violated, crying children, she might have killed her handsome escort had he still been in the same room with her, just for the crime of having testicles.

Jaw set, she surfed through the jpg attachments, and went to work on tracing where they’d originated. Not an easy task when senders spoofed their IP address and used VPNs. But Hammett kept her hacking software online in a file locker, so once she downloaded it to Rod’s computer and did a quick installation, a’hunting she did go.

It took thirty minutes to trace the first of Rod’s pedo buddies to an address in Beverly Hills. A man named Stuart Lupowitz. He liked little boys.

Protocol dictated Hammett get on an afternoon flight to her apartment in Columbus and wait for her next directive. Protocol also insisted that after an op, staying out of sight and lying low was mandatory. Drawing undue attention, or engaging in risky behavior, was forbidden. Hydra, like the many other shadow organizations the U.S. government no doubt funded, survived because of secrecy.

So when Hammett dressed and headed toward Beverly Hills instead of LAX, she knew it was a severe breach in procedure. One that could have major consequences.

As expected, L.A. traffic was almost as horrible as what she’d done to Rod only a few hours ago, and an eight-mile drive took forty minutes. The weather was hot and smoggy, and Hammett was wearing a red unitard, having tossed the black one in the hotel’s lobby garbage. Over it she had a white mesh swimsuit cover-up which would have looked out of place anywhere but Hollywoodland. A floppy white hat, oversized Prada sunglasses, and her ballet shoes rounded out her ensemble.

After spending ten more minutes looking for a spot on Rodeo Drive, she parked five blocks away from Lupowitz’s house and fed the meter to the maximum limit. Then Hammett began to walk, tuning into her surroundings. Traffic sounds, a dozen people on the sidewalks, most shopping, one roller blader, a jogger across the street. Fresh coffee smells from a bistro. The stench of smog and exhaust mixed with the dry heat. She passed one designer store after another—stores that normally drew her in like a kid to candy. But Hammett hardly paid them any mind.

She was in stalking mode.

Taking a circuitous route, backtracking twice to check for tails, she made her way out of the shopping district and into the residential areas. Hammett knew to be careful here. Celebrities and the uber rich got extra police protection, and sure enough she spotted a patrol car in her peripheral coming up when she crossed Santa Monica Boulevard. She ducked behind a pine tree, letting the cop pass, and then continued on to Carmalita Avenue. Every house was a mansion, every mansion a burglar-proof fortress. Lupowitz was some sort of hotshot producer when he was not jerking off to kiddie porn, and no doubt breaking into his domicile would be a lot harder than getting into Rod’s.

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.