Chapter 1

She stood there at the corner of the bed watching his chest rise and fall evenly.  The lower half of his body was snuggled under the down duvet.  For that, she was thankful.  She didn’t think she could shoot him if she caught sight of his magnificent beast.  So far, she had only seen the beast fully-clothed, but she had studied close ups of photographs of him in his suits and gold and leather pants—all for research purposes.

It was bad enough she could see his bare chest with its curly black hairs and sinewy peaks.  His nipples looked like gumdrops.  In her many years as a trained assassin, it never bothered her to see a mark die.  They died in many ways. 

 There was the mob accountant who had developed somewhat of a Robin Hood mentality:  he had taken to transferring 10% of his bosses’ funds to various charities like tithes.  She had been contracted to take him out since the mob never fired you—more like set fire to you.  And that is exactly what she did.  He ran down Aberdeen Street lit up brighter than the Fourth of July and sent a message loud and clear:  steal from the Eacobacci’s and you’ll end up dead.

Then there was the president of an international adoption agency who thought it was his right to molest all the orphaned children his organization put up for adoption in the states.  She had done that one for free.  It had been her pleasure to make sure he was found hanging in his bedroom dressed in lingerie with a noose around his neck.  She had scattered the hundreds of tapes of him molesting his charges around the bed for good measure.

No, the killing had never bothered her before, but for some reason, she found the idea of that beautiful chest shattered to bits rather disturbing.  She had been told he always slept in the nude now.  Her intelligence report had also told her he often kept the bedroom window closest to his bed open at night; it said he craved the fresh air since he could so seldom go outside to experience it. They also said he loved sweets and soda despite his public image as a health nut.

She had already ruled out food and drink as a possible poisoning method; he got his goods from a number of vendors, and it was too risky to infiltrate all of them.  Mass contamination of such a large volume of stock would raise too many flags.  She couldn’t afford to be exposed, not with so many important assignments coming up.

No, she decided on an in-person clean kill.  She would be in and out in a matter of minutes without leaving a trace—or so she thought.  She hadn’t counted on his disarming charm.  She was mesmerized by his presence, and he wasn’t even awake!  She could only imagine his incredible charisma when he was up talking and moving, dancing and singing.  It was a shame really, but she had to kill him.  It was her job.

She had no idea why they wanted him dead.  He had never truly hurt anybody as far as she knew.  All those allegations years ago had been frauds, cons, just pure grift.  She knew that for a fact; everyone in the game knew what con artists those families were and they weren’t even good at what they did.  It didn’t matter.  The media was eager to believe any outrageous story about him, so they ran with it.  They skewered him regardless of the facts, regardless of the character of those pointing the fingers.  She had felt pity for him then, just as she did now.

She was stopped by a vibrating against the inner surface of her left wrist.  It was her contact with an urgent message.  Two words: abort mission.  There was nothing further on the digital readout, no explanation as to why the assassination was called off.  This was how they did it.  You got information on a need-to-know basis.  All she needed to know right now was that they were both spared.  He was spared from a quick and efficient death, and she was spared from what just might be the biggest mistake of her life. She had the strangest feeling she would regret this kill. 

Ever dutiful, the agency’s most efficient killing machine placed her gears in reverse.  She lowered the muzzle of her gun and placed it back into the holster.  Quickly, she made her way back through the open window and rappelled back down to the ground outside.  She detached her rope from the exterior wall, packed it into her bag hidden in the bushes, and took off at a moderate trot towards the exit point.  She could see the slightest hint of the rose-colored rising sun in the night sky.

*****

She handed the driver two twenty dollar bills and stepped out of the taxi onto the hot Los Angeles street, narrowly dodging bits of grime and street trash with her red-soled Christian Louboutins.  The hot dry air hit her like a fire wall, blowing her dark black hair in what little artificial breeze was created by the slowly passing cars.  Today she wore a simple silk slip dress, robin’s egg blue, so as not to attract too much attention.  She carried only a small purse matching her shoes.  Her sunglasses shielded her eyes from view, lest anyone see she was not there for an idle visit.  She bypassed the coat check in wondering to herself why on Earth they would have one in L.A. anyway.  It hardly ever rained and rarely got cold, even at night.  She paid her admission fee, grabbed a guidebook, and picked up the self-guided cassette player and headphones.  

Cassat gave way to Camille Pisarro’s Hay Harvest at Éragny.  The women, though their bodies blurred in the typical impressionist way, seemed full of life and joy during the manual labor of the harvest.  The painting had a freshness that never ceased to amaze her.  Pisarro’s use of earth tones, blues, and greens seemed lively but not harsh and overbearing like Berthe Morisot’s heavy hand or Alfred Sisley’s depressing washed out city scenes.   She was pleasantly surprised to see the curator was able to obtain a loan of Cezanne’s Jas de Bouffan, 1876.  She preferred Cezanne’s cubist works, but there was something refreshingly non-conformist about this more impressionist interpretation of the artist’s home, quietly rebellious like the artist himself.  Undoubtedly the curator must have made many promises in return for the display of this canvas. 

Her pulse quickened as she rounded the corner to the area housing Pierre-Auguste Renoir, but her spirits sagged slightly to see the museum had only obtained Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette and La Balançoireand not her favorites Girls at the Piano and Le Déjeuner des Canotiers (the infamous Luncheon of the Boating Party).  Apparently The Phillips Collection kept tight control over their prized painting.  This museum certainly needed better connections, better donors--either that or a professional “persuader” who might be able to change a few minds to improve the quality of the works on loan they could obtain.

At precisely two thirty seven p.m., she removed the earphones from her head, feigning discomfort in the region of her ears as she rubbed them, careful not to damage the two carat sapphire studs adorning her perfectly symmetrical lobes.  She placed the apparatus on the bench next to her and intently studied the guide brochure.  A middle-aged man dressed in grey slacks and a bright blue Brooks Brothers shirt sat beside her and faced slightly away towards Still Life With Anemones 1885.  They sat in silence for exactly 12 minutes, she studying her brochure, and he gazing at one of the Monet’s on the side wall as he listened to the tape.  He removed his headset and exchanged it with hers on the bench.  He then moved away, swiftly pocketing his new cassette player as he continued to the next room.  She reattached the headphones to her head and walked with a regular pace through the remainder of the exhibit.  She stopped at the gift shop to buy a few prints and a piece of jewelry, and an umbrella featuring one of the Water Lilies paintings before casually placing the guided cassette player into her purse rather than returning it to the rental kiosk.  She put her Chanel sunglasses back on and headed outside to hail a cab.  The tape would wait until she returned to one of her safe houses.

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