The Dead Code.

Balboa Park, San Diego, California

Maria waited under the shade of a eucalyptus tree, scanning the horizon for Patrick. Around her were families having picnics, parents watching their children run circles on the lawn, and lovers holding hands. Their lives aren’t so different from mine, really. Just more happiness and fewer guns. She checked her watch for the third time. That old man is always late.

A minute later, Patrick came strolling up the hill to her. He waved to her as he approached. She kept her arms crossed in front of her. She had never seen him in shorts and a t-shirt before. He looked like everyone else in town.

"Where do you hide your sidearm in that outfit, Major?" she called out to him.

He held his index finger in front of his mouth to hush her. "Do you want the whole world to know? I’m not carrying a gun."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Hello, Maria. I see that you’re glad to know that I’m alive."

"I’m just thrilled," she said in a monotone. "Let the explanation begin. I don’t have all day."

He sat down on the grass. "What would you like me to explain to you?"

She frowned in annoyance. "General relativity. What do you think? I want to know what the hell happened in New York."

"I made the decision to abort the mission. There were too many of them to fight."

"No shit, there were too many of them! Most of them were downstairs, blocking my exit! How the hell did you think I was going to get out of there? Fly?"

"You got out through the window, didn’t you?"

"Barely! I had to rappel down a fucking cable TV wire!"

Patrick doubled over in silent laughter. "That wasn’t a cable TV wire! That was an escape line I threw over the side to get down myself. I left it there thinking you could use it, too."

Maria looked away, then glared at the man again. "Why didn’t you come downstairs to rendezvous with me?"

"There was a contingent of about seven or eight guards milling around in the hallway on the eighth floor. I knew I couldn’t make it through them. That’s when I called you to clear out. Apparently you completed the mission, anyway. Congratulations on blowing up half of fucking Queens."

"I heard gunfire up there. What the hell was going on?" Maria grilled him.

"I waited to make sure they weren’t going down. I couldn’t let them get down to your position. When they started to head for the stairs, that’s when I engaged them. I couldn’t keep it up, so I bailed out of there. Just in time to avoid getting blown up myself, I might add."

She could feel rage building inside her; she couldn’t contain it any longer. "You left me there to die, Patrick! The day before you tried to kiss me and play Casanova with me; the next day, you just dropped me like a hot potato. I came within inches of buying the farm in there, and you just disappeared!" She tried to catch her breath, but the anger wouldn’t subside. "You betrayed me! I can’t believe you let me down one more time."

"One more time? Are you still talking about Italy? You know I didn’t . . ."

"Not just Italy, Patrick. I can’t trust you. You’re unpredictable and you’re a pain in the ass! I’m never working with you again, and," she lowered her voice, "I am never getting close to you again. That’s just a memory and a fantasy for you."

Patrick stared at her, then said, "Just hear me out: I can understand if you never want to work with me again. So be it. But you have to realize that I did NOT betray you in Milan, and I did NOT betray you last month in New York. For chrissake, Maria! I put that stupid line there so you could get out of the building faster! If you’d gone down the fire escape, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. And who knows what would’ve happened to you if those guys on the eighth floor decided to stroll downstairs to see what was going on." He pointed to himself. "I helped you get out of there alive; I didn’t betray you. Don’t you understand? I was willing to call off the mission right in the middle because I feared for your safety. When have I done that before?"

"You were trying to save your own skin, Patrick."

"Bullshit!"

"You were. Remember how nervous you were the night before? I’m surprised you didn’t bail out then and there." She fixed her gaze on him, then moved in for the kill: "You’re getting old, you’re losing your touch, and you have no head for this business anymore. Just call it quits and keep us all safe, okay?"

Patrick closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "You really know how to piss me off, you know that?"

"Excuse me for being honest. At least now I know that you’re not as much of a threat to me as I thought you were. Don’t take the assignment to kill me, Patrick, or I’ll wax the floor with you."

"What’s with this trash-talking? You want to challenge me to a game of basketball so you can dunk on me?" he laughed.

"Just keep a wide perimeter around me, please. I don’t want your intervention on my behalf or against me."

"I can’t believe I flew out here for this," he mumbled.

"Me, either. Did you think you’d get lucky?"

"Go fuck yourself, okay, Maria?" He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and began to walk away.

"Better than fucking you," she said under her breath.

He stopped, turned, and walked back to her. "The Agency came through, by the way. Here are the details of your payment. I wish you could appreciate how hard it was for me to keep your identity hidden from them." He handed her a letter-sized envelope, then left.

She drove back to her house and replayed the conversation in her head. He’s probably telling the truth about helping me out in New York. And I’m sure the government gave him a hard time with me as the subcontractor. But I still don’t trust him; I can’t work with the guy. She parked her car in front of the house. I wonder where he’ll go now? What did he plan on doing here, anyway? Go to the zoo?

She entered the house and looked around at the empty rooms. Every place she lived in she had a bare minimum of furniture. How depressing, she thought.

May 25

La Jolla, California

Maria walked along the sidewalk, window shopping as she passed boutique after boutique. Money flowed freely from her pocketbook; she enjoyed the experience of being a consumer again. She was in no need for work at the moment, so she spent her days doing whatever she felt like doing. Today, it was shopping. On other days, she went for a run along the coast down to Point Loma, made day and night trips to Mexico, or just relaxed on the beach. Although she wasn’t accepting assignments, she was careful to maintain her proficiency in her arts: she went often to the shooting range, took some advanced martial arts classes, and kept herself in physical shape. It seemed as though there were no end to the possibilities and the freedom, but she felt somehow trapped by it all.

At the end of her shopping trip, as she drove to an appointment at a hair stylist with her bags in tow, she checked her cell phone messages. I wonder why Teresa hasn’t had a job for me; maybe William told her about my vacation. Or maybe he told her about what we did on the sofa . . . She dialed her password and listened.

There was one message; it was a man’s voice, one that Maria didn’t recognize. He spoke with some hesitation: "Uh, hello? I’m not sure if this is the right number, but I’m an attorney who represents someone who could use your help. I have a number code that I’m supposed to key in. So I’m going to do that now . . ." What is this? Who are these people, and how do they find me? Am I listed in the phone directory under "assassins for hire"? She listened for the digits: 5,5,1,6,1,7,4. I’ll be damned! That sounds like a real one. Maria didn’t recognize it, but knew she’d have to look up her codes to see the referral source. The caller continued, giving a description of his appearance and attire. "Hopefully I’ll see you at the appointed place and time. If not, I’ll go to the pay phone you listed here."

Her curiosity was piqued. Most of her clients knew her well enough to avoid the formalities of the secret codes and other screening procedures. Maria suspected that the code was a dead code, one that she set up for a client that was never used. I don’t like the way this feels. This could be some kind of trap. If I go there to check this one out, I’m going to need to watch my back.

As she sat in the hair stylist’s chair, Maria looked out the window at the people passing idly by. She could sense the mundane rituals of everyday life starting to gnaw at her vitality. She didn’t want to accept any assignments for awhile, but was this all there was? This life of shopping trips and sun worshipping at the beach was the only alternative? I’m turning into a real princess. Maybe I’m not cut out for a normal life. Maybe I should get back to work. Besides, that mystery caller is bugging me.

The hair stylist spoke up. "So, what do you do for a living?"

Damn it! Why do they always have to ask me that? "I’m a . . . lawyer."

"Really? So’s my boyfriend. What kind of law?"

Shut up! "Criminal defense." Please don’t ask me anymore stupid questions . . .

"That must be really tough, defending criminals," she said.

"Tougher than you can imagine. They’re all a bunch of low-life, good-for-nothing assholes." There. That’ll shut her up.

The hair stylist recoiled at her remark, then silently continued with her work.

Back home, Maria researched the dead code. It was originally opened for a Venezuelan client, Javier Solis, who didn’t live to put her services to use. How the hell did they come across that number? I guess there’s only one way to find out . . .

Las Vegas, Nevada

Maria kept her distance from the man in the gray suit who paced in front of the casino’s restaurant. She watched him for several minutes; he was obviously getting nervous that she wouldn’t show up. She didn’t see anyone else with him, so she decided it was safe. I’ve kept him waiting long enough . . .

The man watched her approach. He admired the woman’s long, beautiful legs as she strode toward him with confidence. His vision traveled up from where her thighs grazed her skirt, to the plunging neckline of her white blouse. He looked as if he couldn’t believe that this sexy woman was a killer, but something about her attitude convinced him otherwise.

"Hi. I’m Seth Solomon, the attorney who called you on Tuesday." He held out his hand to her.

Maria kept her right hand in her purse. "Excuse me if I don’t shake your hand, Seth. I’m going to keep my finger on the trigger until I get to know you better."

"I’m not armed."

"That’s a smart move when you’re around me. You can call me Lydia."

"Lydia," the man repeated.

"Would you like to tell me how you got a retired code of mine?"

"My client was a friend of one of your clients, someone who is now deceased. He asked him for it in case he ever needed it. He didn’t – until now."

"And what was your client’s friend named?"

"Javier Solis," he replied. He looked at her expectantly.

"Congratulations. I won’t hold you at gunpoint now." She took her hand away from the purse. "Normally I don’t take blind assignments, Seth. Can you tell me who you represent?"

"I’m afraid I can’t."

"I thought so. Deal’s off. Bye now." She pivoted as if to go. The man grabbed her sleeve.

"Please! Don’t go. It’s very important to him. Can’t you make an exception just once?"

"Why should I?"

"There are a couple of reasons."

"Let’s hear them."

"First of all, if you’re successful with this assignment, he’s willing to hire you for a second one that will garner a very generous fee for you."

"So first I have to prove myself to this nimrod? Money doesn’t turn me on these days. What’s the other reason?"

Seth looked at his hands. "Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Lydia."

"Go on," she said with obvious irritation.

"He says that he has some information that you might like to know."

Maria shoved her hand back into her purse. She was livid. "Are you threatening me, Seth? Are you blackmailing me? Do you know what I do to blackmailers?"

"Hold on, hold on! I don’t know what this information is, I swear to you! He won’t tell me." Seth’s brow began to bead with sweat.

"Too bad, because if you don’t tell me in ten seconds what this information is, I’m going to shoot you. Ten, nine, . . ."

"Wait a minute! All I can tell you is this: he told me to give you a name. That’s all I know, I swear."

"I’m listening."

"He said it has something to do with a man named Locatelli. He said he has some information that you probably want to know, and that you’d recognize the name. That’s all he told me."

Maria recalled instantly. Locatelli. The crime family in Providence. What the hell could he have on them, and is it really worth anything? "Okay, Seth. I won’t kill you . . . yet. But I have to admit, I’m still leaning against taking this job."

"I figured you would be. One more thing, then: my client is afraid that this man is going to take out a contract on him. He’s already received death threats. My client is afraid for his life, Lydia. Can’t you do something to help him?"

"Not really, no. I’m not in the crusade business."

Maria thought about leaving, but as she recalled the aimless, sunny days in San Diego, she decided to find out more.

"Seth, why don’t you tell me a little bit more about this project, and I’ll see if I’m available for it. Who’s getting the greeting card, so to speak?"

Seth adjusted his tie. "The man is named Troy Cook. He’s an actor . . ."

"You’ve got to be kidding me!" Maria groaned. "An actor?"

"Yes, an actor. Well, I hesitate to call him a real actor; he’s just another young poseur, really."

"Doesn’t sound like much of a threat. Does he play a serial killer on TV?" she snickered.

"My client is a Hollywood producer, and this man was supposed to get a principal role in one of my client’s productions. My client called it off, and Mr. Cook went off the deep end. Said my client was trying to ruin his career. Now he’s vowing to kill him over it."

"You must be a good lawyer Seth – didn’t he try to sue your client first?"

"Of course, but he had no case."

"So now he’s looking for a hired gun."

"Believe me, he can’t afford one."

"No, of course not." Maria sighed. "Where is he?"

"He lives in L.A. I can give you all the information you need – addresses, phone numbers." Seth Solomon looked at her directly. "Will you do it?" He glanced furtively from side to side. "Will you help out my client, Lydia?"

Maria scratched her head. I hate these kinds of jobs – wiping out some fool for a little cash. If I weren’t so damn bored . . . . "Okay, Seth. I’ll save your client’s life. Let’s talk money."

June 14

Sherman Oaks, California

Maria waited in her car. The residential neighborhood grew quiet as the night progressed. She had staked out Troy Cook’s rented house for several days, and she knew his every move. Tonight he was hosting a party at his house.

She did research on her mark in hopes that she’d find out more about her anonymous client. She thought she had an answer. She didn’t believe Seth Solomon’s story about the Hollywood producer. Troy Cook’s father, it turned out, was Dr. Edward Cook, creator of several fad diets and author of some books on nutrition. Of course, Dr. Cook dabbled in a little experimental pharmacology, much of it illegal. He was known as a somewhat unsavory character, a man whom Teresa Wu once called "pure evil." Maria thought that was funny coming from her.

It was approaching one o’clock in the morning, and Troy’s house was still packed with partygoers. It was a noisy scene, and Maria was grateful for it. A car parked in the driveway and a slew of young, reveling men and women piled out and into the house.

All these people and all this noise should make it easy. I can come and go as I please. But it’s never easy. Why? Why is it never easy? Maria looked to the heavens. Do you want me to go to confession again?

Maria kept her gaze focused on the house as she sat in her car. Her mind wandered to a time when Patrick tried to explain the turn of events that almost got her killed in Milan.

He had told her that he was forced into the job. The people he had been training in guerrilla warfare tactics turned out to be terrorists who coerced him into furthering their agenda by assassinating the state’s witness. He went to Milan "at gunpoint," he said, to assist them. He said he had no idea Maria would be protecting Dr. Strozzi. When he saw her there, he made excuses to his captors as to why he couldn’t detonate the bomb. They got angry with him, threatened him; he had no choice. When he saw her run back to the building, he knew it would be his only opportunity to save his life and hers. He set off the car bomb. Maria didn’t believe his story at the time, and wasn’t sure if she believed it now. The sequence of events made sense, but she had trouble believing that Patrick was still a good soldier who was forced to do evil. Maria thought there was an evil streak running through him, just as there was one a mile wide running through her.

As she watched Troy Cook’s house, Maria readied herself. She checked her 9mm and placed it securely in her purse. I don’t want to come back here another day. I want to get this over with now and go home. She could see silhouettes moving through the curtains of the house. Maybe they’ll be drunk or strung out on something. It’s a bit risky, but what the hell?

Maria crossed the street. She walked up to the front door of the house. She could hear music blaring inside and sounds coming from the television set. Good! Turn up the volume. Make my life easier.

Once inside, she scanned the room for her target. The house was packed with people, most of them probably affiliated with Hollywood in some remote way. Or the porn industry, thought Maria as she spied Troy talking to a buxom young blonde in a bikini top and tight leather pants. Great, she thought, How am I going to distract him from that pair of implants? She headed straight toward them.

"Hi!" Maria shouted over the music.

Troy and the blonde woman glanced at her and continued talking. Maria positioned herself between them.

"Excuse me, I’m sorry! Troy, I don’t know if you know me, but I’m Brian’s friend Jacqueline."

Troy looked annoyed. "Uh, who? Brian who?"

"My friend Rene is totally drunk and passed out on your bed right now. Do you think you could help me try to get her home?"

"Who’s in my room?"

"Rene. She’s in one of the bedrooms back there."

"I’ll be right back," he said to the porn girl. "All right, let’s get your friend."

Maria led him through a hallway. "Thanks so much for helping me."

"Who did you say you were again?"

"Jacqueline. Brian’s friend."

Troy opened the door to the room. "Which Brian? Brian who?"

"I don’t know – Brian." Maria closed the door behind them.

Troy looked around the room. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Your drunk friend!"

Maria leaned back against the door to hold it shut. "There is no drunk friend, Troy."

"Then why the hell did you make me come back here?"

"Because I’m naughty and I want to play with you."

He laughed and shook his head. "Look, you’re a very attractive girl, but I’ve got a room full of fucking porn stars out there! See you later." He moved toward the door.

Maria slid the silencer-equipped 9mm out of her bag and pointed it at him. "Sit down, Troy."

"What the . . . ?" He was stunned. "Is that a real gun?"

"Yes."

"Why? What did I do to you? I don’t even know you!" He started to take steps backwards.

"And I don’t even know you! That’s the beauty of this arrangement." She raised the gun slightly. Troy panicked, turned, and ran for the bathroom. He slammed the door shut behind him and locked it.

After a couple of swift kicks, Maria was able to bust open the door. She strode into the bathroom. Troy was in the shower trying to clamber out the window.

"I’m sorry I have to do this to you, Troy."

He faced her. "Wait! Why are you doing this?"

"Why are the French rude? Who knows?"

"Who sent you here?"

"Brian sent me," she answered with a deadpan voice. "No further questions."

Thhhnk, thhhnk, thhhnk.

Maria turned the shower on and let the water rain down on Troy’s body.

On the way out of the house, Maria stopped to talk to the blonde Troy was with earlier. "Troy’s in the bathroom. He might be in there a little while, so I wouldn’t wait for him."

San Diego, California

Maria pushed her shopping cart through the produce section of the supermarket. As she inspected some bananas, she heard a voice call her by her given name. She looked up to see the priest from her confession standing there. She didn’t recognize him at first without his clerical attire.

You’d think I was living in Anytown, USA. "Father Ryan! Hello." She turned away; he approached her.

"Maria, we need to talk. You left so abruptly last time."

"Yeah, I know. I tend to do that."

"You can’t."

She frowned at him. "What do you mean, I can’t?"

"You have to face your crimes. You have to wash yourself of the sins and seek forgiveness!" His voice was pleading with her.

"Not going to happen, Father. I’m a lost soul."

"You’re not. You’re on the wrong path, but your soul isn’t lost."

She grinned at him. "I just love that about Catholics! I can kill a couple hundred people, and I’m still going to meet St. Peter at the pearly gates! What a deal!"

"You think you will, Maria?" Father Ryan said. "You haven’t repented for anything. You’ve shown no remorse. You haven’t done anything to atone for your crimes."

"What am I supposed to do? Turn myself in to the police?"

"That’s just the beginning."

"You want me to bake cookies for the families of my victims?"

"You’re mocking them, Maria. I know you harbor some regret about your sins, otherwise you wouldn’t have walked into our church. So why don’t you just try to open up and talk to me?"

She took a banana in her hands, held it like a gun, and poked him in the gut with it. "Because I’m evil. I’m an evil, dirty bitch, Father, who actually enjoys her twisted profession. Just because I had a weak moment or a pang of regret doesn’t mean I’m going to turn my life around into something it isn’t. Face it: I’m never going to be a suburban soccer mom with 2.5 kids and a house with a white picket fence. That’s not where my crazy life is headed."

"Then where is it headed, Maria?"

She looked down at the banana and nervously twirled it in her hand. "Six feet under, my friend. Six feet under."

Father Ryan had a pained expression on his face. He watched as Maria turned and pushed her cart to the cashier.

Maria drove home, checking her messages along the way. When is Dr. Cook going to pay me for blowing away his son? She listened to the voice mail announcement. I could get used to this: doing two or three little jobs a year, relaxing for the rest. I wouldn’t be bored . . . . Maybe a little poorer, though. There was a message, and it was from Seth Solomon.

"Lydia, this is Seth. My client is happy with your work. I’d like to meet you to discuss that second assignment I talked to you about. Let’s arrange a meeting as soon as you can."

Already? I still haven’t met his client. I don’t like working this way. I’ll just have to tell him no. I don’t work for strangers, and I don’t have to answer to anybody.