Stone Barrington 06-11

have no motive to kill your wife. Also, when I leave New York for Washington, I’ll no longer be Darlene King, but someone else, who will disappear the moment she’s dead.”
    He set down his plate. “Ah, the stuff that dreams are made of,” he said wistfully.
    “I imagine you’d be a very eligible man as a widower—handsome, well connected, and, finally, rich.”
    “That’s perfectly true. But, if you’re what you say you are, why are you confiding in me? I could walk down the hall, rap on the door of the presidential suite, and tell the director about you. I’ll bet he would be interested.”
    “Oh, you couldn’t do that, Jeff: You’d have too much to explain. You’d end up having to explain it to your wife, and she might react badly. You might find yourself living on your State Department salary. No, I’m perfectly safe confiding in you.”
    “Convince me you’re what you say you are,” he said.
    Marie-Thérèse set her plate on the room-service cart and got out of bed. She walked over to where her purse rested on a chair, dug out her little silenced pistol, walked back to the bed, and pointed it at Purdue’s head.
    Purdue’s face froze.
    “Oh, relax,” she said, “I’m not going to shoot you.”
    “What kind of gun is that?” he asked, fascinated.
    “An assassin’s weapon. It was made by your very own CIA,” she said.
    “And how did you come into possession of it?”
    “By means too convoluted to explain.”
    “If you shot my wife with that, could the gun be connected to other murders?”
    “No, it could not. You’ll have to trust me on that.”
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.
    “You think it over,” she replied. “I’m going to have a shower.” She walked into the bathroom, taking her purse and the pistol with her.

    Carpenter closed her phone. “The NYPD has given up on La Biche’s returning to the Carlyle suite, so they’re going to concentrate on our local headquarters,” she said to the meeting, “in the belief that she might watch the place again. They’re stationing snipers on the rooftops nearby.”
    “I don’t see what else can be done,” the director said. “My people are watching the airports, train and bus stations. We’ve circulated her description to the car rental agencies, too. What identity was she using at the Carlyle?”
    “Mrs. Darlene King, of Dallas, Texas,” Carpenter replied. “She’s apparently stayed there before under that name.”

    “I don’t suppose she’d be so foolish as to use it again,” he said.
    “I doubt it. She’s abandoned the suite at the Carlyle, and I expect she has abandoned that identity for another.”
    Mason leaned over. “Look, if you don’t need me anymore, I want to go back to the office and pick up some fresh clothes.”
    “Go ahead, but watch yourself,” Carpenter said.

    Marie-Thérèse checked herself out in the mirror. She looked very good in Mrs. Purdue’s Armani pantsuit, she thought, and she felt clean and fresh in her underwear, too. She walked back to the bathroom, where Purdue was shaving.
    He looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Hey, you can’t wear that,” he said. “That’s my wife’s.”
    “She’s not going to be needing it, is she?”
    He continued shaving. “Let’s drop this little game,” he said. “You’re no assassin, and my wife is not going anywhere. Now put on your own clothes and get out of here. You’re a great fuck, but we’re not going to be seeing each other again.”
    His tone annoyed Marie-Thérèse, not to mention that he was talking with his back to her.
    “Well, Jeff, I was going to do you a favor, but since you take that attitude, I think I’ll do your wife one, instead.” She took the pistol from her purse and fired once into the back of his head. The soft-nosed bullet splattered his face all over the bathroom mirror.
    She hung her dress carefully in the closet, so as to blend in with Mrs. Purdue’s things, dropped her dirty underwear in the hamper, and walked out of the suite, closing the door behind her. The guard from the night before was still on duty. “Good morning,” she said sweetly.
    “Good morning, ma’am,” he replied, pushing the elevator button for her.
    Another man came down the hall and stood with her, waiting for the elevator. When it arrived, they both got on.
    “Good morning,” he drawled.
    “Good morning,” she said, looking at him for the first time. “Well, upon my word, if it isn’t Mason!” She