HIS EYES WIDEN as she steps back, the tiny one-shot hypodermic still concealed in Marsha Gray’s right hand, her fingernail polish quite red and stark. He trembles, tries to breathe, and she wonders if she could say one last word to him before his spirit travels to whatever afterlife he believes in just as Carl collapses to the floor.
Marsha maneuvers around so she can zip the dress back up, and then goes back to her leather bag, puts the empty hypodermic back in. A slick little drug that will fade away in Carl’s bloodstream within minutes, and when—or if—he’s autopsied, the only thing a medical examiner will come up with is death by natural causes, perhaps a myocardial infarction, but whatever the official medical outcome, Carl will still be dead.
Mission accomplished.
Near the office space with the pretty upholstered chairs and a mahogany desk are two identical black leather briefcases.
Tempting.
From her little purse she pulls out a pair of light-blue latex gloves, snaps them on, and then opens up each briefcase. She’s surprised they’re both unlocked.
Each briefcase is full to the top with bundled one-hundred-dollar bills.
She whistles.
“Dear girl, temptation is surely knocking at your door,” she whispers.
She gives one more appreciative glance at the money, closes the lids.
Poor Carl back there is—or was—the son of a prominent politician and oil executive (being one and the same in that particular nation ending in “stan”) and was due to meet with some prominent American oil officials and representatives from his nation later this afternoon.
She is sure his unexpected death will cause a lot of turmoil, distrust, and maybe even a grudge killing or two, but that isn’t her concern.
She is focused only on getting out of the Hay-Adams safely.
She picks up her small leather purse and goes into an adjoining bathroom about the size of her first apartment back in Cheyenne.
Forty-four minutes later, Marsha Gray is sipping a Diet Coke at a Subway six blocks east of the Hay-Adams. The same drink that she spent $1.99 for here at the fast-food place would probably have cost ten times as much back at the Hay-Adams, but having successfully slipped out, she’s in no hurry to get back, especially with the shitstorm of police, FBI, and EMTs that are descending there at this moment.
While in Carl’s enormous bathroom, she had quickly and efficiently gone to work. The green-tinted contact lenses were flushed down the toilet. Her black nylons stripped off, replaced by sheer thigh-highs. A few tugs of her specially designed cocktail dress eliminated the deep cleavage and lowered the hem about six inches. Two quick tugs on the high heels of her shoes turned them into flats. The auburn-colored wig was taken off and placed at a key point under her now-modest dress, along with the heels, making her look like she was a few months in the family way. A pair of black-rimmed glasses with clear lenses went from her small purse to her face. And with that out of the way, she had slipped out of Carl’s room, taken the elevator back down to the lobby, and walked out past Carl’s three bodyguards, none of them even glancing in her direction.
Now she sips on her Diet Coke, checks the time, wonders how long she’ll have to wait before getting another job.
Her iPhone starts ringing. She examines the screen and smiles.
Not long at all.