The lone siren amplified and now was joined by others. The wailing chorus pulsed off the surrounding buildings and meshed in the urban valley around him. From behind the tinted window of his Nissan Pathfinder, where he’d slipped after launching the unmanned auto, Kleingarten could track the approach of emergency vehicles.
He should leave the scene, but where was the joy in creating a masterpiece if the end result couldn’t be savored? Sure, the crash would make the newspapers, and already a Channel 3 TV van was zooming into the parking lot, nearly outpacing the first ambulance.
But this was reality TV at its finest, with all the color and drama of life even when viewed through a tinted windshield.
He let the binoculars rest against the steering wheel. These days everybody had a cell phone that took pictures and, since the documented beating of Rodney King had created a self-made homeless millionaire, all those budding Jerry Springers and Geraldo Riveras out there were itching for their turns. So a low profile was the next best thing to invisible.
The Looker in the fringed leather jacket had regained her composure, and she leaned against one of the cars parked in front of the restaurant.
His employers were aware of the parking setup, almost as if the entire lot was some kind of oversized game board, the cars and people nothing more than set pieces. They’d assured him the Slant and the Looker would have their regular Thursday breakfast at the Over E-Z Waffle House, they’d take a booth near the back, and the late-model Ford Escort would be parked and pointed in a direct path to the window. Little had been left to chance, which had taken some fun out of the job, although the whole game was just weird enough to keep him playing along.
He thought of them as “employers” in plural form because, even though all his communication had been with the same prick on the phone-through cryptic text messages or directly from the mouth of that eggheaded asshole Briggs-he believed some type of group or organization was behind the orders. Maybe more than one. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He couldn’t imagine one person rigging such an elaborate prank. A jilted lover, somebody still stewing because the Slant had clamped her legs shut and cut off the Bamboo Express? Or maybe the Looker was doing another dude on the side?
No, jealousy led you to act quickly and irrationally. Hell, women in general made you do that. But these folks Kleingarten checked his wristwatch. Seven minutes had passed. Soon emergency response would give way to an investigation. Even the cops, as stupid as they were, would figure out the unoccupied car hadn’t started itself and shifted into “Drive.”
But he still had a few minutes, plus he was sporting a stolen license plate that some harebrained mall shopper probably hadn’t even noticed was missing. He wielded the glasses again.
The ambulance crew debarked and sprinted to the front of the crumpled Escort, rolling latex gloves up to their wrists. The TV van screamed to a stop and a camera operator got out, one of those shaggy-assed, bearded hippies who always seemed to get the easy gigs. A chick with the same hairstyle as the Looker exited the passenger door, checking her reflection in the side mirror.
Seeing the video camera, the Slant covered her face and lurched away, apparently peering between the cracks of her fingers. Shy, paranoid, or something else?
His employers must have had a reason for targeting the pair. It wasn’t his job to know, only to follow instructions, however bizarre. But he had to admit, this situation was far more interesting than shattering a kneecap or arranging a drop for a heroin import.
The Looker seemed none too eager to make the six o’clock news, either, and the pair slipped away from the other victims, who appeared prepped for prime time. The gathered throng, including those who had gotten out of their cars when the ambulance blocked the lot exit, also wanted a piece of the action, the latest crazy move on God’s pecker-headed checkerboard.
He grinned at the notion. Games of chance, games of risk. He had a feeling his employers weren’t ready to cash in their chips just yet, that they wanted another few spins of the roulette wheel. He focused the twin lenses as the Slant and the Looker got behind the wheel of a faggoty new Volkswagen Beetle that was as silver as an alien’s anal probe-and parked outside the lot, where they weren’t hemmed in by the ambulance.
He noted the tag number. His memory wasn’t eidetic, but when he put his mind to it, a brief series of symbols was no challenge.
Martin Kleingarten started his SUV, pulled out slowly so as not to arouse any notice in the chaos, and took the rear exit, wondering how long he’d have to wait before his employers called again.
If they wanted the two women scared shitless but still breathing, Kleingarten was the man for the job.
And if they wanted to drop that “breathing” part, why, he could oblige them on that as well.
He whistled as he drove away, a man who loved his work.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Call 911. Don’t call 911?
The body in the bathroom was cold, and even the world’s fastest ambulance would prove useless. But if Roland didn’t call right away, the suspicion would build, because the desk clerk would be able to confirm the time of the wake-up call.
Roland knew he was innocent (wasn’t he?), but the fact remained that he was behind a locked door with a dead woman in his motel room. Worst of all, he couldn’t account for a period of time that could range from hours to days. Maybe even weeks.
Roland glanced at the wallet lying on the bed. He couldn’t even prove his identity, at least not immediately.
How do you tell the cops you’re not David Underwood?
Wrestling his trembling legs into his pants, he collected the rental-car keys, painfully aware of all the surfaces he had touched. It was only when he found himself thinking about wiping down the doorknobs, the phone handset, and the light switches that he realized he was planning to flee.
A glance at the clock showed it was nearly ten. The maid would be by any minute, knocking on the door and reminding him to check out. Roland considered calling the front desk and putting another night on David Underwood’s credit card.
That would buy him some time to think. But he couldn’t stay in the room while a stranger’s body went through the early stages of decomposition a mere ten feet away. A soft gurgle echoed off the tiles in the bathroom, gastric acid settling inside livid flesh.
Had he touched her? Had sex with her? Not likely, since he’d awoken wearing his briefs. Then again, he had no idea how long she had been dead. He might have killed her two days No, he hadn’t killed anyone.
Right, David?
“I’m not David.” His own voice sounded alien to his ears. The name sounded vaguely familiar, like a character from a cancelled television show.
Or college. Most of college had been one long blackout. But that wouldn’t explain why he was here now with a corpse.
Possibilities ran through his head, and he pictured himself in a night club, buying her a drink, flashing that salesman’s smile. He might have asked her back to his place (“Short on charm but long where it counts, babe”), but even the friendliest woman was reluctant to go solo with a man she’d only just met. Serial-killer movies and Facebook perverts had all but snuffed out the chance for random hookups.
If she were a professional, then Roland had definitely fallen off the wagon and probably bumped his head in the bargain. She might even be someone he knew, maybe an old friend or previous encounter, or someone he’d met through one of the online dating sites.
Roland lifted the water glass from the nightstand and sniffed for lingering signs of liquor. Only the crisp smell of chlorine from municipal water treatment.
Some drugs are odorless and tasteless…