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Dr. Alexis Morgan of the UNC medical faculty.
    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