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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