Faye Kellerman - The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

He took off his jacket and draped it over his arm and thought some more.

Those Malibu babes were fine numbers. He remembered that bathing-suit special about them on T V, all those luscious asses. So hey, if the girls wanted glitz, he’d get a Harley. He certainly could afford one after this job, that was for sure.

A Fed.

He really didn’t want to whack this Fed or any Fed. Feds had protection. Feds had nice families and went to church picnics and taught their kids how to play baseball… Well, not all Feds. He didn’t know a thing about the Fed Barton wanted him to take out. Maybe this Fed was a monster. Maybe he was that kinda self-righteous prick who would hide under the guise of being a law-abiding citizen, be all prim and proper but would be, in actuality, a secret diddler of little boys.

Billy thought about that as he made his way home. In his mind, he was picturing this guy-this Fed-coming in backdoor on some little six-year-old boy screaming bloody murder.

It always helped to demonize the enemy.

The Fed had a name: Benny Jacopetti. He was middle-aged, average height, average build, average face, just an average guy with nothing that distinguished him from any of the other working stiffs. The guy had a family that included a wife and a slew of kids. He lived in a spanking-new housing development in the middle of nowhere. That was a mixed bag-the city versus the burbs. In the city, Billy was a known quantity; the police were constantly on his ass. Also, town cops were much sharper than their suburban counterparts. But it was also bad, because that far into the burbs, the wilderness, really, there wasn’t any cover… nowhere to hide. Things got spotted and reported and gossiped about.

That meant the city wasn’t the ideal location, but the burbs weren’t any better.

He’d clean him on the road.

Mr. Barton hadn’t been lying when he said he had Jacopetti’s life down to the minute. After a few days of spotting, the guy’s routine was as predictable as sunrise. He left the house around seven to get in to work at eight, leaving Billy about an hour of commuter time to get the job done. The route broke down into the following legs.

Trek One:

This portion of the journey-about ten minutes-took Jacopetti from his house to a bypass road, traveling through suburban developments and past a couple of shopping malls. Wide-open spaces, no cover, and other cars on the streets. Meaning it wouldn’t serve his needs for the job.

Trek Two:

Tooling down a bypass road: another twenty minutes. This route meandered through the posh houses of the burbs: two-story brick estates sitting on lots of land. Most of the homes were perched on a knoll of lawn, obscured by mature trees and thick clumps of planting. The majority of the area was even devoid of sidewalks. No big commercial developments, only cute little Victorian houses that doubled as offices: One was a real estate agency, another rented to a law firm, and a hairdresser and nail salon took up a third. There were also a couple of small cafés and a Starbucks.

Wherever you went in America, there was a Starbucks.

Four dollars for a cup of java.

And the Feds accused the loan sharks of usurious vigs.

On this pathway, there was better coverage due to the trees. But because it was a bypass road, there was often tons of morning traffic. Plus, the road narrowed down to two lanes, making quick escape in a car damn near impossible. Also, good ole Sal would stick out among all the Mercedeses and Beemers that marched in the early-morning workers’ commute.

Billy scratched Trek Two as a possibility.

Trek Four:

Jacopetti’s route to his job ended with a twenty-minute ride on the highway. Billy was tempted to whack him while racing down the multilane roadway. Here, Sal would blend into the clump of morning traffic-just another hunk of steel chugging down the pockmarked asphalt. But there were other considerations besides fitting in. Billy would have to make a quick getaway. He’d have to make sure that no one saw him pull the piece.

That was the trick.

On the highway, there was always traffic, and that meant there were always possible witnesses. Also, what if there was an accident that caused vehicular backup? It would stink if he shot Jacopetti only to get jammed because of a bumper-to-bumper tie-up.

No, the highway was out.

Trek Three was the option of final resort:

For a lone ten minutes, Jacopetti turned off the first bypass road, detouring onto a smaller secondary bypass road- a bypass to the bypass -that twisted and turned but eventually led to the on-ramp to the highway. Sometimes the lanes got crowded. But at least half the time, traffic was light, almost empty, especially if Jacopetti got an early jump from the house. This small swath of asphalt had only two stoplights and, like the first bypass road, it meandered through large properties but for a major exception.

There was this one spot, a nature preserve that was filled with overgrown bushes and large trees. The parking lot to the forest was hidden behind foliage. It sat at the first of the two traffic light intersections, neither street having any visible road signs. You just had to know it was the first intersection in the bypass to the bypass.

Billy thought this looked promising, so he scoped out the surroundings.

About twenty yards from the lot-twenty feet into the park- stood a tall, lush pine tree next to a thick old cedar, forming a green wall of foliage and needles. Both trees fronted the road. Almost directly behind the cedar and the pine was an old oak that met up with an old sycamore, their branches melting into a leafy canopy. The spot was perfect: nestled and secluded, with a great view of the road and the parking lot. The topper was this little tiny service lane that started at the parking lot, snaked through the park grounds, then ended at the first bypass road across the street from a big mother brick colonial house.

So here was the plan.

Every morning around six-thirty, Billy would drive over to the park and wait, perched in the oak tree, hidden by all the leaves and brush. He’d bide his time, drink a cup of coffee, do the crossword puzzle until it was close to J-time. Then he’d pick up his gun and stare out through the scope, waiting for Jacopetti’s station wagon to travel over the second bypass road. Most of the time, Jacopetti would make the light: That couldn’t be helped, because the traffic light favored the road, which meant it was green most of the time. But odds had to have it that one time- one itty-bitty time-Jacopetti would miss the light. Then he’d have to wait at the intersection, even if it was just for a moment.

That was all Billy needed: a single moment to clip him.

After the pop, he’d simply scale down from his arboreal hiding spot, jump into Sal, and tear out the back way, dumping the gun while speeding through the park. Then he’d hook up with the first bypass road, which led out to the highway, where he’d be free and clear.

He’d wait a couple days, then pay Mr. Barton a quick visit.

With this final and fruitful score put to bed, he’d be off the radar. It would be retirement from his old life, sunbathing in Florida or Ma-li-bu or someplace with an ocean.

Free and clear with bread falling out of his pockets.

That was the plan.

The first week, Jacopetti made the light, flying through the intersection at high speed. The second week, Jacopetti made the light five times in a row. Third week, same story. Billy was getting pissed.

To make up for the supreme waste of time he had passed perched in a tree getting needles in his ass, he decided to pack a bender over the weekend, drowning out his bad luck with Scotch and sodas. So it was as hard as hell to wake up Monday morning. Even with the money incentive looming large in the back of his mind, Billy was groggy with a hangover and in a foul mood. He managed a quick shower, then put on a polo shirt, a pair of chinos, and sandals without socks. He packed his gun in the waistband of his pants, locked the door to his apartment, and then went underground to fetch Sal from her parking space.