Goodwill took another bite of his sandwich as he replayed the rest of the scenario in his mind. He’d designed it. Of course it would work.
Red Rover, also a excellent officer with a heretofore perfect record, would ask Officer Golb where he was headed. The driver would tell him. The inside man would reply that he had orders to report to the Federal courthouse as well and would playfully be kind enough to “escort” the bus. It was an unnecessary offer, but it would help Golb relax. Not that Porter was a particularly corrupt individual liable to escape, or even to make the attempt, but this way Golb wouldn’t have much to think about besides driving.
A small remote-controlled relay had been placed in the line of the radio power cable in the bus. It was a simple device, which Goodwill called a Snubber, for lack of another term. When activated, the Snubber opened the circuit, resulting in an absence of power to the device the electricity was supposed to operate; i.e., no radio. If Golb had a phone on his person, it wouldn’t matter. It would all be over moments after it began.
Red Rover would then get into his own car when the bus driver looked ready to go. He would radio Golb to confirm the green light and give the naive man a feeling of bland normality. Immediately, Red Rover would hit the remote to the Snubber, killing the driver’s radio. No smoke. No nothing. Golb wouldn’t realize for a moment he’d been cut off from the real world.
Goodwill pulled a green apple from his bag and began skinning it with his teeth, chewing the epidermis like gum.
The next part the inside man would play would make him appear completely innocent of the crime about to occur. It would result in Red Rover’s patrol car pulling to the side of the freeway. He would later report a string of carefully crafted fables followed by the verbal admittance that he “was unsure of what he saw and what really happened.”
Porter would be found dead, the driver also executed. The authorities would come and spin their mental tires until they ran out of gas.
The case of John D. Porter’s death would go nowhere, because there would be no leads to follow.
Worse case scenario: By some devilish miracle, flaws were found in Red Rover’s story.
Fine. Regardless of Red Rover’s moves, the assault on John Porter would never go further than the helpful officer.
Beneath a worn copy of Andrew Boxleiter’s, Natural Contagions, a 10 mm semiautomatic-which had been taken from the evidence locker of this very police building not one day previously-rested on the smooth passenger seat of Goodwill’s Mustang. (The thief was already unknown.) Before catching his Greyhound, Goodwill would drop the gun in a parcel to be picked up by a courier dubbed Guy Smiley, who would keep it. And in the case of mishap, Guy Smiley would plant the pistol in Red Rover’s apartment-just as a precaution. Of course all legal conclusions would have to admit that the patsy Red Rover had committed the murder himself. He would be the necessary scapegoat for the greater good, the fall guy…
And Goodwill would be at a Reggae concert on the beach.
He bit his sandwich with a new lust. But the taste hadn’t changed, and the lettuce was getting soggy, turning to strings in his mouth.
Of course, the assassin took twice as much care not to get caught by his current employers in a similar backstabbing. He took every precaution, including the name by which everyone identified him. In fact, Goodwill had had so many names, it took effort to remember the one his parents had given him at christening.
Like a squirrel suddenly aware of an approaching rattlesnake, Goodwill sat up. He lifted the spy-glass to his face and eyed the crowds coming out of the building.
Four officers talking to each other.
Ah!
Red Rover.
The crooked policeman laughed and slapped another officer in the shoulder.
The driver, no doubt.
It didn’t really matter if Jackie Golb had been replaced at the last minute. The plan was so devised as to rebound from possible changes. No job could be more professional.
The inside man shoved his hands up and pointed with his thumb at his own squad car, parked near the front of the mini-bus. So nonchalant. Maybe a little too overdone, but no matter. Red Rover was really a procrustean jingoist in embryo. His kind were very useful, but not often smart, which made them expendable.
This assignment would be no big deal. But Goodwill was a perfectionist in this kind of work. At first, it had been to stay alive and invisible in the wake of a murder. Now he took pride in his skill.
He saw his mark appear. Excellent!
John Porter. Hair slicked back-just rushed from the shower? His eyes stared at the heels of the officer in front of him. Porter looked ragged, even though he was wearing a Pierre Cardin. Where had he gotten the costly apparel? One last gift from his arch-enemy, Erma Alred, the red head who planned on frying him with her testimony? Didn’t matter. He’d be all set for burial when the cops caught up with his corpse. Porter’s head bobbed, tired, slightly bowed. Was it really him?
The ex-graduate student looked up and in the direction of the sun. Hasn’t seen that for a few days, has he, Goodwill thought. Even through the forced smirk, it was definitely John Porter. He disappeared behind the back of the bus.
Swiveling the mini spy-glass to the right, Goodwill lined the cross hairs on his point man lumbering satisfied to his police car. The bus driver boarded as the other officers loaded Porter through the rear door of the larger vehicle.
Red Rover opened the door to his car and slid inside as Goodwill smiled. He watched as the inside man lifted the microphone to his standard 800 megahertz radio and spoke while adjusting his rearview mirror to see the bus driver. The point man was getting a lot of money for this. Red Rover smiled while he spoke, as if Golb sat in the car there with him, then he put the radio down and picked up his cellular.
Goodwill put down his half-green/half-white apple and lifted his phone before it rang. “Hello Sunshine!” said Red Rover with a melody. “All’s set. Porter’s on the bus.”
“Were we not leaving two hours ago?” Goodwill said in a calm voice. “What was the delay.”
“…I think we were waiting for Porter to get dressed. Maybe the judge called and-”
“Never mind. Cut the radio,” said Goodwill.
“…Done.”
“Let’s go,” Goodwill said, starting his car. Like a caged lion, the Mustang roared before going into gear. He put his foot against the accelerator, pulled the wheel to the left, and felt his back sink into the seat. The car darted into traffic before the authorities could move their vehicles to the gate. Goodwill would make his way to the freeway and toward the Federal courthouse an hour away, allowing the bus to slowly overtake him-an old FBI trick; People who were being tailed never suspected the cars ahead of them.
Goodwill stayed on the freeway for more than thirty minutes before allowing the bus to pass him. He sped up and slowed again into sight repeatedly, but otherwise kept his distance and phone silence.
John Denver finished three in a row on Easy Listening K102 FM when Goodwill let Red Rover ease on by. Sliding on his leather racing gloves, the assassin watched the wheels of the point man’s automobile with amazement and child-like fascination, but forced no eye contact with the overexcited cop inside.
As Sting began “Shape of My Heart” from his 1993 album Ten Summoner’s Tales with a skillfully plucked guitar in a lonely dance, Goodwill watched the bus through the side of his left eye until it sped past his car.
When the singer put words to the music, Goodwill hit the gas again casually, forcing himself up to the side of the patrol car before the end of the first verse.
As the second stanza played with the tune, Goodwill lifted his copy of Natural Contagions and took the weapon snugly in his gloved hand. Though Goodwill preferred the peace and cleanliness of a 22 pistol when assassinating a mark, today’s weapon was a superb instrument of choice: a Colt Delta Elite loaded with hollow point 10 mm 180 grain Black Talons. At this distance, it was precise and powerful enough to stab through thick rubber spinning at seventy miles an hour. The bullets could blow holes in metal walls and tear through bus seats. A fearsome, ugly tool, streamlined black with pristine care and beautifully stocked with enough shells to do the job five times. It would do well. And the silencer was already screwed into the barrel. The extension was really unnecessary, but would add to the confusion.
He rolled down the window with confidence, only faintly aware of his rising heart rate. A casual glance
