It would still work out, Craig knew, but the search and arrest wouldn’t be as… smooth that way.
“Okay, clean and easy,” Craig said. “We’ll be back home in time for the eleven o’clock news.”
They approached from behind, on either side. “Good evening, sir,” Craig said, “Mr. Miles Skraling?”
Skraling looked startled. “Yes—”
Craig snapped open his badge wallet and held his ID with a firm hand. “FBI. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
He looked at Craig, stared at the out-thrust badge and photo ID card. Skraling’s close-set indigo eyes screwed open wider and wider as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. His face crumpled like a car windshield hit with a rock; a network of spiderweb cracks spread throughout his composure as his carry-on bag dropped to the floor with a dull rustle.
“We have a search warrant for your home,” Craig said withdrawing the appropriate paper. Goldfarb stood motionless beside him. “We’ll need to search your premises and confiscate your personal home computer equipment, and we will have to go through all of your private files.”
Skraling staggered backward as if Craig had punched him in the gut. “My… personal—“
“We’ll escort you home, sir,” Craig said, slipping his hand around Skraling’s forearm, steering the man away from the flow of people. “Mr. Goldfarb, would you read Mr. Skraling his Miranda rights, just in case he decides to say something to us?”
Goldfarb did so in a low voice, saying the memorized words in rapid-fire succession. No one stopped and gawked, the exchange was kept that quiet.
“I… I need to call my attorney,” said Skraling.
“You’re perfectly welcome to as soon as we reach a phone,” Craig answered. “But you’ll find that everything is completely in order.” He brought out the papers again. “Would you like to make the call here, or would you rather wait until you reach your home, where you can have more privacy?”
Skraling shuddered in panic. Craig wondered what the man’s blood pressure was right then. “I want to go home. I want to think about this.” He looked from side to side. His right hand kept twitching convulsively in a strange tic.
“This way, please, sir.” Goldfarb picked up Skraling’s carry-on bag as they walked down the concourse. Craig kept Skraling close beside him, directing him down the escalator and out to the busy front where Jackson waited with the car. Craig opened the door and motioned Skraling in the back; he and Goldfarb sat on either side of the man.
“I was supposed to rent a—” Skraling began.
“That’s already been taken care of, sir,” Craig cut him off. “We’ve cancelled your reservation.”
They drove in silence, casual but intent at the same time. In keyed-up silence they crept along the freeways, down the peninsula to the South Bay and the posh upscale community of Los Gatos in the forested hills southwest of San Jose. Twinkling lights studded the dark hulking hills under the light from a first-quarter moon.
Craig felt his pulse speed up as it always did when he made a bust — though it had never been as exciting as shown on television. In seven years with the Bureau, he had only ever drawn his handgun at the firing range.
The same had been true of his apprentice years working as an assistant for a private investigator in the East Bay. Nothing like “Spenser” or “Magnum PI.” Craig had spent most of his days sitting in a nondescript car or van watching a mark’s house to see if a man claiming disability benefits and supposedly laid up in agony actually slipped outside to play tennis down at the local court. During those times Craig had read an enormous amount, flipping through books on patent law as he studied at Stanford, absorbing information, filing it all away.
Jackson turned into the steep driveway of Skraling’s tall, shake-shingled house built into the side of a rugged hill. Under automatic mercury lights a smooth black asphalt driveway wound up to a flower-bedecked carport.
Outside lights blinked on from motion detectors. The four men climbed out of the FBI car and walked up the driveway to the front door. Craig turned Skraling around. “Where are your keys?”
“In… my pocket.” He fished out the keys, but Goldfarb took them from him and tried the lock. When the door swung open they entered the sprawling custom house. The marble floors gleamed. Craig smelled furniture polish, cleaning chemicals; a housekeeper must have spruced up the place while Skraling was on vacation.
A beeping sound came from down the hall. “What’s the combo on the burglar alarm?” Jackson asked.
Skraling didn’t answer. Craig sighed. “Look, Mr. Skraling, all you’ll accomplish is to alert your neighbors that you’re in trouble. What do you think the police are going to do when they find you here with three FBI agents?”
Skraling closed his eyes and whispered, “9-9-2-7.”
Jackson disappeared around the corner and down the dim hall to find the numeric keypad on the wall near the thermostat. Seconds later the beeping stopped.
Craig heard a crash, then Jackson cursed. He reappeared around the corner, brushing off his pants. “Ran into a table,” he said. “The phone’s on it. I think I bumped the answering machine.” Craig looked at the agent, and knew Jackson had done the “accident” on purpose.
In the background a telephone answering machine started playing back recorded messages.
The answering machine clicked twice, then a voice started speaking in fast, excited tones. Craig recognized the syrupy accent of Ompadhe.
“Mr. Skraling, some gentlemen from the Federal Bureau of Investigation came here today. I know you won’t be arriving back until tonight. I hope this gets you before they arrive. Sir, they have shut down our operation, confiscated everything. They had a search warrant and they say they found a great deal of evidence.”
Skraling opened his eyes. He seemed about ready to cry. “My lawyer,” he said hoarsely. “Let me make a call.”
“That’s right,” said Craig. “Go right ahead.” Turning on the lights, he led Skraling past the hall which opened up into a kitchen with a living room beyond. “Goldfarb, Jackson — get moving on his files.”
Skraling grabbed the portable phone and punched in the number for what must have been his lawyer. Craig noted that it was programmed into the speed-dialer.
The CEO waited, listening. “This is Skraling,” he said. “I need to talk to Stein right now. I know it’s late.” He paused, then his shoulders sagged even more. “Wednesday! Well, how can I reach him? There’s got to be a way to reach him.” He listened again. “No, I don’t want a damned junior partner.”
He gnashed his teeth, as if he wanted to bite the antenna off the phone. “Oh, dammit all!” he said and, without hanging up, hurled the black plastic phone across the room where it struck the tile counter, rebounded once, and slammed to the floor. It splintered and broke apart, the battery pack bouncing across the floor.
“Hey, take it easy,” Craig said, stepping toward him.
Skraling breathed deeper and deeper, hyperventilating. He froze and then forced a glassy, hollow expression on his face as if he were layering it on with thick plaster.
“Please excuse me, I feel ill,” he said and walked stiff-legged down the hall.
“Just a moment, Mr. Skraling,” Craig said. But Skraling moved faster with a jerky, hypnotized walk. He ducked into one of the side rooms, a large study with a desk and computer and leather bound books on display along a back wall.