“Double whammy,” Chavez said. “Skipping an ICE hearing doesn’t get you a place on the list all by itself.”
“No chance,” Clark agreed. “What else?”
“He’s wanted by the Indonesian POLRI,” Biery replied, referring to the Polisi Negara Republik Indonesia. The Indonesian national police. “Seems your Kersan Sinaga is a top-notch forger. They’ve been looking for him for four years.”
The drive north out of the city took thirty minutes. According to Jack’s own Google map, Sinaga lived on the eastern outskirts of San Rafael, in a sparsely populated mobile-home park. They drove through once, then circled back and parked a hundred yards north of Sinaga’s trailer, a double-wide surrounded by a rusted waist-high hurricane fence and hedges.
“Ding, there’s a legal pad in my briefcase back there,” Clark said over his shoulder. “Grab it for me, will you?”
Chavez handed it over. “Whatcha thinking?”
“A little neighborhood survey. Be back in ten minutes.”
Clark climbed out, and Jack and Chavez watched him walk down the lane to the nearest trailer, where he mounted the steps and knocked on the door. A woman appeared a few seconds later, and Clark chatted with her for thirty seconds before moving on to the next house, where he repeated the process until he reached Sinaga’s trailer. When he reappeared, he walked to three more trailers before walking back to the car and climbing in. He handed the legal pad to Jack. It was covered in names, addresses, and signatures.
“Care to clue us in?” Jack said.
“I told him I was trying to open a restaurant down the road and I needed five hundred signatures from nearby residents to apply for a liquor license. Sinaga’s not home. According to his neighbor, he works part-time at the Best Buy off one-oh-one. He gets off at two.”
Chavez checked his watch. “An hour. Not enough time.”
“We’ll wait for dark,” Clark said.
“And then?” Jack asked.
“We’re going to kidnap the sonofabitch.”
Clark’s reasoning was sound. Nayoan rarely contacted Sinaga, and even then only by e-mail, so the man’s disappearance wasn’t likely to raise an alarm. Better still, if they worked the scam correctly, they might be able to parlay their electronic association into an information dump from Nayoan. Worst case, they would have a warm body who had, more than likely, forged documents for the URC, perhaps both here and overseas. Whether Gerry Hendley would like the idea of The Campus having custody of a URC stringer none of them knew.
“Easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” Clark observed.
They drove to the Best Buy and waited for Sinaga to emerge, then followed him to a nearby grocery store, then home. They waited thirty minutes, then Clark reprised his bar-owner role, this time taking the houses on the opposite side of the street before crossing over to Sinaga’s trailer. He was back five minutes later.
“He’s alone. Playing Xbox and drinking beer. I didn’t see any feminine touches, so it’s a good bet he’s a bachelor,” Clark reported. “He’s got a dog, though, an old cocker spaniel. Didn’t bark until I knocked on the door.”
They killed time until nightfall, then drove back to the trailer park and circled the block once. Sinaga’s car, a five-year-old Honda Civic, was parked under the carport awning, and lights showed in the trailer’s windows. A bare bulb cast the porch in white light. Clark doused the Taurus’s headlights and killed the engine, then scanned the legal pad.
“His neighbor-the one that knew he was at work-is a guy named Hector. Looks a bit like you, Ding.”
“Let me guess: I’m borrowing a cup of sugar.”
“Yep. There’s no screen door, so he’ll have to open the door. When he does, you bulldoze him and I’ll grab the dog and put it in the bathroom. Jack, you go through the side gate and cover the back windows. Not much of a chance he’ll have time to get to them, but better safe than sorry.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t skulk around. Walk like you’ve got purpose. The neighbors were pretty friendly, so if somebody sees you, just wave or say hi like you belong. Let’s do it.”
They got out and started down the street, chatting quietly and occasionally chuckling, a trio of residents walking back from somewhere. When they drew even with the trailer, Clark and Chavez turned toward it. Jack stepped into the shadows beside the gate and watched as Clark pressed himself against the wall beside the door and Chavez mounted the steps. Clark turned and nodded to Jack, who gently pushed open the gate and stepped into the yard. There wasn’t much grass, but there were plenty of weeds and brown spots and piles of dog crap. He reached the rear of the trailer and squatted down so he could see the length of the trailer. There were two windows, but one was too small for an adult; the window closest to him was the only exit.
From the front, Jack heard Chavez’s knock, followed a few seconds later by a “Yeah, who’s there?”
“Hector, from next door. Hey, man, my phone’s disconnected. Can I use yours for a second?”
Footsteps clicked on the trailer’s floor. Hinges squeaked.
“Hey!”
A door slammed, followed by the pounding of footsteps. Jack looked up, on alert now. Shit… what…
“Coming your way!” Clark called. “Back window!”
Even as Clark said the words, the window slid open and a figure appeared, diving out headfirst. He landed with a grunt, then rolled over and jumped to his feet.
Jack froze momentarily, then said, “Stop, right there!”
Sinaga spun on him, head darting first left, then right. He charged Jack, and in the light filtering from the window Jack saw a glint of steel in Sinaga’s hand. Knife, some distant part of his brain told him. Then Sinaga was on him, knife slashing sideways. Jack backpedaled. Sinaga kept coming. Jack felt the fence railing slam into his back, then saw Sinaga bringing his arm around. He jerked his head sideways, felt an impact on his right shoulder. Slightly off balance by the wild swing, Sinaga stumbled sideways. Jack caught his arm, left hand on his wrist, and gave it a jerk, then wrapped his right arm around Sinaga’s neck, his larynx in the crook of Jack’s elbow. Sinaga bent his head forward, then butted backward. Jack sensed it coming but was able to only tilt his face sideways. The back of Sinaga’s head slammed into Jack’s cheek-bone. Pain burst behind Jack’s eyes. Sinaga flailed, trying to free himself, and slammed Jack back against the fence again, but losing his own footing in the process. Legs splayed out before him, Sinaga dropped straight down and landed on his butt. Jack held on, felt himself tipping forward over Sinaga’s head. Don’t let go, don’t let go… Arm still wrapped around Sinaga’s throat, Jack somersaulted. He heard a muffled crunch-pop. He landed in a heap, rolled sideways, sure Sinaga would be on him.
“Jack!” Chavez’s voice. Ding appeared, running through the gate. Without breaking stride, he kicked the knife away from Sinaga’s hand. He wasn’t moving. His head was cocked strangely to one side. His eyes blinked several times, but they were fixed, staring. His right arm was jerking, rapping softly on the ground.
“Christ…” Jack whispered. “Christ almighty.”
Clark ran through the gate, stopped short, then knelt down beside Sinaga. “His neck’s broken. He’s gone. Jack, you okay?”
Jack couldn’t take his eyes off Sinaga. As he watched, the man’s arm stopped twitching.
Clark said, “Jack, wake up. You okay?”
Jack nodded.
“Ding, get him inside. Quick.”
Once inside the trailer, Ding sat Jack on the couch, then walked down the hall to the bedroom and helped Clark manhandle Sinaga’s body back through the window. They met back in the front room. From the bathroom, the cocker was barking.