The Wanted Read online

  ALSO BY ROBERT CRAIS

  The Promise

  Suspect

  Taken

  The Sentry

  The First Rule

  Chasing Darkness

  The Watchmen

  The Two Minute Rule

  The Forgotten Man

  The Last Detective

  Hostage

  Demolition Angel

  L.A. Requiem

  Indigo Slam

  Sunset Express

  Voodoo River

  Free Fall

  Lullaby Town

  Stalking the Angel

  The Monkey’s Raincoat

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Robert Crais

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780399573903

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Crais, Robert, author.

  Title: The wanted / Robert Crais.

  Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017034762 | ISBN 9780399161506 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Private investigators—Fiction. | Assassins—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Crime. | FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3553.R264 W36 2017 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017034762

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  FOR MY FRIEND

  OTTO PENZLER

  A STEADY HAND IN AN UNSTEADY WORLD

  CONTENTS

  Also by Robert Crais

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE | THE BUSBOY

  PART I | RICH PEOPLE Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  PART II | CRIMINALS Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  PART III | THE GIRL WHO WANTED SOMETHING ELSE Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  PART IV | THE GIRL WHO GOT WHAT SHE WANTED Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  PART V | FATHER’S DAY Chapter 55

  PROLOGUE

  THE BUSBOY

  HARVEY AND STEMMS

  HARVEY AND STEMMS were making progress, but they couldn’t just blow into the club and flash the picture. The photograph of Unknown Male Subject Number One was dangerous. The picture connected Harvey and Stemms to the person in the picture, and the girl who threw up on the actor, and to everything that would soon happen. Stemms and Harvey were careful to avoid a connection. A connection could get them both killed.

  Harvey frowned at the long line of people outside the dance club.

  “This is crazy, Stemms. You really wanna mingle with hundreds of people?”

  “Only your busboy, Harvey.”

  “He might not be working tonight. My source didn’t know.”

  The busboy was a twenty-two-year-old parolee named Jesse Guzman. They needed to know if the girl’s story was true, so Harvey made a few calls and came up with Guzman. The busboy had a history of misdemeanor arrests, substance abuse, and terrible luck, which was about to turn worse when he met Harvey and Stemms.

  Stemms shrugged.

  “If he’s not here, we’ll catch him at home. Either way, let’s hope he remembers.”

  Harvey rolled his eyes.

  “Remembers what, a barfer? A place like this, nobody can tell one barfing chick from the next. They mop up chick-barf every night.”

  Stemms hated Harvey’s negativity.

  “It isn’t like she puked in the bathroom, Harvey. She threw up on a TV star.”

  Harvey sighed, and shook his head.

  “There is nothing to remember, Stemms. She made it up.”

  “She didn’t lie. The lady told us the truth.”

  “Not the old lady. The barfer. I don’t doubt the girl said it, but criminals lie all the time, especially about themselves. It’s what we call a fanciful life construction. Also known as baloney.”

  “Harvey.”

  “What?”

  “You’re right. The girl probably made it up, but we still have to check.”

  Harvey gave in with a nod.

  Earlier that day, Stemms and Harvey back-traced a stolen SLR camera to a Santa Monica flea market. They located a flea market regular, this older woman with sun-scorched skin and liver spots, who remembered the young couple who sold the camera. The woman described a slender girl with green eyes and a scar on her wrist, and a good-looking boy with dimples. The girl was a lush. She slurped vodka from a pink plastic cup, and told outlandish stories, like how she’d thrown up on a has-been actor at a fancy Hollywood club, the Jade Horse or Gay Horse, a place she went to a lot. Stemms grew excited. He flashed the picture, and was surprised when the woman said, no, this wasn’t the boy with the girl. Stemms felt bad for flashing the picture, but their progress was worth it. The SLR had led to the barfer, and the barfer was linked to a dance club in Hollywood. Harvey was a buzz kill, but if they found the girl, they’d find the Unknown Male Subjects, and everything else they’d been hired to find.

  Jade House was one of those celebutante clubs with a squad of paparazzi camped at the door, three-hundred-pound guards, and a line of sexed-up women and nervous men begging a doorman to let them in. Stemms parked their stolen Chrysler around the corne
r, and slipped a doorman a thousand, cash, to buy their way past the line.

  Stemms hated the place. The crowd was a sweaty press of hipsters, drunks, pretenders, and wealthy foreign nationals, all pounded by the sonic hammer of a Swedish DJ spinning a hip-hop dance mix. Stemms and Harvey split up to find the busboy, hiding their search in jokes and banter. The employees they questioned did not realize they were being questioned. None of them knew they were being asked about the busboy. Stemms and Harvey were good.

  An hour into their search, Harvey slipped past two women sheathed in shimmering blue, and whispered.

  “I found him. That bitch told the truth.”

  Stemms was shocked.

  “You’re kidding? For real?”

  “He’s going on break. Meet us. The next block, in the alley.”

  “Don’t let anyone see you.”

  “No one sees me, Stemms. Ever.”

  Stemms hurried back to their car, and drove to the alley on the next block. Two minutes later, Harvey walked up with a trim, nice-looking guy with caramel skin.

  Harvey told the busboy to sit up front, and slid into the backseat.

  Harvey said, “Jesse, this is Detective Munson. Rich, Jesse Guzman.”

  Guzman offered his hand, but Stemms ignored it.

  “He’s high.”

  The kid’s eyes flitted like a couple of June bugs bouncing off a light. Scared.

  “Hey, no. No, sir. I’m doing the program.”

  “If I had you tested, think you’d show clean?”

  Harvey’s hand floated out of the darkness in back, and patted Guzman’s shoulder.

  “Stop grinding him, Rich. He was working the night she hurled on the actor. He saw it.”

  Guzman’s head bobbed.

  “She’s here a lot. She gets sick a lot, too.”

  “Okay. What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know her like that. I don’t have conversations with these people. I’m a busboy.”

  Stemms sniffed the air loudly, like a dog catching a scent.

  “I’m smelling bullshit.”

  Harvey spoke again, voice mellow and calm, like a jazz man at two in the morning.

  “Relax, Jesse. What does she look like? Describe her.”

  “Really pretty. Like a model. Green eyes. She has a scar on her wrist.”

  Stemms glanced at Harvey. Guzman’s description matched with the flea market. Stemms settled back, and studied the busboy.

  “Okay, Jesse, I’m liking you better. Sounds like our girl. She comes here a lot?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is she here now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it’s a big club.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  The kid flashed a nervous grin.

  “She’s hot. She always has boys.”

  Harvey spoke from the shadows.

  “Show him.”

  Stemms hesitated, so Harvey said it again.

  “Show him the picture.”

  Stemms took out his phone. The image he carried was taken from a high-quality residential surveillance video. The video was captured at night, and showed three figures creeping alongside a house. They moved in single file, one after another, and knew the camera was watching. All three wore hoodies and hats to cover their faces, and kept their heads down. The second figure blew it. The second figure, dubbed Unknown Male Number One, glanced up at the camera as he stepped out of frame. The image had to be enhanced and refined, but it turned out okay. A ball cap and hoodie masked a third of the face, but his features were readable. Now Harvey and Stemms needed a name.

  Stemms held out the phone.

  “What about this guy? You see him with the girl?”

  Guzman studied the picture.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him, but she’s with another boy, more.”

  Stemms put away his phone, and repeated the old woman’s description.

  “Tall guy. Good-looking. Dimples.”

  Guzman’s eyes lit up.

  “Yeah. Alec.”

  Stemms glanced at Harvey, and tried not to smile. Harvey’s hand appeared, and squeezed Guzman’s shoulder. Encouraging.

  “That’s right. You know Alec’s last name?”

  Guzman squinted, as if he thought he should know, but didn’t.

  “Some of the staff know him. He’s a waiter. Up in the Valley.”

  Stemms glanced at Harvey again.

  “Alec the waiter. Up in the Valley.”

  He turned back to the busboy.

  “You know this how?”

  “They give him free drinks. They talk. Alec is here more than the girl.”

  “Yeah? So who in the club here knows Alec?”

  “Crystal. There’s Crystal, and Paul. Paul is a bartender. Crystal is a server. I can ask them. I can find out his last name.”

  Stemms ignored his offer.

  “Has anyone else been asking about this?”

  “Policemen?”

  “Anyone.”

  “Not me. I don’t know if anyone else been asked.”

  Harvey said, “The girl, Alec, their friends? Nobody’s asking about them?”

  Guzman again tried to turn, but Harvey’s touch stopped him.

  “No, sir. What did they do?”

  Stemms ignored him again, and stared at Harvey.

  “What do you think?”

  Harvey’s voice was a shadow.

  “I think Jesse’s been a big help. Thank you, Jesse.”

  Stemms smiled at the busboy.

  “Yeah, dude. We owe you.”

  “Can I go?”

  “Sure.”

  Stemms offered his hand.

  Guzman was surprised. He beamed, and took the hand.

  Harvey looped a rope across Guzman’s throat as they shook. Stemms held tight, and hooked a hard left to the boy’s temple. The busboy arched and thrashed and kicked the dashboard. Stemms hooked lefts as hard as he could, and Harvey strained against the rope. The kicking slowed, and finally stopped. Stemms made sure the busboy was dead, and pushed his body under the dash. Harvey said nothing. Stemms fired up the Chrysler, and pulled away. He listened to Harvey breathe, somewhere in the darkness behind him.

  “He saw the picture.”

  Harvey said, “That’s right.”

  Stemms and Harvey drove through Hollywood, looking for a place to dump the body. The image of Unknown Male Number One was captured sixteen days earlier. Stemms and Harvey had been on the hunt since before the image was captured. They were ahead of the police, the insurance investigators, and the private security firms. Now they were even further ahead. Stemms and Harvey were the best in the business.

  Stemms glanced in the mirror.

  “Hey, Harvey?”

  Harvey was a shadow within a shadow. Silent.

  Stemms glanced again.

  “We’re really bad people.”

  Stemms laughed. His laughter grew as they glided across the night, but Harvey didn’t laugh with him.

  PART I

  RICH PEOPLE

  1

  ELVIS COLE

  JAMES TYSON CONNOR walked out of his home on a chill fall morning, climbed into a twelve-year-old Volvo, and left for school an hour late. Tyson was a seventeen-year-old junior at an alternative school in the San Fernando Valley. He was thin, nervous, and cursed with soft features and gentle eyes that made him look like a freshman. Nothing about him suggested that Tyson was one of the most wanted felons in Los Angeles.

  Tyson and his mother lived in a modest, one-story ranch house not far from his school. I was a block away, waiting for Tyson to leave. His mother had warned me he would be late. Tyson suffered from anxiety issues, and hated going to school. Two prior schools had expelled him for absente
eism and failing grades, so his mother enrolled him at the alternative school to keep him from dropping out. This was a decision she regretted.

  His mother called as Tyson drove away.

  “Mr. Cole? Are you here?”

  “I’ve been here almost two hours, Ms. Connor. The sunrise was lovely.”

  “He’s gone. You can come in now.”

  Tyson’s mother worked as an office manager for a law firm in Encino. She appeared neat, trim, and ready for work when she opened the door, but carried herself with so much tension she might have been wrapped with duct tape.

  I walked up the drive, and offered my hand.

  “Elvis Cole.”

  “Devon Connor. Thanks so much for coming, Mr. Cole. I’m sorry he took so long.”

  I stepped into her living room, and watched her lock the door. The house smelled of pancakes and fish, and something I didn’t place. A glowing aquarium bubbled beside a couch.

  “The new school doesn’t mind, him being so late?”

  “With what they charge, they should send a limo.”

  She stopped herself, and closed her eyes.

  “Sorry. I sound like a bitch.”

  “He’s your son. You’re worried.”

  “Beyond worried. I moved mountains to get him into this school, and now I feel like I’ve fed him to animals.”

  Devon had found money and valuables in Tyson’s room. She believed her son had gotten involved with drug dealers and gangsters, and wanted me to find out what he was doing. I wasn’t sure I wanted the job.

  I tried to sound reassuring.

  “It probably isn’t as bad as you think, Ms. Connor. These things usually aren’t.”

  She studied me like I was stupid, and abruptly turned away.

  “Follow me. I’ll show you how bad.”

  Tyson’s bedroom was small, and looked like a typical middle-class, teenage boy’s bedroom. A dresser sat opposite a walk-in closet, an unmade bed filled the corner, and his nightstand bristled with soda cans, chip bags, and crumbs. Special Forces operators with glowing green eyes watched us from a recruitment poster above the bed. A desk beneath his window was crowded with a desktop computer, a laptop, three monitors, and an impressive tangle of game controllers.