The Wanted

by Robert Crais

  Gucci.

  The glasses were small, and sized for a woman. I studied the name again.

  Amber.

  I photographed the glasses and the case, then put the case back under the seat.

  The smoker still smoked. She drew deep on the cigarette, held it, then tipped back her head and spouted a plume like a surfacing whale. She did this again and again. Inhaled, held it, exhaled. She seemed determined to smoke forever, and I was stuck in a Dumpster. Tyson’s car smelled like taco sauce and pickles.

  The smoker was still smoking when my phone buzzed. I checked the Caller ID, and smiled. Hess.

  “Elvis Cole Detective Agency, where the client is always satisfied.”

  “Yes, she is. Where are you?”

  “Hiding in a car in a parking lot. I’m watching an underage girl.”

  “Not one more word, or I’ll arrest you.”

  “She’s smoking.”

  “Stop. I’m inviting myself to dinner. Feel like cooking?”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  “You. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Hess hung up, and I smiled even wider.

  Janet Hess and I bumped heads on a difficult case, and began dating when the case resolved. Hess was a cop, but not an ordinary cop. She was Special Agent in Charge at the Los Angeles field office of the ATF. She was smart, interesting, and way over my pay grade. Also, she laughed at my jokes. I liked her a lot.

  The smoker seemed content to keep smoking forever, but the longer I stayed in Tyson’s car, the more likely it became that a student or teacher would see me. The smoker was facing the street, so I decided to go for it.

  I eased out of the Volvo, quietly closed the door, and stepped away as the smoker saw me. Her expression didn’t change. If she’d seen me leave Tyson’s car, she gave no reaction.

  I walked.

  The smoker drew deep, exhaled, and vanished behind a cloud.

  My phone buzzed again as I reached my car. Sherri.

  I climbed inside, pulled the door, and answered.

  Sherri said, “You knew it was stolen, you bastard. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”

  “That watch is so far beyond stolen I should be furious. It’s part of a major investigation.”

  I took a breath, and listened.

  3

  THE MID-MORNING TRAFFIC made Sherri difficult to hear.

  “The original buyer was a Richard Slauson. He bought the watch sixteen years ago, here in L.A. Slauson notified the company thirty-two days ago. His watch was stolen, so he asked them to put it on the list. You want his info?”

  “It was stolen thirty-two days ago?”

  “He reported it thirty-two days ago. Do you want the man’s contact info or not?”

  Sherri was angry.

  I said, “Please.”

  She spelled Slauson’s name, and read off a phone number and an address in Beverly Hills.

  I said, “You sound mad. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m annoyed. I told you what would happen if this thing was on the list. He knew the watch as soon as I mentioned the model. He was all over me.”

  Her friend.

  “All over you, wanting to know why you were asking?”

  “All over me, as in demanding and threatening. You don’t have to worry. I didn’t mention your name.”

  “I’m not worried. I’m wondering why the big deal.”

  “The police. The police showed up a few days after Slauson put his watch on the list. My friend has been in the business for years, and this was the first time the police have been to his office. They were all over this watch. They told him to call, twenty-four/seven, if the numbers turned up.”

  I didn’t get it.

  “For a watch?”

  “He’s never seen the police this hot to recover a timepiece. Ever.”

  “Is Slauson someone important?”

  “I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. He wasn’t anxious to share.”

  I thought about what she had told me, and understood why she was angry.

  “Is your friend going to tell the police you asked?”

  She hesitated.

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Put it on me, Sherri. If the police call, tell them the truth. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  Her voice softened, and lost the annoyance.

  “You’ve been warned. Worry about yourself.”

  Sherri hung up.

  Nothing about Slauson’s name was familiar, so I searched his name and address on the Internet. Pictures and information were easy to find.

  Richard, seventy-two, and Margaret, seventy-one, were retired dermatologists. Dr. and Dr. Slauson had two daughters and five grandchildren. They were active in charities, volunteered at a downtown mission, and appeared to be wonderful people. A voice mail answered my call, but I hung up before the beep. A personal visit would be more appropriate, especially since I wanted Tyson to personally return Dr. Slauson’s watch.

  The Doctors Slauson lived in a hillside Beverly Hills neighborhood called Trousdale Estates. Their home was set behind a wrought-iron gate and bird-of-paradise plants, with a motor court stretching from the gate to an older, well-kept Spanish Revival the color of peaches. I liked the color. Peaches were friendly.

  A call box with a camera dome as black as a shark’s eye topped a post at the gate. I parked across the street, and walked to the call box. The shark’s eye watched me approach. I pressed the call button, and heard a buzz inside the house. The ringer buzzed for almost a minute, and finally quit. The Slausons weren’t home.

  I took out a card, and wrote a note asking the Slausons to call. I was about to put the card into their mailbox when a balding man in bad shorts and a T-shirt called from behind me.

  “Are you one of the real estate people?”

  His voice was deep, and didn’t go with the rest of him.

  “No, sir. Elvis Cole. I’m looking for Richard Slauson.”

  “George Wilcox. I live across the street.”

  I gave him the card, and watched him frown.

  “Detective. You here about the burglary?”

  Burglary.

  “I’m looking into it. Do you know when the Slausons will be home?”

  He flexed the card.

  “They moved. Margie doesn’t feel safe anymore, so they moved to the Palm Springs house.”

  “Because of the burglary?”

  “She couldn’t sleep. Had nightmares about people standing over the bed. Still has them, from what Rich tells me. Been over a month.”

  I glanced at the house. If Tyson could help the police identify the thief, even better.

  “Were they home when it happened?”

  “Uh-uh. Palm Springs. Came home, and found the house looted. You should’ve seen the police. We had police everywhere, asking if we saw anything.”

  We stepped aside to make way for a pickup truck. Construction workers, on their way to a job site. Wilcox scowled as they passed.

  “You watch. It’ll turn out to be one of these guys. All this construction, hundreds of workmen, half of them casing our homes.”

  I said, “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “See anything.”

  He shook his head and waved at the call box.

  “Not me, but the cameras got’m. Big, nasty mothers in masks. I told Rich, good thing you and Margie weren’t home. They would’ve raped her.”

  Rich and Margie probably moved to get away from him.

  A small sign stood in the ivy at the edge of the drive. FIRST TIER SECURITY. First Tier was a full-service, twenty-four-hour security company. Most of the homes in Beverly Hills had similar signs from other companies, but First Tie
r signs were common. I had helped one of the First Tier founders with a personal matter, and worked with them several times.

  “Did you hear the alarm?”

  Wilcox sneered.

  “What alarm? These guys were hard-core professionals. They’ve robbed houses from Beverly Hills to Encino.”

  I nodded at the sign.

  “Must be good if they beat the alarm. First Tier is as good as it gets.”

  Wilcox sneered again.

  “Money wasted, for all the good. Now my wife wants a German shepherd. A man-eater the size of a horse.”

  He wasn’t thrilled about picking up horse-sized dog poop.

  “Rich loves this house, but Margie can’t sleep. He says they’ll probably sell, so now we’re crawling with real estate people. One damned thing after another.”

  Wilcox was complaining about the real estate people when a brown sedan cruised past. The driver was a burly man in his forties with a broad face and cheap sunglasses. His female passenger had hard eyes, and raven hair pinned in a bun. They slowed as they passed, and gave Wilcox another reason to scowl.

  “Look at these two. Lookie-loos.”

  I gestured at my card.

  “When you speak to Dr. Slauson, would you please ask him to call? It’s important.”

  He trudged up his drive without answering.

  I said, “Thank you.”

  I took out a new card, and wrote the same note. The sedan reappeared as I dropped the card into the mailbox. The couple inside saw me, and saw me see them. The woman spoke to the man, and the man looked at my car.

  I waited until they were gone, fished my card from the mailbox, and returned to my car. I called First Tier, and asked for Dave Deitman. Dave was one of the founders.

  Dave said, “Hey, brudda man, long time. What’s doing?”

  “A house in Trousdale. The Slausons.”

  I started to give the address, but he didn’t need to hear it.

  “Yeah, sure, I know it. You in on the action?”

  “What action?”

  “You kidding me? All these high-end burglaries? Insurance investigators are having a feeding frenzy.”

  “I’m on something that might be connected. Has LAPD made an arrest?”

  “Not yet, but it’s coming. We pulled a good face off Slauson, and these kids leave prints and DNA everywhere.”

  The world slowed when I heard him.

  I said, “Kids.”

  “They’re kids. Three morons.”

  I said it again, just to be sure.

  “Kids.”

  “Teenagers, young adults, whatever. A female and two males. I’m not saying they’re little children.”

  I stared out the window. Wilcox described big nasty mothers and multiple burglaries.

  “How many burglaries are we talking about?”

  “Seventeen, eighteen, something like that. The number’s in play. The task force is playing connect-the-dots with fingerprints.”

  “A task force has the case?”

  “This is big, brudda man. You mess with rich people, you get the full-court press.”

  “They have prints and DNA, but no IDs.”

  “It happens. Never been busted, so they aren’t in the system. They hood up, they’re good about ducking the cameras, but the one kid, he finally screwed up. Unknown Male Numero Uno. We got him. First Tier got his face.”

  Dave was so proud of himself he laughed.

  “Can I see his picture?”

  “Sure. On the way.”

  My phone chimed when the picture arrived.

  I knew who I’d see even before I opened Dave’s email. The image was pixelated, and green with infrared glare. A ball cap and hoodie stole part of the subject’s face, but his remaining features were clear.

  I noted the time, and did the math. Three hours and seven minutes had passed since I left Devon Connor, and now her case was solved. Impressive. This was probably a record for high-speed detection, but being the World’s Fastest Detective didn’t make me feel better.

  I looked at the picture, and Tyson looked back.

  Dave was speaking, but his voice was lost.

  I thought about Devon. She would have questions I couldn’t answer. She would need help I wasn’t sure I could give.

  4

  HARVEY AND STEMMS

  PAUL THE BARTENDER’S true name was Charles Paul Skleener. Once they had his name, Stemms obtained a copy of his DMV photo and last known address, which was a two-story courtyard apartment building in the mid-Wilshire area, not far from K-Town.

  Skleener’s building was old, needed paint, and the ground-floor windows and entrance were protected by rusty security bars.

  Harvey eyed the entry with disgust.

  “You know what they call places like this?”

  “Don’t start.”

  “A shitbox. A shitbox like this doesn’t have air-conditioning. I wouldn’t live in a place, it didn’t have air.”

  Stemms wanted to confirm that Skleener still lived at this address, so Harvey got out. Stemms waited in the Chrysler. Engine running. Air on. Tired. He popped an Adderall and half a Ritalin.

  Harvey was back a few minutes later.

  “No answer, but his name’s on the box. What do you want to do?”

  “He’s sleeping. Bartenders get home late.”

  “I rang the bell five times.”

  “Earplugs.”

  “Whatever, Stemms. You want to wait, see if he comes home?”

  They were moving too fast to wait. Paul the bartender could give them Alec the waiter, and keep them out front, but only if they found the bartender quickly.

  Stemms took out his phone.

  “Hang on.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Shh.”

  Stemms called Jade House, and asked for the manager. The manager wasn’t available, but an assistant named Walder came on the line. Walder pronounced his name like it was spelled with a V.

  He said, “This is Valder. May I help you?”

  Harvey shook his head, and stared out the window.

  Stemms made his pitch.

  “Hey, Valder, Jerry Leach, over at Paramount. Listen, man, I’m calling with rave kudos for one of your bartenders, a guy named Paul, mm, his last name might be Skleener? Anyway, listen, I took a few buyers to your place the other night, and, man, your guy Paul rolled out the red. He could not have treated us better, so I’m sending a little something-something, know what I mean? Would you do me a favor? Would you pretty please make sure he gets it?”

  Harvey rolled his eyes.

  Stemms gave him the finger.

  Walder said, “Of course. It vould be my pleasure.”

  “Thanks, brother, really. Now, listen, is Paul working tonight? If he works tonight, I’ll have my assistant send it right over.”

  Walder had to check the schedule.

  “No, I am sorry, Paul is not scheduled until the day after tomorrow.”

  “Oh, bum! What’s up with that? Is he working a second gig somewhere?”

  Harvey sat up, interested in the answer.

  Walder said, “He has the acting. The school. Rehearsals. The auditions.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Valder. I’ll call back in two days.”

  Stemms lowered the phone.

  “Actor.”

  Harvey smirked.

  “Actor, my ass. He’s a bartender.”

  “Auditions. Rehearsals. Actor shit. If we knew where he was, we wouldn’t have to sit here all day.”

  Harvey slumped low in the seat, and closed his eyes.

  “He’s a bartender.”

  Stemms studied the building.

  “Anyone see you?”

  “Nobody sees me. Ever.”

 
; “Cameras?”

  “Are we seeing the same building?”

  Stemms opened his door to get out, but Harvey’s hand flicked like a striking cobra across the width of the car, and stopped him.

  “I’ll go. Make sure the guy doesn’t surprise me.”

  Harvey got out, and returned to the building. Twenty-six minutes passed, during which Stemms became antsy, then irritated, then angry. He was five heartbeats from getting out of the Chrysler when Harvey swaggered across the street. Stemms couldn’t tell from the swagger if Harvey felt smug or sour.

  Harvey slid inside, and pulled the door hard.

  “Nobody home.”

  Stemms frowned.

  “You were gone all this time, and that’s all you’ve got?”

  “I was looking around. That’s why I went in, right?”

  “Well? Did you find something?”

  “Scripts. Scripts everywhere. Scripts, plays, all these pictures of himself. This dude has almost as many pictures of himself as you do.”

  Stemms wondered if this was a joke.

  Harvey suddenly grinned, and waved a slip bearing an address.

  “Yes, I found something. Actor’s workshop in Valley Village. Noon until four. He’s doing a scene.”

  Stemms checked the address, and fired up the Chrysler.

  “He’ll be inside by the time we get there. We’ll get him on the way out.”

  “Of course we will, Stemms.”

  Harvey settled back, and closed his eyes.

  “Harold Pinter.”

  Harvey smiled.

  “A bartender.”

  Stemms glanced at Harvey, and smiled along with him.

  Stemms felt like a surfer riding the peak of domino waves, skimming his board from wave to wave as each behemoth toppled the next, picking up more and more speed, building up more and more energy, each wave joining the next until they became an unstoppable force.

  Paul would lead to Alec, and Alec would lead to the barfing girl. The barfer would give them the boy in the picture, and everyone and everything they wanted to find.

  They were ahead of the curve again, and pulling further away. They were so far in front of everyone else, Stemms could smell the kill.