The Wanted

by Robert Crais

  “Let’s see who’s under the stairway.”

  Harvey brought up the feed, and watched for a moment. Then he held the phone so Stemms could see.

  “Who IS this guy?”

  The man who killed their bugs came out of a bedroom, crossed the living room to the entry, and let himself out.

  “Run it back, Harvey. Real time.”

  Harvey reset the video. The apartment was empty, then the door opened, which was when the sensor was triggered. The man stepped inside, and turned to close the door—

  “Stop.”

  Harvey froze the feed.

  Stemms looked closer.

  “Keys. He has keys.”

  “The girl. If she’s with him, he would have her keys. Her, and the Connor kid.”

  The video resumed.

  Having closed the door, the man crossed the living room and entered the first bedroom. Amber’s room.

  Stemms noted the time. Three minutes and fifty-five seconds later, the man came out, and started across the living room. Harvey froze the image.

  “Hands are empty. If he took something, it’s small.”

  “Keep going.”

  The video resumed.

  The man walked directly to the entry, and let himself out. Once the door closed, all motion within the apartment ceased.

  Harvey said, “Entered with purpose. Straight to the bedroom, did whatever he did, bailed. He’s here for a specific reason. What do you think?”

  “I think he wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  Harvey looked surprised, like this hadn’t occurred to him, which it hadn’t. He reset the video, and they watched it again. The man closed the door after he entered. When he left, he opened the door. Both times, his bare hand gripped the knob. Harvey and Stemms gloved up everywhere.

  Harvey grinned. He positively beamed.

  “Oh, dude. Prints.”

  Stemms turned out of the overlook, and headed toward the freeway. Harvey started laughing, just out of the blue he was laughing. Stemms smiled, and he began laughing, too.

  44

  ELVIS COLE

  HOOP SECURITY was one of two hundred eighteen tenants, occupying two floors in a skyrise running thirty-three elevators. Total employee population among the tenants probably hit three thousand. Hourly visitors entering and leaving the lobby added a thousand more. The more people the better. Safety in numbers.

  I parked three blocks away, wedged my pistol under the seat, and called Cassett.

  “Morning, Sergeant. Was that you leaving all those messages?”

  “You asshole. Where have you been?”

  “Solving your case. Meet me in an hour, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  “I have a better idea. Meet me in my office, and bring your lawyer.”

  “Grand Central Market in an hour, and forget the big talk. Come alone. I’ll answer your questions.”

  I hung up, and took deep breaths. Long and slow in, long and slow out. Back in my army days, they sent us to find the enemy in jungle so thick the helicopter couldn’t land. The pilots would pull to a hover, we’d step on the skids, and slide down ropes through beautiful green leaves into places we could not see. We could not see what was waiting below. We never knew if hard men with rifles were watching. Each time I stepped on the skid, I was scared. I felt like that now, but, as then, I stepped out, and walked the three blocks to their building.

  The lobby was as big as an airline terminal and even more busy, sporting escalators to a shopping level, marble floors, and a guard station blocking entrance to the security floors. I stopped in front of the guard station, and studied the directory. I already knew the floor, but I wanted the guards to see me. The elevators to the thirty-sixth floor required a security card. Visitors had to sign in with the guards, who would check a visitor’s list to confirm an appointment, then issue a magnetic pass. No appointment, no pass.

  When they’d seen me enough, I went to the desk.

  “Is there a phone I could use to call Hoop Security, up on thirty-six?”

  “Is someone expecting you?”

  “No, sir. I have something to drop off, but I don’t know who to leave it with.”

  “You can leave it with me. I’ll send it up.”

  “Thing is, I’m not sure who should get it. I’ll find out, write a little note, and leave it with you. Sound good?”

  The guard motioned me to the end of the desk, called up to thirty-six, and gave me the phone.

  “Here you go.”

  The woman who greeted me was the receptionist.

  “This is Elvis Cole. I’m investigating the burglary at the Hoop residence. I recovered a couple of items might belong to Mrs. Hoop. I’d like to drop them off, if that’s okay.”

  “Mr. Hoop’s office is in Long Beach, at Hoop Industries. He isn’t here.”

  “Thing is, I’m here, not in Long Beach. I can leave them with you as long as Mrs. Hoop gets them.”

  She asked for the guard. The guard listened, then asked for a photo ID. He logged my DL, gave me a pass card, and directed me to an elevator. I pressed the call button, and waited. My shoulders tightened worse than before, and my pulse slammed hard in my ear. I breathed deep again, but my pulse raced.

  The elevator opened. I stepped in, and swiped the pass.

  The receptionist might know nothing about the burglary, but Mrs. Hoop’s name would get her attention. She would be on the phone, asking what she should do, saying a man was coming up with something that belongs to Mrs. Hoop. She would mention the burglary.

  I told myself Neff and Hensman wouldn’t be waiting when the doors opened. Hoop Security was a large company, with many employees doing legitimate work. Men like Neff and Hensman lived between raindrops and worked under eaves. Only one or two people would know them or know what they were doing, and whoever employed them would limit their exposure. I told myself I wouldn’t be shotgunned when the elevator opened, but cobblestone knots still cramped my shoulders.

  The reception area was sleek, modern, and corporate. Instead of Neff and Hensman, a young woman with a friendly smile greeted me from behind a sleek, modern reception desk. A tall man with curly blond hair and large hands smiled along with her, and offered his hand.

  “Mr. Cole?”

  “Elvis Cole. Good to meet you.”

  “Steve Kleiner. Which agency you with?”

  “None. Freelance.”

  I gave him a card. The one with a smoking .45 in the corner, and my name spelled in bulletholes. He didn’t like it. He frowned.

  “Not a LEO?”

  Law enforcement officer.

  “Freelance. Insurance recovery. Things like that.”

  I held out the Ziploc, letting him see the bracelet and necklace along with another business card.

  “I think these belong to Mrs. Hoop. Would you see she gets them?”

  He looked surprised when I gave him the bag.

  “Is she expecting these?”

  “No. I just thought she’d like them.”

  He fingered the pieces through the plastic, and asked me to follow him.

  Kleiner led me to a nice square office with a clean desk, neat shelves, and a view of the skyscraper next door. The skyscraper blocked his view. Middle-tier manager.

  He told me to make myself comfortable, and settled behind his desk.

  “Why do you think these belong to Mrs. Hoop?”

  “They match photos and descriptions on her insurance. I’ve seen the police report and the claim.”

  He fingered the necklace again, as if feeling it made it real.

  “But you’re not a police officer.”

  “Like it says on the card, freelance. Eighteen rez-burgs in the string, I’ve been nosing around.”

  He nodded again.

  “And how did these come int
o your possession?”

  “Sources, contacts, elbow grease. It’s the grind, Steve. Freelance. We can’t afford to sleep.”

  Kleiner laughed, but the Pinkerton reference flew past his ear. He set the bag on his desk, and nudged it toward me.

  “I hear you. Listen, I can’t say these belong to Mrs. Hoop, but even if they do, you shouldn’t give them to us. Take them to the police.”

  “I don’t work for the police. Freelance, remember?”

  He spread his hands, giving me helpless.

  “If they do, in fact, belong to Mrs. Hoop, they’re evidence. See what I’m saying?”

  “The police don’t cover my rent. See what I’m saying?”

  He laughed again, like he was seeing the light, and laughing for not seeing it sooner.

  “Okay. I get it. What do you want?”

  “I wouldn’t turn down a recovery fee, but that isn’t why I’m here.”

  I nudged the bag back to him.

  “These pieces belonged to her mother. I thought she’d like knowing they’re safe, and having them back.”

  Kleiner scooped up the bag, jiggled it as he studied me, and suddenly stood.

  “Mind if I take these for a minute? Only be a minute.”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  “Let’s find out if these do, in fact, belong to Mrs. Hoop. That okay?”

  “Absolutely. But, hey, if it turns out they don’t, I want them back.”

  “Goes without saying. Want coffee? Water?”

  “I’m good. I’ll enjoy the view.”

  He strode away with the bag, off to spread the word.

  I crossed my legs, and stared at the building across the street. The reflective glass skin was like staring into a metallic blue mirror. My phone vibrated, but I ignored it. I didn’t want anyone to see me take a call or hear what I would say. Every office and hall on the floor was probably bugged.

  Kleiner wasn’t alone when he returned. The businessman from Pike’s picture was with him. I hadn’t expected to see the man, or meet him, or even learn his name, but I stood as they entered, and gave him a card.

  “Elvis Cole. Good to meet you.”

  “Kenneth Loan, Deputy Head of Security. Please. Sit.”

  If Loan knew who I was, he covered it well. He hitched his pants, sat on the edge of Kleiner’s desk, and parked the bag by his leg. Neff and Hensman were killing people like they were nothing, and this guy was as relaxed as a Shriner at a Friday night buffet.

  “Lillian will be thrilled. Thank you so much.”

  “You’ll see she gets them?”

  “Of course. I’ll phone her as soon as we’re finished.”

  “Could I get a receipt? For my records.”

  I thought he might balk, but he didn’t.

  “You bet. Hang on—”

  He scooped Kleiner’s phone from its cradle, and touched a button.

  “Draft a receipt for Mr. Cole. Two pieces, that would be items thirteen and fourteen on the claim.”

  He dropped the phone in its cradle.

  “He’ll bring it right down.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  He crossed his arms, and considered me.

  “Just so you understand, the Hoops will tell the insurance company and the police the items have been returned.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “The police will have questions.”

  “Fine by me. Happy to help.”

  “They’ll want to know how you found something an awful lot of people have been looking for.”

  “I know a fence who knows a fence.”

  “That probably won’t fly.”

  “I don’t give up sources. Bad for business.”

  “They could jam you. Hit you with obstruction, interference, maybe even accessory.”

  Shrug.

  “Be a shame for the Hoops. I have a line on some other things they lost.”

  A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to figure my angle, or if he was deciding to kill me.

  Loan slid off the desk.

  “We’re finished, Mr. Cole. My bullshit meter hit the red line.”

  I stayed seated, and nodded at the jewelry.

  “What’s in the bag isn’t bullshit. Ask Mrs. Hoop.”

  He didn’t react. He also wasn’t calling the guards, so I kept going.

  “The crew who ripped the Hoops and all these rich people are kids. They’ve been laying off stuff at a flea market, if you can believe it, but something happened, I’m not sure what. What I’m told, they hooked in with a professional. Guy I know, a gentleman who owes me way more than a favor, claims he has access.”

  “Access to the crew.”

  “Claims, I said. Can’t swear for a fact, but these—”

  I glanced at the jewelry again.

  “These are facts. Other items are available.”

  “Items belonging to the Hoops?”

  A slender young man in a dress shirt and tie leaned through the door and handed a page to Kleiner. Kleiner glanced at the page, and held it across his desk.

  “Here you go. Receipt.”

  I folded it, and tucked it away in my jacket.

  Loan said, “These items, they were stolen from the Hoops?”

  “Didn’t say. I might be able to find out. Want me to ask about something specific?”

  The businessman’s eyes melted into the distance. I had danced to the edge, and maybe I’d fallen.

  I winked at Kleiner, trying to save myself.

  “For an appropriate finder’s fee, of course.”

  Kleiner grinned, like he’d been waiting for me to say it.

  “You shaking down anyone else?”

  “I’m talking to people, but this isn’t a shakedown. It’s an opportunity.”

  I waved at the bag.

  “My gift to the Hoops, gratis. Something comes up in the future, maybe they’ll pick up the phone. See what I’m saying?”

  Kleiner said, “I get it.”

  Loan slipped the bag into his pocket, and wet the edge of his lip.

  “This source, the one who says he’s in with the crew—”

  “No promises.”

  “You want a finder’s fee? Deliver the crew. Give me the crew, we’ll work something out.”

  I stood, and stuck out my hand like he was making my day.

  “You got it. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  He left without shaking my hand. I stared hard at his back as he walked away, thinking about Alec, and thinking about Louise August. Please be kind.

  I must have smiled. Kleiner saw, and looked uneasy. It was a nasty, tight smile. He didn’t know why I smiled. He didn’t understand what it meant.

  45

  CASSETT MET ME at Grand Central Market, two blocks from the Police Administration Building. The market was crowded but Cassett had staked out a table between a Thai food stall and an old-school vendor slinging lengua and carnitas by the pound. Cassett wasn’t alone. Rivera saw me first, and nudged her, his expression somewhere between curious and amused.

  I dropped into the chair across from them.

  “I asked for alone time, Sergeant. Scared I won’t come across?”

  “Neff and Hensman. Sixty seconds. Go.”

  She wanted it fast, so I gave it fast. The cop version of speed dating.

  “A young man named Alec Rickey was murdered in Pacoima three nights ago. He was chased off the freeway, and shot to death. Neff and Hensman did the shooting.”

  Rivera flipped open a notebook and began scratching notes.

  “You know this how?”

  “The day after his murder, Neff and Hensman showed up at his apartment, identified themselves as police officers, and q
uestioned his roommate.”

  I pushed a slip with Claudia’s name and address across the table. Rivera copied them into his book.

  “They searched her apartment for laptop computers. Rickey was one of your burglars.”

  Cassett leaned back, but Rivera wrote harder. The scratch of his pen across paper was so loud I heard it above hundreds of milling people.

  I showed them the picture of Hensman.

  “Know this man?”

  They hunched together to see.

  Cassett said, “No.”

  “Maybe he’s been to your briefings.”

  Cassett looked annoyed.

  “No.”

  “Rickey’s roommate identified this man as Hensman. That won’t be his real name, but it’s the name he uses. Show his picture to the Crenzas. They’ll say the same.”

  Cassett pulled the phone closer and studied the picture.

  “Send it to me. Email.”

  She gave me her LAPD business card with her LAPD email address. Nobody spoke while I tapped her address and sent the picture. When I looked up, she was waiting.

  “How do you know Rickey was in with the crew?”

  “He was one of the couple selling stolen goods at the flea market.”

  “The kids who sold the camera?”

  “That’s it. Neff and Hensman asked the Crenzas if they were selling laptops. They didn’t ask about cameras or anything else. They asked about laptops.”

  Rivera glanced up from his notes.

  “You have a name for the girl?”

  “I do.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Enjoy the rest.”

  Rivera tapped his pen to the page.

  “How many obstruction and withholding charges you want? Aiding and abetting. Conspiracy. Accessory. I’m getting excited.”

  Cassett touched his arm. The tapping stopped, and Cassett leaned back.

  “Gotta hand it to you. We’ve been grinding this case for weeks, and here you are. Wow. How in the hell?”

  “The mother of the second male burglar found a watch in his room. She hired me to find out how he got it. I caught a gimme, Cassett. Luck.”

  Rivera’s pen tapped, but this time he smiled.