Read by Sullivan Jones

By Joe Ide

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In this outrageous novel from Joe Ide, “the best thing to happen to mystery writing in a very long time” (New York Times), the case of a young artist’s missing mother sets IQ on a collision course with his own Moriarty.

Isaiah Quintabe — IQ for short — has never been more successful, or felt more alone. A series of high-profile wins in his hometown of East Long Beach have made him so notorious that he can hardly go to the corner store without being recognized. Dodson, once his sidekick, is now his full-fledged partner, hell-bent on giving IQ’s PI business some real legitimacy: a Facebook page, and IQ’s promise to stop accepting Christmas sweaters and carpet cleanings in exchange for PI services.

So when a young painter approaches IQ for help tracking down her missing mother, it’s not just the case Isaiah’s looking for, but the human connection. And when his new confidant turns out to be connected to a dangerous paramilitary operation, IQ falls victim to a threat even a genius can’t see coming.

Waiting for Isaiah around every corner is Seb, the Oxford-educated African gangster who was responsible for the death of his brother, Marcus. Only, this time, Isaiah’s not alone. Joined by a new love interest and his familiar band of accomplices, IQ is back — and the adventures are better than ever.


We are not trapped or locked up in these bones. No, no. We are free to change. And love changes us. And if we can love one another, we can break open the sky.

—Walter Mosley, Blue Light


Do you know what Abraham Lincoln said after a six-day drunk?" Jimenez said.

"What?" Hawkins said.

"I freed who?"

They laughed in wheezing coughs. Hawkins took another hit off the joint, leaned back in the chair, and put his size ninety-five combat boots up on the table. Jimenez felt sorry for the table and even sorrier for the chair.

"Want some?" Hawkins said, offering up the joint.

"No," Richter said, "that shit makes me sleepy." He was eating a massive burrito, napkin tucked into his collar, carnitas smeared all over his mouth. He was smoking between bites. What a pig, Jimenez thought. He took the joint, took a hit.

"Do you know why General Santa Anna only brought six hundred soldiers to the Alamo?" Hawkins said.

"No, I don't."

"Because he only had two cars."

That afternoon they'd driven out to Simi Valley. A commuter town; row upon row of tract houses surrounded by parched hills. There were a lot of baseball fields. Teams played at night because it was too damn hot in the daytime. Walczak owned an industrial park. There was a big FOR LEASE sign you could see from the freeway. Plastic bags blew across the empty parking lot like urban tumbleweed. Pigeons peered down from the roof. They parked in the delivery bay and dragged Sneaky Pete out by his elbows. Hawkins had worked him over in the van. He liked doing that kind of shit. Jimenez didn't mind but he didn't enjoy it. Hawk was the only person he'd ever met that was mad all the damn time. Richter was useless, never doing anything until he ran out of excuses.

Sneaky Pete was limp and babbling when they dragged him up the stairs into a third-floor office. Nothing there but some cardboard boxes, overflowing wastebaskets, and a few tables and chairs. Half the fluorescents were out and tiles were missing from the ceiling, wires dangling down.


They enhanced-interrogated him but he held out. Damn good for a private citizen, better than a lot of professionals. Jimenez wished Slayer was here. You want to get somebody to talk, put a big, black snarling German shepherd three inches away from his dick. Motherfucker will pay you to confess. Jimenez had neon lines and floating rectangles in his head but he took another hit anyway. His mouth watering for one of those crazy munchies Hawkins liked to make; hot Cheetos, Nutella popsicles, chocolate chip waffles with peanut butter and bacon. Hawkins liked to do shit like that. Put stuff together. Once, when they were home between tours, Jimenez watched him make cannabis oil to treat his mother's cancer symptoms.

"First, you gotta wash it," Hawkins said. He put a couple ounces of primo weed in a bowl, poured in some benzene, and carefully rinsed and squeezed the leaves. "Extracts all the cannabinoids," he said.

"Doesn't benzene mess you up?" Jimenez said.

"Cooks off. Leaves no residue. You just gotta remember to have a fan on and not to smoke." Hawkins put the liquid into a coffee filter and strained out the stems and debris. Then he poured what was left into a rice cooker and reduced it down to something that looked like axle grease with a reddish tint. He put the stuff in a double boiler and added some coconut oil.

"Is that for flavor?"

"No. It homogenizes and activates the cannabinoids," Hawkins said, Jimenez wondering if Hawk knew what he was talking about.

"It's a lotta damn trouble. Why don't you just give her a joint?"

"You can't control the dose. A gram of this stuff a day helps her out and doesn't make her high."

"Still, it's a lotta damn trouble."

Hawk gave him a look that used to scare the shit out of the Iraqi prisoners and everybody else on the tier too. "It's my mother."


Eveline Owens came in, an unfiltered Camel behind her ear. She was carrying a cardboard tray from Starbucks, her turn to make the coffee run. Owens was raised on a cattle ranch in Montana or North Dakota, somewhere. She was tall and knobby-looking, like she had too many elbows and knees, with a long Jersey Maid face and the biggest hands Jimenez had ever seen on a girl. She probably won a lot of blue ribbons for roping cows or churning butter or whatever the fuck they did out there. Jimenez had tapped that ass a few times, but there weren't a lot of options over there. She was what they called a 4-10-4. A 4 in her hometown, a 10 over there, and a 4 when she got back home.

"This drink is for faggots," she said. She handed Hawkins a cup of something that had the word caramel in it twice.

"What'd you get?" Hawkins said. "A bale of hay?"

Owens was a little glassy-eyed. She'd been drinking since they'd arrived, a six-pack all herself. She drank a lot at Abu Ghraib but now she was a full-on alcoholic. Jimenez reminded himself not to rely on her. She gave Richter his coffee.

"Thanks," he said, not looking up from the paper. You could hardly read for the blotches of burrito grease.

"How are the wife and kiddies, Jimenez?" she said.

"I don't know. Carla won't let me come home."

"She find out you had shit for brains?"

"No. I boned her too good and wore her ass out."

Jimenez, Hawkins, and Owens were all on tier 1, where they kept the security detainees, the poor bastards who were suspected of attacking US troops or knowing something about it. Jimenez was a military intelligence reservist, called up for duty because there weren't enough officers to abuse the detainees. Hawkins and Owens were both MPs. The lieutenant colonel and chief warrant officers were supposed to be in charge but you pretty much did whatever you wanted. A couple of the other guys had served at Guantánamo, but other than that nobody from the CO on down had any experience in running a prison, collecting intelligence, conducting interrogations, or any other relevant subject. At the time, the insurgency was everywhere, the entire area in chaos. Whole families were scooped up. Maybe two or three out of a hundred had anything to say that you could call intelligence and the longer they were detained, the older and more meaningless their information became.

Nobody really knew who was doing what. There was the CIA, military intelligence, the outside contractors, CACI and Titan and OGAs or "Other Government Agencies." Everyone called them ghosts because you didn't know who they reported to; MI, Task Force 121, the FBI, the Defense Intelligence Agency, or some other secret organization full of mysterious motherfuckers with a budget hidden in the farm bill. The CIA guys and outside contractors did most of the interviews, if you could call screaming, threatening, breaking furniture, slapping, punching, or throwing the detainee down a stairwell an interview. The MPs were instructed to soften them up, which really meant they were turned loose to do whatever the hell they wanted. No instructions, regulations, limits, guidelines, or supervision.

When Jimenez looked back on it, he still had to shake his head in wonder. Take a bunch of grunts who were hard sons of bitches to begin with and who'd watched the 9/11 tape a thousand times or maybe had a friend shot in the head by a sniper or blown up by an IED and put them in one of Saddam's filthy, overcrowded, medieval dungeons with no water, power, or ventilation and shitty food, and then shell them night and day and kill some of them so they were afraid all the time, and then leave them alone in concrete bunkers with their fear and their testosterone and their angry, pent-up frustration, and then tell them to soften up the inmates who might have a cousin out there lobbing mortar rounds at you and surprise-surprise, bad shit was bound to happen. Even when you got time off, how were you supposed to relax? Your recreational choices were video games, video games, and fucking anything with a pulse. The only available liquor didn't even have a name. They called it raw drink. A fifth for ten bucks. It was so strong even Owens had to mix it with grape soda.

The whole world had seen the photos. Detainees wearing hoods and standing on boxes with their arms straight out or hung from railings in stress positions or piled on top of each other naked or bleeding and beat to shit. Poor Lynndie England. She was the poster child for that clusterfuck. She was the short girl with the boy's haircut who got her picture taken leading a prisoner on a dog leash and standing next to a line of hooded detainees grinning and pointing at their dicks. Fortunately, she wasn't in the photo of a prisoner kneeling with his mouth open and another prisoner masturbating in front of him, but she did quip, "Look, he's getting a hard-on!" A remark that didn't help her at the trial.

Charlie Graner took the pictures. He was a specialist, a rank somewhere between a private and a corporal. He unofficially ran the tier along with some other untrained, unqualified assholes. Graner was all over Lynndie as soon as she arrived. He was twice her age and smelled her vulnerability. Once he had his grappling hooks in her she did anything he said, and he was a mean bastard too.

Lynndie got three years, Graner received ten. Hawkins, Jimenez, and Owens were dishonorably discharged because there wasn't enough evidence to indict them. Walczak knew he'd never get a promotion unless he singlehandedly killed everybody in Al Qaeda, so he resigned.

And get this: Nobody in the top brass got busted. Not a single one. Not the brigade commander, prison commander, operational supervisor, or anybody else above the rank of sergeant. All they got was a reprimand. A reprimand? What the hell was that anyway? They called you into the principal's office and smacked your hand with a ruler? And do you know what the head of the CIA, that chickenshit Panetta, said? That the officers were paid to do a job, they did it, and he was giving them the benefit of the doubt. The benefit of the doubt? Those motherfuckers get the benefit of the doubt? The ones who gave the orders, encouraged them, egged them on, told them they were doing a good job? They get off without a scratch? Meanwhile, you were a pariah. Tell somebody you were at Abu Ghraib and you might as well say you went to the Congo and had sex with a howler monkey.

Jimenez felt bad about what he'd done. He told himself he was a different person back then, that it was circumstances, that anybody would have gone crazy if they were put in that position. But the shit still haunted him. He wondered if Walczak and the others were haunted too. Did they wake up at 2 a.m. hearing the prisoners scream and seeing the agony on their faces as they cowered in a corner bloodied and pleading for their lives?

He wondered if Panetta ever felt bad about letting everybody off the hook except the people who were responsible. Unlikely, Jimenez thought. You know what he'd say? What was I supposed to do? Turn the CIA, MI, and CACI upside down? Take depositions from the hundreds of people connected with Abu Ghraib? Interview every prisoner and stack up so much evidence they'd have to keep it in an airplane hangar? Reassign every attorney in JAG and Department of Justice to handle the cases? Spend years and millions of dollars sorting out who was to blame for each individual act of abuse and who was responsible for supervising them all the way up to that moron Rumsfeld? No. Better to bust a few ordinary soldiers and heap the blame on them. I mean, let's move on, shall we? We've got two wars to fight.

Jimenez finished off the joint and dropped it on the floor. His cell buzzed. "Shit. It's Fuckhead. You want to talk to him?"

"Hell no," Hawkins said.

"I'm eating," Richter said.

"Well, I ain't talkin' to him," Owens said, popping the cap off another Coors. "I'm drunk."

Jimenez put the call on speaker. "What's up, Balzac?"

"It's Walczak," Walczak said, like his name was a rank. "Status report." Jimenez looked at Hawkins and Owens. Do you believe this asshole?

"I'm Mexican, sir. We don't have no status." Owens grinned. Hawkins laughed out loud. Richter kept eating.

"Not funny, Jimenez. I want a status report."

Jimenez suddenly sounded panicky and desperate. "Sir, we're taking fire from hostiles, battalion strength!" he shouted. "We're black on ammo, sir, and the Stryker's down." Hawkins started whistling like incoming rounds and making that explosion sound kids make, Owens ack-acked like a machine gun. "They've got eighties, MBTs, RMGs, forty mike-mikes, SAMs, and ICBMs!" Jimenez screamed into the phone. "Get us out of here, sir! We need air support! We need evac! Oh no! It's Owens, sir! She took one in the ass crack!" Owens and Hawkins were doubled over with their mouths wide open.

"Stop screwing around!" Walczak shouted. "What's going on, Jimenez? I want to know now."

"Nothing so far but we're working on it. Say, Balzac, you're Polish, aren't you?"

"It's Walcz—yeah, what about it?"

"Do you know what they call a Polack with a hundred and fifty girlfriends?"

"No, I don't."

"A shepherd."

More hysterics. Richter blew out a mouthful of carnitas. Hawkins fell over backward and crashed to the floor.

"Are you finished?" Walczak said.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm finished," Jimenez said, tears in his eyes.

"Has the detainee said anything?"

"No, he hasn't said anything."

"Could somebody check on him, please?"

"I'm eating," Richter said.

"Don't look at me," Owens said. "I made the coffee run."

"Hold on," Jimenez said.

Jimenez and Hawkins went over to the supply closet and opened the door. It was empty, bare walls, the carpet ripped out. It was cold, the air conditioning was turned up high. A demonic voice spewed hate rock from a boom box so loud you'd think it would shatter Owens's beer bottles. Sneaky Pete was curled up on the bare cement. His hands were zip-tied behind his back. He was naked and shivering and groaning. He was wearing a hood they'd dipped in hot sauce before they'd put it on him but the effects had worn off, or at least he'd stopped screaming.

Jimenez turned the music off. "How long's he been without water?"

"Since we picked him up," Hawkins said. "Let's see if he's ready." Hawk used the toe of his boot and gave Sneaky Pete a stiff nudge in the ribs. He groaned in pain. Hawkins had punched him there a bunch of times, you could see the bruises. Jimenez knelt down and ripped off the hood. Sneaky gulped fresh air.

"What's up, Sneaky?" Jimenez said.

"Water…please, water," he croaked.

Owens came in with her beer. "You tell us what we want to know and you can have all the water you can drink." She emptied the bottle on the floor. "Don't that look good?" Sneaky opened his mouth and tried to catch some of the drops splashing on his face.

Walczak was yelling from the phone. "Okay, that's it! You've had him all day and you're supposed to be professionals! I want results by nineteen hundred hours, no excuses!" He ended the call.

"He's right," Jimenez said. "We should get this done. It's our asses too."

"Then enough of this bullshit," Hawkins said.

He hauled Sneaky to his feet and slammed him against the wall. He leaned in close, nose-to-nose. "You think this is bad, asshole? This is nothing. This is a day at the beach. This is Disneyland. I'll put you in so much pain you'll be beggin' for me to slit your throat." Hawk put his hand around Sneaky Pete's jaw, his fingers like the claws of a crane, squeezing so hard Sneaky's cheeks were almost touching. Hawk screamed into his face, spit flying out of his mouth. "NOW START TALKING MOTHERFUCKER OR I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL CUT YOUR GODDAMN DICK OFF AND HANG IT AROUND YOUR NECK!" Hawk banged Sneaky Pete's head against the wall. "DO YOU HEAR ME? DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?" Hawkins kept banging and screaming. "TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW AND TELL ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW! OPEN YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH AND TELL ME!"

"Hold it, hold it, Hawk," Jimenez said. "You're gonna kill the guy." Richter was standing in the doorway, an unfeeling motherfucker if there ever was one, and even he was incredulous. Hawk was breathing hard, glaring into Sneaky's eyes. Sneaky looked back at him, in pain but unafraid. More blank, like. Stoic. A tough motherfucker.

"Fuck it, " Jimenez said. "Owens, find a table where we can lay him down. Did somebody bring a bucket?"

"It's in the van," Hawkins said.

"Get it. Fill it with water. And see if you can find a towel too." Hawk let go of Sneaky and let him slump to the floor.

"You gotta admit," Jimenez said. "The guy's pretty tough."

"What's this asshole's name again?"

"Isaiah. They call him IQ."

Chapter One


Isaiah hadn't seen Grace since he'd met her in TK's wrecking yard. He'd helped her remove a wiring harness from an old car. He was intrigued by her, but she'd given no indication that she had the slightest interest in him. It was a month later when he saw her again, standing in front of an art supply store talking to her friend. He'd watched them awhile, and when the friend left, he wanted to say hello but was too intimidated. Instead, he sent Ruffin to smooth the way, the slate-gray pit bull with fierce amber eyes that scared the hell out of most people. The dog ran over to Grace and sat at her feet and she responded the same way she had at the wrecking yard. She smiled, big and warm and glad, kneeling down to scratch him behind his ears. Ruff was usually standoffish with people, but you could feel the connection between them, like sister and brother reuniting after years apart.

"Hello, beautiful," she said. "How are you, huh?" Ruffin could hardly sit still, waggling with his butt still on the ground and mewling with happiness. She stroked his head and beamed at him. "How are you, huh? You doing all right?"

"Hi," Isaiah said as he approached. She gave him a quick glance and went back to stroking the dog.


"How's it going?"

"It's going fine." Her voice was flat, not a hint of friendliness or anything else, the pale green eyes giving nothing away.

"Did the wiring harness work okay?"

"Yeah, it worked okay."

"Good. That's great."

He had reached the limits of his conversational skills and a couple of awkward, endless moments went by, the girl holding the dog's big head in her hands. He felt her sadness again. He recognized it from before. Like his, far away but imminent, anguish buried in a shallow grave.

"It's Ruffin, right?" she said.

"You have a good memory." At the wrecking yard, she'd chided him because the dog was unruly and hadn't been neutered. "I did some training with him," Isaiah said. "Got him fixed too." If she was impressed there was no sign of it. "I'm Isaiah," he said, getting desperate. "Isaiah Quintabe." He knew her name but didn't want to say it because it would sound creepy. She thought a moment, like she was gathering her memories of him, deciding if he was okay.

"Grace," she said simply. She was wearing worn jeans and a chambray shirt over a gray T-shirt. She smelled faintly of turpentine. He remembered the pocket watch tattoo on her forearm. It was an antique, the numbers in an ornate font and nicely done too. Crisp lines, subtle shadowing, the sheen on the bezel just right, the time frozen at five after eleven.

Isaiah said the only thing he could think of. "So you're an artist." She looked at him sharply, a little alarmed.

"How do you know?"

He rushed to explain. "In the wrecking yard you had paint on your shoes and a Royal & Langnickel T-shirt. They make paintbrushes. I just happened to notice, that's all. Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"Don't worry about it." She looked like he'd taken her wallet and given it back. "Gotta go." She scratched the dog one more time, turned, and walked away, the dog trotting happily beside her.

Isaiah wanted to say goodbye or ask if he could walk with her or invite her for coffee but those things were beyond him. "Ruffin? Here, boy."

The dog stopped, looked wistfully at Grace, and reluctantly came back. Isaiah snapped on his leash and watched her. She was walking fast, like she was escaping. Had he done something threatening? Was he giving off some kind of weird vibe? Was he so bumbling she had to flee so she wouldn't laugh in his face? Probably. She was an artist. Cool. White. Creative. She probably hung out with other cool, white, creative people. Actors or documentary filmmakers or somebody who raised seven different kinds of heirloom cucumbers or had a line of yoga pants or made crazy sculptures out of old dental chairs, and if there were some black guys in her circle they were probably named Zado or Ska and they had dreadlocks and walked around barefoot and wore white peasant shirts and sacred beads from a monastery in Machu Picchu and had tats that meant fight the oppressor and performed at poetry slams or played the timbales in a reggae band.

Grace was almost a block away, just turning into an apartment building. Isaiah got in the car and drove past it. It was an old stucco low-rise called the Edgemont; scarred with gang graffiti, front steps scuffed down to bare wood, the burglar bars weeping rust. He parked the car and went furtively to the intercom. He checked the list of names. G Monarova resided on the top floor. #406. Monarova? What kind of name was that?

He drove away wondering what had gotten into him. Twice now, he'd been clearly rejected, and here he was almost stalking her. It was ridiculous. Why was he so intrigued? Okay, she did remind him of himself; removed, wary, her eyes searching for a crack in your armor, trying to see inside you, see what was really going on. Those weren't exactly attractive qualities. Dodson had told him about meeting Cherise and how he'd been hit by the thunderbolt like Michael Corleone when he saw the shepherd girl in Godfather II. It bordered on the mystical, being so drawn to someone you didn't know; longing to be with her after two minutes of conversation. No, Isaiah thought, this is crazy. What was he going to do, knock on her door with a bouquet of flowers? This was some kind of errant brain wave or a whim of imagination. Drive on, he told himself. By this time tomorrow you'll have forgotten all about her.

Isaiah was meeting Dodson at the Coffee Cup, a neighborhood institution stuck between a dry cleaners and a Mexican market. He was nervous about it. They were going to talk about partnering up, the conversation long overdue. Dodson had been busy with his new baby. He'd sold his half of the food truck to Deronda and was presumably living on the proceeds. He'd promised to bring in high-profile cases with serious paychecks and Isaiah could sorely use one. As usual, his client fees were dribbling in, along with the usual assortment of casseroles, cookies, needlepoint homilies, leftover Christmas presents, home repairs, and knitted woolen scarves so perfect for the California weather. The whole Erwin family had painted the house. Javier had installed a new water heater. Mr. Yamasaki had reroofed the garage. Things that needed doing but didn't pay the bills.

"There's my hero," Verna said. She said that every time he came in, which was almost every day. Awhile back, he'd saved her from a robbery, and she wouldn't let him forget it. Verna was a wizened sprig of a woman who must have been in her eighties. She wore a waitress's uniform even though she owned the place and arrived before dawn to bake her fresh goodies. Danish, muffins, cinnamon rolls, and sourdough bread from a starter that was forty years old. Her croissants were what Isaiah craved. Verna said her recipe only had two ingredients. Warm snowflakes and a tub of butter.

Isaiah was still embarrassed about the conversation with Grace. He was apparently less appealing than a four-legged creature that ate dog food, shed like a dying Christmas tree, couldn't speak English, and crapped all over the yard. He was twenty-six years old and couldn't carry on a conversation. Pitiful. Just pitiful. On the other hand, the nut he'd chosen to crack was as hard as the sidewalk and cold as a bag of frozen peas. Maybe pick someone easier next time, someone who already liked him. Maybe Winetta Simpson, a neighbor who was always inviting him over for coffee and a chat. He'd felt bad about turning her down all the time, so he'd gone over there once. She greeted him at the door with a bottle of Crown Royal, glittery purple eye shadow, and a negligee that looked like a lace tablecloth thrown over a buffalo.


  • One of the Best Books of the Year - CrimeReads
  • "Joe Ide's IQ novels are an electrifying combination of Holmesian mystery and SoCal grit."—Wilder Davies, Time
  • "Joe Ide opens Wrecked, the third book in his blazing IQ series, with the novelist's equivalent of a stun gun. . . . [IQ is] an appealing central character, propped up by a cast of crooks Elmore Leonard would envy. . . . Ide is still the hottest of recently-emerged crime writers. He has populated Southern California with wildly entertaining characters, from those hinted at offstage to the motormouths whose priceless talk fills his pages."—Janet Maslin, New York Times
  • "Wrecked is full of violent action, hairbreadth escapes and poignant life lessons: an unpredictable book written by an author with wizard-like gifts."—Tom Nolan, Wall Street Journal
  • "As far as I'm concerned, Joe Ide can't write them fast enough."—New York Times Book Review
  • "Joe Ide is one of the hottest mystery novelists at work... the wonder of love, the cruelty of war, the black world he knows well, the music he loves--all the beauty and cruelty and craziness he filed away in his mind before he began writing these novels. With Wrecked, Ide confirms that he's among the most original new voices in today's crime fiction."—Patrick Anderson, Washington Post
  • "Raised in South Central, Joe Ide expands the territory of L.A. noir."—Gal Beckerman, New York Times
  • "A lively writer with a smart-aleck streak... His dialogue is clever and advances the narrative, and he knows how to stage an action scene."—Seattle Times
  • "Embodies a lot of thought-provoking analysis, a good deal of brutality, and more than a smattering of Three Stooges thrown in for balance... Of his many talents, Ide's greatest is putting the reader definitively in the moment. The sense of audacity is what sets him so far apart from writers who try mightily to simulate tough guys from the streets... His characters' vernacular, some of it hysterically funny, is unfailingly spot-on."—Newark Star-Ledger
  • "Once again, Ide brilliantly combines caper-style comedy with real-world violence and more than a dollop of complex human relationships, the kind that too often lead to mess and muddle rather than happily-ever-aftering. If you haven't discovered this series yet, remedial action is required immediately."—Booklist (starred review)
  • "The hip-hop generation's answer to Sherlock Holmes returns fast and furious in the third installment of Ide's celebrated series... Ide's penchant for colorful characters, droll banter, and whackadoodle set pieces is aided by a growing command of narrative dynamics. And Isaiah Quintabe remains an engaging, fascinating protagonist... There's a harder, darker edge to the violence that gives this ripsnorting follow-up a rueful yet resonant aftertaste, perhaps in anticipation of more unsettling jolts in the hero's future."—Kirkus
  • "Wrecked takes Ide's unlikely hero into new territory, with foes that test his mettle in ways his previous adversaries could not even fathom, and with a possible love interest that exposes an entirely new facet of IQ's character."—BookPage
  • "Having read all three of Joe Ide's novels about the young Sherlock Holmes of the 'hood, Isaiah Quintabe, I am pleased to say that his third novel, Wrecked, is the best one yet. The stakes are higher, the suspense more intense, and the addition of a budding romance provides more character depth. Read it, enjoy it, and then impatiently wait around for the next one like the rest of us."—Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, author of Mycroft Holmes and Coach Wooden and Me
  • "With writing so sharp you may cut your fingers on the pages, Joe Ide's latest IQ novel, Wrecked, is outrageous and laugh-out-loud funny, a page-turner with devastating observations about the dangers of state-sanctioned violence and its consequences. The characters are unforgettable, none more so than IQ himself. Like in the previous books, IQ's tender intelligence and his tight moral compass are what make this series so stirring... and touching."—Attica Locke, Edgar Award-winning author of Bluebird, Bluebird

On Sale
Oct 9, 2018
Hachette Audio

Joe Ide

About the Author

Joe Ide grew up in South Central Los Angeles and currently lives in Santa Monica, California. His IQ series has won the Anthony, Shamus and Macavity Awards, and been nominated for the Edgar, Barry, CWA New Blood Dagger and Strand Book Critics Awards. The IQ books are currently in development as an original TV series.

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