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Technology, the Fixer thought, was awesome, and God bless those brainy nerds who developed the ability to combine ones and zeros and somehow convert those numbers into a live video and audio feed. The Fixer didn’t know how it happened but was grateful that it did. It made life so much easier.
Sitting in the expensive vehicle in the parking lot of El Acantilado, Harrison’s flagship restaurant, The Fixer stared down at the cell phone screen, eyes bouncing between the six tiny images on the phone. Touching t
he first screen, the picture zoomed in to reveal live footage of the helicopter carrying Harrison landing on the roof of Whispering Oaks, an isolated private clinic just outside Malibu. To the Fixer’s untrained eyes, Harrison’s transfer from the helicopter to roof and then into the elevator was as smooth as silk. After the helicopter took off, the Fixer closed that screen, enlarged another and watched the team push Harrison’s bed down a corridor lined with fine art. To those who didn’t pay attention, the clinic looked like a boutique hotel or an exquisitely decorated private residence. The grounds had been planned by a top landscape designer. There were two pools, one heated and one not, a gym and a massage room. There was a cozy library, a billiards room, various reception rooms. And that was the point—this was a new type of medical facility, where the patients could, if they had enough money and were healthy enough to do so, pretend that they were on vacation at a country house.
The medical staff moved Harrison into his room, and the Fixer watched as they did their thing. They operated as a well-oiled machine and the Fixer nodded, appreciative of well-oiled machines; it was, after all, the way the Fixer and Harrison ran their not-so-legal business.
It had started innocently enough, as a favor for a friend. Harrison’s school friend, a Californian politician running for the Senate, colored outside the lines with a woman who was not his social equal, and that liaison resulted in an illegitimate child. Harrison acted as the intermediary, negotiating silence and a move across the country, to where Harrison was conveniently building a new restaurant, by offering a vast amount of money and a change of identity. Harrison then helped one of his most talented chefs escape a drug charge by offering the investigating officer a deep-sea fishing trip on The Mariella, his state-of-the-art yacht. When a prominent stockbroker’s daughter was found on a tourist beach, sky-high, naked and in the arms of an equally naked, very underage teenage boy, Harrison fished her out of jail before the press latched onto that juicy story. Harrison saw his actions as helping out his friends; it was the Fixer who saw the economic potential of his benevolent interference.
The Fixer’s instinct had been proven correct, and they had the bank balances to prove it. Extricating the great and not-so-good of American society out of sticky situations proved to be a lot more lucrative than either of them could have imagined.
Harrison’s initial skepticism about their second business had been unfounded. He was a chef and a businessman, but the power appealed to him—Harrison liked feeling involved. Harrison didn’t care about the money their sideline generated—he had enough to last him several lifetimes—but he liked having the leverage, the inside knowledge, the ability to, if necessary, affect an outcome because someone owed him something. Could that be the reason he was lying in a coma, holding on by the medical thread of tubes and machines?
“Monitor the Captain very closely over the next hour. I want to know if anything, the slightest thing, changes.”
The Fixer heard Dr. Malone’s instruction, his voice filling the car through the top-of-the-line Bose speakers. Dr. Malone left the room, and the nurse scribbled on Harrison’s chart. Zooming in again, the words she wrote became clearer: “Patient stable, no discernible change in condition. Seems unaffected by transfer from St. Aloysius. Instructions to monitor closely for next hour.”
Good. The Fixer reduced the size of the screen and watched as the nurse left the room, leaving Harrison to lie there on his own. The Fixer frowned, wondering whether the move to Whispering Oaks was the correct one. It didn’t matter—it was the only card to play. The private hospital was specially designed for situations such as these, for patients who needed specialized care and ultimate privacy. The world would be shocked to realize who’d actually passed through the clinic’s doors: presidents, oil sheikhs, foreign dignitaries, dictators and divas had all sought help here. They’d been treated for everything ranging from depression to life-threatening conditions as bad, or worse, than Harrison’s. The Fixer had used the clinic before to treat a charismatic clergyman-turned-senator who suffered from a recurring bout of syphilis.
It had taken some quick maneuvering to clear the clinic so that Harrison was the only patient. Luckily, there had been only two patients in residence; one was discharged and the other was transferred to another facility, the Fixer arranging it so that only the most trusted and long-serving of the staff remained on the premises to care for the man they’d been instructed to call the Captain.
There were security cameras in each room, and it had been a breeze to hack into the clinic’s system and hijack the feed. The Fixer had eyes and ears on Harrison and, very importantly, on every visitor he received.
It was eavesdropping on steroids. But, as the Fixer had learned a long time ago, information was power, and it could be obtained by any means possible. Thanks to these tiny cameras, the Fixer would be the first to know Harrison’s status, whether he was stirring, awake or, frankly, dead. The Fixer idly wondered if Harrison would come around, and if he did, what he would say. Would he be lucid? Would he remember the events leading up to the crash? Would he be confused, clear minded, brain damaged? There were so many ifs and buts and uncertainties, and that left far too much to go wrong. The hidden cameras provided much-needed extra minutes. Being notified of Harrison’s condition could mean the difference between success and disaster, freedom and jail, life and death.
Those minutes gave the Fixer time to maneuver, to plot, to put safeguards, barriers and smoke screens in place. They were a safety net, an air pocket in a sinking ship.
The Fixer glanced at the clock on the dashboard, knowing that time was moving along and there were chores to accomplish, plans to put in place. Time spent in this vehicle, staring at this small screen, was time wasted, but the urge to wait, to watch, was strong. What a monumental fuckup. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this.
But the situation couldn’t be changed—it could only be managed. The Fixer tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and started the car, the stereo blaring. Needing quiet, the Fixer started to inform the onboard computer to turn the radio off when the announcer’s statement caught and held.
“A video of Luc and Rafe Marshall has, in recent hours, gone viral. While their father fights for his life after a horrific car accident, the two heirs to the massive Marshall fortune were seen trading blows outside St. Aloysius. Is this the first salvo in a fight for power to take over the reins of the multibillion-dollar, multinational company?”
The Fixer’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Well, shit.”
Seriously, the Fixer thought, whipping the car into a screeching U-turn, could this situation get any worse? The Fixer tossed a hard glare into the cloudless blue sky then peeled out of the parking lot. “And that’s not a fucking challenge, Universe.”
Chapter Five
Mariella was still livid that she hadn’t been consulted about Harrison’s move to this private clinic. How dare someone take that decision out of her hands. How dare they move him without her express permission! When she found out who had authorized his transfer, heads would roll.
She looked out of the tinted windows of the limousine as they approached an automated gate sliding across its tracks. The car passed into the grounds of Whispering Oaks, and Mariella caught a glimpse of a large white house perched on top of a cliff. It was the perfect spot for a hideaway property, Mariella thought. Isolated, out of the way, off the beaten track.
Mariella turned her head to look at Joe’s profile. He looked haggard, she thought, as, she was sure, did she. “Have you managed to find out why Harrison was moved and by whom?”
Joe’s chest rose and fell, and a shadow crossed his eyes. “Just be patient a little while longer, honey. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Mariella tapped the tip of her finger against her thigh. “I’ve known you for a long time, and when you call me honey, I know that there’s a heap of trouble coming my way.”
Joe reached out and covered her hand with his, his skin tanned and his fingers long. Joe was an affectionate guy, and she was happy to feel connected, to allow the warmth of his hand to seep under her skin, up her arm. Annoyed at the burn of the tears, Mariella cursed herself, blinked the annoying moisture away and stared straight ahead, her brain idly cataloging the landscaped gardens, the swaths of emerald lawn, the luxury mansion with its many windows.
“It looks like a luxury rehab center,” Mariella commented.
Joe nodded. “It acts as one, if the addict is influential or rich enough to be admitted. But this is, at its heart, a small hospital with cutting-edge technology and hugely experienced and very smart doctors. Harrison needs to be here—it’s the best place to be.”
“I’m not disputing that, I just have a problem with the fact that the decision to move him here was not mine, that I was not consulted,” Mariella told him.
