LITMIR.BIZ

       Prologue

      “He’s in the hands of the trauma surgeon.”

      “Status?” The words were supercharged verbal bullets. This information was well paid for—to hell with politeness.

      “Bad. Head injuries, broken bones. He was thrown from the vehicle as it hit the guardrail. If he’d been wearing his seat belt, he would’ve been part of the fiery wreck at the bottom of the cliff.”

      “Has the family been informed?”

      “Not yet,” the EMT replied. “I presume one of the nurses will make those calls in the next few minutes.”

      “Have the press gotten wind of the story yet?”

      Imagining the young woman glancing toward the entrance to the ER—her brown eyes would be scanning the hallway for the more familiar members of the press corps. “Not yet, but they will soon. News that Harrison Marshall is in critical condition will spread like a California wildfire.”

      A few low curses escaped. “Prognosis?”

      The EMT remained silent, in preparation to deliver the bad news, and sucked in a deep breath. “Not good. Prepare yourself.”

      Prepare yourself. Pity that suggestion didn’t come with a how-to manual.

      The Fixer disconnected the call and looked down at the hand clutching the cell phone, noting with annoyance the trembling fingers holding the expensive phone in a tight grip. Breathe, dammit. He’s not dead.

      Not yet, anyway.

      The Fixer swiped a thumb across the screen of the smartphone and looked at the call log, realizing the last conversation they’d shared was probably shortly before Harrison’s Bugatti Veyron made its acquaintance with the highway’s low guardrail. According to another source on the payroll, a California Highway Patrol officer, the responding officers had few doubts that this was anything but an accident—the Pacific Coast Highway had seen many cars leave its surface thanks to its unforgiving twists and bends—but, because Harrison Marshall was Harrison Marshall, world-renowned hospitality entrepreneur, his accident would attract investigation. And attention.

      Attention the Fixer did not need.

      At least the authorities wouldn’t find Harrison’s last call suspicious, as there would be records of twenty other calls from Harrison to this cell number this week alone. With luck the authorities would assume that the much-ticketed Harrison had been speeding again and lost control of his car when he threw it around a treacherous bend.

      Nobody had to know that there was a strong possibility that Harrison’s past—their past—had finally caught up with them.

      The Fixer walked across the second-story living room and onto the upstairs balcony to grip the wrought-iron railing with a taut grip. Casa de Catalina, named after the wife of the first owner of this property, a wealthy real estate baron, had views of both the Santa Ynez Mountains and the Pacific Ocean. Like everything else at Casa Cat, as it was fondly called, the views were world-class. The Fixer idly wondered how much money Harrison and Mariella had spent restoring the sprawling century-old mansion. The budget probably matched the GDP of a small third-world country. It was huge, tastefully decorated, luxurious and rich...the hub of the Marshall empire. Would Harrison see it again? Could he be allowed to?

      Alive or dead could be worked with, but brain injuries would be, well, difficult. To say the least.

      The Fixer stared down, eyes bouncing from the bright blue pool to the red tiles of the guest cottage and the contrasting greens of the landscaped garden, not taking in any of the details of the opulent estate. Had Harrison asked for something someone wasn’t prepared to relinquish? Had he stumbled on a secret someone was prepared to kill for? Could someone closer to home have accidentally-on-purpose caused his car to leave the Pacific Coast Highway?

      Or was this, simply, an accident?

      The Fixer didn’t know, and that lack of knowledge grated, frightened. Knowledge was power, and the Fixer was always, thanks to the Marshall-Santiago empire, in the right place at the

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