Elana nodded and pulled her bag off her shoulder to look for her cell phone.
“Elana?” Gabe waited until she met his eyes before speaking again. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise. I won’t let the family down.”
* * *
Elana held Gabe’s eyes and slowly nodded as her panic receded. When Gabe looked at her like that, with those deep, serious eyes, wearing his I’ve-got-this expression, she knew she could take his word to the bank. He would do exactly what he said. Jarrod was hot fire and Thom quiet, steady rain, but Gabe was the solid rock beneath her feet.
Thom, hell. Elana looked down at her screen and saw his missed calls. She could imagine him running his hands over his face, a frown between his strong eyebrows. If she called Thom, he would pepper her with questions she didn’t have answers for, would question where she’d been and why she wasn’t picking up. Talking to him would be like pouring another layer of guilt onto the mountain she already carried around, and that load threatened to break her, mentally and physically. Jarrod was so much easier to talk to—his comme ci, comme ça attitude could be annoying, but he was uncomplicated. Jarrod was shallow, and right now, she needed shallow. It allowed her a place to escape, the freedom not to feel.
Sometimes, she would do anything not to feel. All her life she’d run away from situations and conflicts, choosing to flee rather than feel, deal. She’d run to Thom when she couldn’t cope with whatever was happening at home—her parents fighting, Rafe and Luc sniping at each other and taunting Gabe. As an adult she turned to Gabe to solve her work conflicts, to Thom when she needed a comforting ear and endless support, and to Jarrod when she wanted to escape.
She did a lot of running, a lot of avoiding, and Elana knew that it was a flaw she needed to address. The problem was that it was so much easier not to. Swimming at the shallow end of the pond, not putting in the effort, avoiding depths and currents, was a lot easier than wading into deeper waters. Besides, her father was dying, her family was falling apart and the renovation of Elana Marshall into a better version of herself could wait until this blew over. While she waited for more information, she could seek comfort. She could also choose to escape.
Door number one or door number two?
Elana glanced at Gabe and saw that he was involved in a tense conversation. She quickly moved away, her thumb hitting a much-dialed contact on her phone.
“Hey, it’s me...”
* * *
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 the 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, w
hat 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.
“What happened?”
Mariella shrugged. “After the press conference, I went to see Harrison and ran into Dr. Grant before I could reach his room. He told me that he completely supported my decision to airlift Harrison to this clinic, that he’d receive excellent treatment here. He assumed that I knew what he was talking about, and I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t and that I wasn’t told about his transfer out of St. Aloysius.” Mariella shuddered. “Imagine if that titillating titbit hit the press.”
Joe’s hand tightened on hers.
“Someone used my name to move him. Who could’ve done that? How did they manage it so quickly?”
The car pulled to a stop outside the portico leading to the hospital entrance, and it didn’t escape Mariella’s attention that Joe used their arrival as an excuse to avoid her question.
The driver exited the vehicle and opened the door to Joe, who turned to help Mariella from the car. Pushing her sunglasses off her face, she noticed that there was a clear view through the front door to the Pacific Ocean on the other side of the house. A tiny sailboat was heading at a fast clip across the surface of the sea, and she desperately wished that she was on that boat, wind in her hair, sailing away.
Joe’s fingers rested on her lower back, and his voice was a slow drawl in her ear. “The children will be here in a few minutes.”
“If they weren’t followed by the vultures,” Mariella retorted. “Damned press. I’m still angry about that fight. I raised them better than that.”
They stepped into the cool air of the entrance hall and were immediately approached by a stern but handsome man. The stethoscope hanging around his neck was a good clue that he was Harrison’s doctor. Mariella idly noticed that the jacket draped over his forearm did not match his suit pants. Unable to pull her eyes from that jacket, Mariella felt icy fingers dance up her spine. Something was wrong, badly wrong. For some odd reason Mariella suddenly felt like she was standing in the headlights of an oncoming train. She wanted to jump off the rails, but she was attached to the track, bound and helpless. It would be up to the train conductor to stop the train—her fate was in someone else’s hands.
“Mom!”
Mariella turned and watched Elana fly into the hallway. She opened her arms, and Elana burrowed in close, her wild-child daughter suddenly a little girl again. Mariella kissed the top of her head, patted her back and whispered encouragement in her ear. Over Elana’s shoulder she watched Gabe, Luc and Rafe walk up the stairs and into the hallway, all three of them sporting hard expressions and cool eyes.
The doctor cleared his throat, and Mariella stepped away from Elana but kept her arm around her daughter’s slim waist. Holding her hand out to the doctor, she introduced herself and her family.
“I am Dr. Michael Malone, chief medical officer here at Whispering Oaks. I am treating your husband.”
“Has there been any improvement?” Mariella asked, dropping her arm from Elana’s waist.
“No, I’m afraid that hasn’t happened. His condition hasn’t changed,” Dr. Malone replied gravely.
“Can I see him?” Mariella demanded.
“The nurses are busy with him now. Perhaps in half an hour. Ten minutes at a time, and only two visitors every hour for the first day,” Dr. Malone said, his tone suggesting that they not argue. It wouldn’t help, Mariella thought. This man ruled this space.
She’d choose her battles wisely, and if she didn’t push him on visiting hours, he might give her something else. “Can you tell me who authorized Harrison’s transfer to your facility?”
Dr. Malone didn’t react at all. “I am afraid I cannot.”
Call her spoiled and indulged, call her whatever you like, but Mariella detested hearing the word no. “I insist you tell me. He is my husband and my responsibility.”
“That may be so, madam, but I cannot.”
Mariella lifted her chin, ignoring Joe’s hand on her arm. He was trying to get her to back down, walk away, but Mariella’s blo
od was up and she wanted answers. And she wanted them now. “You must!”
“I can’t, because I don’t know.”
Mariella blinked then frowned. He spoke the truth, she realized, his words sinking in. His eyes never dropped from hers, never wavered. He truly didn’t know. “How is that possible?”
“Many people with high profiles pass through here. Some we acknowledge by name, and some we do not. Confidentiality is paramount to us. I was contacted by an individual and told that an influential man with severe injuries needed our specialized care. I said that I had space, and a financial transaction secured his place with us.”
“No questions asked?” Luc moved across the room to stand by Mariella’s side.
“It’s not my job to question the source of the funding—my job is to provide the best medical care with complete anonymity.” Dr. Malone pasted a small smile on his face. “Now, through there is one of our reception rooms, which leads onto the balcony with grand views of the beach and ocean. I have arranged for refreshments—unfortunately, due to our dedication to privacy, we do not have serving staff. I will send a nurse to fetch you when the Captain can receive visitors.”
“The Captain?” Elana asked, her arched eyebrows pulling together in confusion.
“We find it easier to call our patients by aliases—it’s another privacy measure. Oh, I forgot.” Dr. Malone picked up the jacket from his arm and passed it to Mariella. “This followed your husband from St. Aloysius. I believe they found this jacket a little way from his body. It must’ve fallen out of the car when it rolled. His wallet is in the side pocket. It was, I understand, in the back pocket of his suit pants.”
A Touch of Love Page 26