Fixer’s phone was across the room. It took only a minute to decide whom to call, using the dedicated “business” line with voice distortion software installed, and a moment longer to find that person’s private cell phone number.
“Jim Avon.” The voice was a deep rumble, just as it sounded on television.
The Fixer didn’t do niceties nor introductions. “The reports about Harrison Marshall are wrong. He’s not dead.”
A pause, weighted with speculative curiosity. “Who is this?”
“Who I am is not what you should be asking right now.”
Another long pause. The Fixer’s smile was a cold imitation of the gesture. The Fixer face wore a mask of determination; do whatever it took. Harrison would want to control this situation. More than his family and Joe, the Fixer understood what Harrison would want.
“How did you get this number?”
“Another question that does you no credit.” The Fixer paused a moment to let the condemnation sink in. “Harrison Marshall is very much alive.”
“Alive?” Jim Avon spluttered the word. “How do you know? Who are you?”
The Fixer ignored the news anchor. “I’m offering you an exclusive interview to prove it.” A pause. Timing was everything. “Your next question should be where to meet me and when.”
The journalist, well enough known to carry weight, not yet successful enough to allow common sense to override ambition, said, “Fine. When and where?”
The Fixer took a deep breath. A long day loomed ahead, and the Fixer suspected there’d be a lot of fires to put out before it was done.
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