Mission Canyon [Paperback]

'Gardiner is on her way to the top.' (Bookseller )

'An explosive new thriller . . . a strikingly good story' (Publishing News )

'Very well written, racy and witty' (Tangled Web )

'An explosive new thriller . . . a strikingly good story'

'Very well written, racy and witty'

'a rattling good read, with an unexpected twist at the end.' --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Evan Delaney, novelist and legal go-fer, is dressed as Diana Ross in order to crash a fancy-dress party and serve a summons, when she hears that Franklin Brand is back in town. Brand is the hit-and-run driver who sentenced Evan's lover Jesse to life in a wheelchair, and killed his best friend. Since the accident, Brand has been avoiding justice overseas; but if he's back, Evan and Jesse are determined to get him, helped by the dead boy's brother Adam. Brand had been a high-flier in Mako Technologies, a cyber-security firm, and this is where Evan starts looking. She quickly uncovers evidence that Brand was embezzling funds, and that Adam's brother knew all about it. So maybe that hit-and-run wasn't an accident at all?Then the policeman investigating is killed, and Adam and Jesse both come under suspicion. The plot has more twists, thrills and spills than a white-knuckle ride, and is complicated by the confused emotions of the main parties involved: Jesse feels a survivor's guilt; Adam resents the fact that Jesse is alive while his brother died. But there are more corpses - including a near miss for Evan herself - to come before the bad guys are finally brought to book. (20030411)

Originally from Santa Barbara, California, Meg Gardiner previously practised law and taught at the University of California. She lives with her family near London. To find out more about her novels, visit Meg's website at www.meggardiner.com

People ask me whose fault it was. Who caused the accident? Where did the blame lie – on reckless driving, blinding sunlight, a sharp curve in the road? Hidden in their questions is a deeper query. Did Jesse bring it on himself? Was he careless? Perhaps he rode his bike into the middle of the road. Perhaps he insulted God. Maybe that’s why he won’t be walking me down the aisle, they imply.
What people want to hear, I think, is that the accident was fate, or foolishness. The hit - and - run killed Isaac Sandoval outright. It left Jesse Blackburn paralysed and broken on the hillside, struggling to reach his friend’s body. And people want me to tell them yes, it was the victims’ fault. Jesse should have done something different, should have looked over his shoulder or flossed his teeth every day. What they want me to tell them is no, of course it could never happen to you. They want reassurance, and I can’t give it to them.

When they asked me whose fault it was, I always said: the driver’s. It was the fault of the man who sat behind the wheel of a satin – gray BMW, arcing up a narrow road into the foothills of Santa Barbara, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other caressing the hair of the woman whose head bobbed above his lap. It was the fault of the man getting the blow job. It was the fault of the guy who got away. That’s what I always told people. Until now. ‘There’s going to be security,’ Jesse said. ‘Don’t worry, I can handle it.’ Jesse stared out the window of the car at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art across the street. Sunset was painting the white building orange. Guests were arriving, and their costumes glittered as they climbed the steps to the entrance. Jesse drummed his hands on the steering wheel.

‘You can’t hesitate,’ he said. ‘Straight in, do it, get out. If there’s any trouble ––’
I put my hand on his. ‘I know how to crash a party.’ He gave me a glance – blue eyes cool, mouth askew, the patented Blackburn Wry Look. ‘Evan, this isn’t a Brownie singalong.’
‘Trust me. It’s an art museum. The guards care about keeping the paintings inside, not about keeping people out.’ ‘Don’t count on that,’ he said. ‘And your wig’s crooked.’ I straightened it. ‘You just want to do this yourself. You’d love to stick it to Cal Diamond with all his colleagues looking on.’ ‘Absolutely.’ But we both knew that Diamond would spot Jesse coming a mile away, even though he had on faded jeans and an old USA Swimming T - shirt, and didn’t look like a lawyer. With his youth and good looks, the brown hair he hadn’t cut in months, and his hardware, Diamond couldn’t miss him. So the job was mine. I struck a pose. ‘How do I look?’

He gazed at my costume: frosted white lipstick, hoop earrings as big as grapefruit, the black wig rising on my head like a hair volcano. The sequinned pink mini - dress came from a vintage clothing store, the white vinyl boots from my closet, relics of a year misspent on the high school drill team. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Very I - Dream - of - Jeanie.’ ‘It’s supposed to be Diana Ross.’ He eyed my Irish complexion sceptically. ‘Fine. Diana O’Ross,’ I said. He handed me the summons and complaint, and held up a snapshot. It showed a man in his fifties, bald with unruly eyebrows and snappish teeth. I said, ‘He even looks like a swindler.’ ‘Yeah, and I hear that tonight he’ll look like Zorro. So watch out for his whip.’ He flicked his finger against the snapshot. ‘And for his wife.’

The photo showed Mari Vasquez Diamond standing next to her husband, looking much younger than him, all sinewy bronze limbs and long fingers curled around his arm. She had set her dogs loose on the last process server who approached their door.

‘Her Dobermans won’t be here tonight,’ I said, getting out of the car. ‘I’ll serve him, Jesse.’ I crossed the street. The lights of the city were coming on, a glittering spray below the green folds of the mountains. The sky was streaked with jet contrails flushing pink in the summer sunset. Ahead, guests were going into the museum. Bogart, Cleopatra, the Pope.
Sashay, I told myself. Act as if you have an invitation to this benefit. Attitude is everything. Cal Diamond was all attitude. He acted the business wizard, and investors shovelled money into his software company, Diamond Mindworks. He cooked the books, plundered the company pension plan, and built himself a Spanish - style hacienda fit for a conquistador. But Diamond’s life was about to come tumbling down, because his investors had hired Jesse’s law firm to sue him for fraud. The problem was, Diamond had been evading service for weeks. Jesse was getting pissed off. And when he got pissed off, he got ruthless.
It was one of the things I loved about him. He knew that Diamond wouldn’t miss this charity fundraiser – his company was one of the high tech firms sponsoring it. This was our best chance to hit him with the summons. I climbed the steps toward the museum entrance. A woman with a clipboard stood at the door, checking names against the guest list. She wore tiny square eyeglasses and brown lipstick. When I approached, she assumed a knowing expression and pointed at me with her pen.
‘Let’s see. Jackie Kennedy?’ ‘Score half a point for the correct decade. Who’s in charge here?’ --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.