An automobile accident in the wealthy town of Woodside, California results in the deaths of both drivers. Rob MacKay is hired to investigate by the employer of one of the deceased. His only instructions are that the death was extremely inconvenient. MacKay discovers that it was no accident, but murder. He is threatened as his findings puts his own life in danger as he as he unravels a web of corruption in San Francisco, and one of its major sports teams.

Note from the author: One of the more pleasant things about writing, is that often you fall in love with your characters. It doesn’t matter, male or female, you want to give them more, more background, more bits of character. This was the case with a bit character from the second book, Janet Dorrinson. This time I was able to bring her into full Blume but under horrific circumstances. In this book I move away from basketball, except for the time pressure it puts on Rob MacKay who is now working in off season as a part time Investigator for the Criminal Defense Attorney that represented D’Jarl Watson, Nate Hart.

Excerpt

The Perfect Plan

The man known as the Ghost sat in the old car and went over his preparations. 

Buying the car was the first step. Not really. The first step was finding the guy, but that part was so easy that it hardly counted. The Ghost had picked him up at a corner filled with day workers looking for employment at fifteen bucks an hour. After that, the next step was finding the car. 

His requirements for the car were fairly simple: old (before airbags) and big, with a metal ring for the horn inside the steering wheel. He found the car on Craigslist--a 1962 Pontiac, running but not in good shape--for four hundred and thirty dollars, in San Jose. The make was on the cusp of becoming a restorable classic, but not this one. It had rust and dents, and the back seat had seen the ravages of either children or wild dogs. He had the day worker buy it with cash in his name, Angel Flores, telling him he could keep the car after the job. It didn't take long to determine that Angel was not above doing something illegal, as long as it meant money without the possibility of being deported back to Nicaragua. The Ghost had him insure the car for collision with State Farm. It was all done over the phone. 

The plan was simple. Angel would be rear-ended in an accident. He would claim back injuries. The Ghost would provide the lawyer. Flores would get a judgement of up to a hundred thousand dollars, depending on how good the lawyer was, and a new car. Angel wanted to know what the Ghost was getting out of it. He told him that the driver had screwed him in a business deal. This was his way of getting even. The driver would lose his license, which he needed for work. Angel was all in. Staging murders that looked like accidents was what distinguished the Ghost from others on the dark web, but Angel didn't need to know that.

He planned the accident to take place on an empty stretch of Highway 84 in Woodside. It was on the way to the home of the mark, Jonathan Dorrinson. The Ghost did a few things to the Pontiac, pulling the wires to the back-up lights and breaking the horn ring. After that it was just a matter of rehearsing Angel on his part. After the wreck, Flores would phone 911, saying he'd been hit from behind and that he was injured. That was all he had to do. Easy! Of course, he wasn't told this until the evening of the accident. The Ghost couldn't risk that he would tell anyone else. For that reason, he had taken Flores' phone.

The Ghost had one potential problem: he had to make sure the car coming down 84 was Dorrinson’s. But being in the tech capital of the world solved that. He had watched and timed the mark twice in the previous weeks. He was like clockwork each Tuesday night. The Ghost installed a camera device similar to those used on bridges to read license plates. In this case, the feed went to his phone and gave him a quarter-mile warning as to when Dorrinson's Mercedes would be where he and Angel Flores waited in the Pontiac.

The phone dinged, showing Dorrinson was coming. The Ghost started the Pontiac. Its lights were off. Angel huddled down in the passenger's seat, bracing himself. As soon as he saw headlights enter the straight stretch of highway, the Ghost placed the car in reverse and moved to the center of the road. Accelerating, he hit the oncoming car squarely. The rear end of the Pontiac flew up in the air before bouncing back down to the ground.

"Get in the driver's seat, buckle up, and wait until I come back," he told Angel, who was bleeding from his nose.

The Ghost went to the Mercedes, surprised at how stiff his legs were from the impact. The entire front end of the Mercedes had collapsed. The interior was filled with the residue of the air bags deploying. He jerked open the door with gloved hands. Jonathan Dorrinson looked at him, extending his hand for help. Instead, the Ghost grabbed Dorrinson's head with both hands and twisted until his neck snapped. There was always a chance that the broken neck would not kill Dorrinson. The Ghost made sure by hitting him hard on his Adam's apple, crushing his trachea, making it impossible for him to breathe. He closed the door and went back to the Pontiac. Angel had done what he asked; he’d slid across the bench seat and was sitting behind the wheel. The Ghost opened the driver's side door and handed Angel his phone.

"Okay, make the call," he said.

Angel dialed 911. "I've been hit from behind. I'm hurt, mierda!" Angel said. The Ghost reached for the phone and Angel handed it to him. Angel was strapped into his seat belt, which only went around his waist. The phone was clicked onto mute. The Ghost took the broken piece of horn from his pocket and jammed it between Angel's ribs, the sharp end easily entering tissue and penetrating his heart. Angel Flores looked up, the realization that he wouldn't be getting the hundred thousand washing over his face as he looked down at the broken piece of metal sticking from his chest. Blood seeped around the wound. Angel hit the jagged end with his hand and blood spurted out, spraying the inside of the car and dripping down into the footwell. His head slumped as he lost consciousness. The Ghost turned the phone off mute and dropped it into the bench seat next to Flores. He felt a little sad looking at Flores slumped against the steering wheel. He did not like killing for free, but he could not allow a witness to what had happened. He shook his head and closed the door.

The Ghost moved into the trees that lined the highway and waited. The paramedics were first to arrive. It took them seven minutes and forty-three seconds from the 911 call. The police, ambulance, and fire truck came somewhat later. He watched them remove both bodies. The police were doing what he'd hoped. They were measuring the skid marks of the Mercedes, taking it for the accident that it appeared to be. They found no skid marks from the Pontiac. The Ghost smiled as he watched the various agencies try not to get in each other's way. The interplay between the Highway Patrol and the Woodside police was particularly interesting. Both seemed to want to control the scene while letting the paramedics do their thing with the two dead. Satisfied that the police were treating this as an accident, the Ghost went deeper into the woods, walking the half mile to where he'd left his car, and drove away. It had been a good night, a very good night indeed. Flores wouldn't get a hundred thousand dollars, but the Ghost would.