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Published by: Dutton
Release Date: June 9, 2015
Pages: 496
ISBN13: 978-0451472571

Series: Standalone Novels


New York Times bestselling author Joseph Finder delivers his next breakneck stand-alone thriller about the secrets families can keep, and the danger of their discovery.

When former investigative reporter Rick Hoffman loses his job, fiancée, and apartment, his only option is to move back into--and renovate--the home of his miserable youth, now empty and in decay since the stroke that put his father in a nursing home.

As Rick starts to pull apart the old house, he makes an electrifying discovery—millions of dollars hidden in the walls. It's enough money to completely transform Rick's life—and everything he thought he knew about his father. Yet the more of his father's hidden past that Rick brings to light, the more dangerous his present becomes. Soon, he finds himself on the run from deadly enemies desperate to keep the past buried, and only solving the mystery of his father—a man who has been unable to communicate, comprehend, or care for himself for almost 20 years—will save Rick...if he can survive long enough to do it.


"If you’re in the mood for tense, witty angst … THE FIXER is the way to go."
—New York Times Book Review

"A thriller that is as much about redemption as it is about escape. A remarkable exciting read."
—Booklist, starred review

"So many surprises, this book is a definite page-turner and a whole lot of fun to read. A thriller that will keep you up late to find out what will happen next. 5 Stars for this one!"
—Suspense Magazine

"Nonstop page-turner..."
—Library Journal

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Chapter 1

On a lovely West Cambridge street this 1903 Queen Anne home is on a large level lot with many mature trees. Graciously proportioned rooms and elegant millwork. Pocket doors and two working fireplaces with original ceramic tile. The house is in need of updating, please see attached home inspection report.

The house was a dump. There was no way around it. The listing had been online for seven months, and it had generated a flurry of interest at first, and one offer so lowball that the real-estate agent refused to dignify it with a reply. The agent had written the ad himself and was justifiably proud of it. It was a great ad. It was also a steaming pile of horseshit, as everyone eventually discovered when they got a look at the house. An absolute lie. The place was a disaster. A money pit. Potential buyers usually fled after spending a minute or two stumbling through the decaying interior.

So Rick Hoffman, who’d left the family house on Clayton Street in Cambridge sixteen years ago, solemnly vowing never to return, was now camping out in what used to be his father’s study, on the second floor. December in Boston could get awfully cold, but he’d turned off the heat, which was ridiculously expensive, so he was sleeping fully clothed in a sub-zero expedition sleeping bag on the old leather couch, next to a space heater. The study smelled vaguely of cat piss. Glassed-in legal bookcases lined the walls, tall and rickety. On his father’s desk was an ancient IBM PC, in Early Computer Ivory that belonged in the Smithsonian, and an Okidata dot-matrix printer. If the 1980s ever came back, he’d be all set. His old bedroom, where he’d lived until he went off to college, had become a storeroom for broken furniture and cardboard boxes of files. So he slept on the leather sofa in a room as cold as a meat locker with the faint aroma of cat urine in the air.

This was, he realized, the lowest point in his life.

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