Model Behavior (Watchdogs, Inc., Book 3)

Model Behavior

Watchdogs, Inc., Book 3

By

Mia Dymond

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Mia Dymond

Published on Smashwords

Cover photo: Czuber|Dreamstime.com

Cover by Rita Toews

* * *

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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CHAPTER ONE

This is no coincidence.

Trista Anderson stood in the doorway of her office and took in the sight while her mouth fell open in shock and her knees trembled in fear. The door of her closet stood wide open, as if it had regurgitated the contents. Square, wicker baskets of colored pencils and markers lay on their sides on top of and across the paper where they had come to a stop after being dumped. Sketchbooks, notebooks, writing pens, and scissors littered the area. Fabric swatches rested on the floor as if someone had haphazardly thrown them over a shoulder into piles.

She tossed a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure her shock hadn’t alerted anyone else, and then stepped inside the office, quickly shut and locked the door, and then sat down hard in a nearby chair. Her heart pounded like a freight train. There was obviously evil attached to yesterday’s treasure.

She took a deep breath and attempted to calm nerves that jumped like Mexican jumping beans beneath her skin while she rewound the last twelve hours.

The whole ordeal began last night when she worked late to put the finishing touches on a series of designs for an upcoming show. And if her yellow marker hadn’t run dry, she never would’ve ended up locked in here now, scared out of her mind.

She’d gone to the closet to replace it with a new one, just like she did every time her pens ran dry. The pens were organized by color on the second shelf in a basket – had been for the past five years. Except this time, when she opened the door and reached for the basket of yellow markers, a small, silver briefcase prevented the action. The same case currently tucked inside her tote.

Curious by the discovery, she removed the case from the closet and set it on the nearby drawing table, forgetting all about the marker. And when she popped it open, fashion design was the last thing on her mind.

Stacks of U.S. currency, separated into denominations of one hundred-dollar bills and held together by blue paper bands, filled the interior. Paralyzed by shock, she dug deep for the willpower to make an intelligent decision about what to do. The late hour prevented much action and at the time she didn’t feel threatened enough to involve the police. Ultimately, she’d decided to keep the case close until morning.

She now moved her gaze around the mess while question marks attacked her brain. How did the case end up in her closet? And why? More importantly, whose money was inside? Without solid answers, she did know three things. First, there was a considerable amount of money inside the case; second, it was not placed inside her closet by accident and someone would most likely return to claim it; and third, she needed to stash it somewhere for safekeeping until she figured out the whole situation.

Common sense told her that a normal, law-abiding citizen would not stash a case of one hundred-dollar bills in a random closet, a thought that triggered a whole new line of questions. Why had her closet been chosen? After all, not just anyone had access to her office. Was someone on her staff in some kind of trouble? If so, who? And, the biggest question left to answer was what was she going to do with it? She couldn’t exactly run down the hallways advertising the hidden treasure like an auctioneer. She pushed one side of her hair behind an ear and made a final decision; she would lock the case in her safe-deposit box at the bank. At least it would be safe until if and when someone decided to claim it.

No, this was not a coincidence.

Someone had come back for the case.

Someone who wanted to remain anonymous.

The same someone who would most likely go to great lengths to get it back.

She groaned and rested her head against the back of the chair. Leaving the building with the case was risky but necessary and her options were very limited at this point. Normally, one would contact law enforcement in a case such as this, however, normal didn’t describe the world in which she lived. Notifying the police would only create a media frenzy and then the money would be the least of her problems.

First things first. She lifted her head, drew in a deep breath, and pressed an icon on her phone to summon a driver. As soon as she put distance between her and the case, she’d worry about everything else. She stood and tucked the case back inside her tote. As far as figuring out what to do next, there was only person she could turn to and she wouldn’t hesitate. Hopefully, he wouldn’t give her too much grief about it.

***

Deep in the confines of his inner sanctum, Captain Cason Diesel Clark sat in his leather executive’s chair behind his desk with his boots crossed at the ankles and propped on the edge. He folded his hands behind his head and settled into the comfort. Nowhere was he more relaxed than in this room while he geared up for work on a new case.

Business was good for Watchdogs, Inc. and it made him proud that they were able to solve problems for so many people. He had a helluva team and every single soldier gave his all to each mission. The only kink in the process, though, was that the more time he spent on investigation, the more time he spent away from his boys. This time, he refused to compromise; he’d hire more investigators before the boys were affected.

He lowered his feet to the floor and sat forward with his elbows on the desk. He’d purposely cleared his calendar for the week. Harvard and Ice could handle anything that came up. He had other important duties to take care of.

He picked up a pen, tapped it against the top of the desk, and meticulously ran plans through his mind. With a whole lot of hard work and discipline, everything would work out as expected. It was going to be a very good week.

The persistent nag of his cell phone interrupted the blessed silence and he glanced at the screen, unprepared to read the name that appeared in black and white. In fact, he took a second look to assure he’d read correctly. Why was Trista calling?

He paused to mull the question more specifically. Although his previous interaction had been limited, he knew enough about her to know she made the call out of desperation. Curiosity pushed him to answer.

Clark, he said shortly.

Diesel, it’s Trista.

He paused again, this time to soak up the silky softness of her voice as it traveled the length of his body and warmed him from head to toe. A beautiful voice from an absolutely beautiful woman. Who had just addressed him as Diesel instead of her usual Captain Clark. He shook his head, quickly reeling in his wayward thoughts.

Lock yourself out again? It’s a long way to New York, he drawled.

Um, no. I need a favor.

It’ll cost you.

I’m willing to risk it.

The shaky tone of her voice sent his suspicion on full alert; desperation oozed across the line. What’s wrong?

I need you to help me disappear.

He paused at her odd choice of words and felt the need to confirm. Disappear.

Yes.

Why?

I need a break.

I thought that’s why you visited a couple weeks ago.

It is. She cleared her throat. I need to check on Bailey anyway.

I can make a few calls and get you on a flight, incognito.

No! I mean, I’d rather not fly commercially.

Her quick, desperate denial only further aroused his suspicion. Any particular reason why?

There’s media everywhere. Believe me when I say you can’t book me incognito. She released a hard sigh. Is there any way you can come get me?

Her request damn near knocked him out of his chair. This woman was a fashion icon who held celebrity status in the palm of her hand. Numerous people who answered her beck and call could drop her name and have a flight booked immediately, under any alias in the world. Yet, she called him.

His thoughts went directly to his boys. I can leave tomorrow after twelve o’clock noon. Is that acceptable?

Of course. Thank you.

You’re welcome. Where should I pick you up?

My home is fine. The address is—

I have the address.

How? Oh, never mind. I’ll be ready when you get here.

Will you be okay until then?

She gave him a high-pitched, obviously forced laugh. Of course. I’ll need the time to pack and re-arrange my schedule.

Did you call Grace and Bailey?

No.

He paused at her denial, disturbed by the short, quietly-dismissive answer. Trista Anderson, Grace Portland, and Bailey King were thick as thieves and he knew firsthand that no one dared come between them - which made her answer suspicious. One step at a time, he reminded himself.

Any particular reason why?

I’ve just been distracted trying to make it out of here. I’ll call them before we leave.

I’ll call when I’m en route to the house.

He disconnected the call while mental warning bells vibrated his eardrums. Trista Anderson, word-renowned fashion designer, had just called him because she needed a ride to California. He leaned back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head. It was his experience that the rich and famous tended to be eccentric, but not Trista. No, she was one of the most down-to-earth, level-headed people he knew.

He couldn’t say he knew her all that well, but he had spent considerable time with her on a secluded island just a couple weeks ago. Never mind that her vacation to Hummingbird Bay had been cut short when he dragged her to Sea Gull Island to chase a maniac drug lord who kidnapped Bailey. And, since she’d managed to coerce him onto the dance floor in the process, he’d say that constituted a familiar relationship. That said, he couldn’t think she’d be anxious to return. So, why the phone call?

He lowered his hands and shook his head as he stood. The female mind was a difficult and dangerous thing and it was probably in his best interest to follow her lead at this point. Although question marks would lead him to New York City, he wouldn’t return with them.

***

He negotiated the hallway that led to his office with swift, determined steps and stopped to signal with two fingers for his associate to approach. Fueled by anger and panic, he led the way into the office and secured the door.

"Tell me you have the package."

"The package? His partner frowned. I processed everything as usual."

"The cash!"

"No, I gave it to you."

"It’s missing."

His associate’s eyes widened. "Define missing. You didn’t make the delivery?"

"Gone. Disappeared. He shook his head. The courier was delayed. I thought I found a safe, out-of-the-way, temporary place to stow it until we were ready to move it. He pinched the bridge of his nose in aggravation and relayed the details. I can only assume she confiscated the cash."

"She?"

"Miss Anderson. He groaned. We are in so much trouble."

"We? It wasn’t my idiotic idea to stash the cash."

"You’re guilty by association. Besides,