Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
BODYGUARD
A t ten in the evening, the office of Anders Investigations is finally quiet. Blissfully quiet.
Owning my own private security business in Los Angeles has been a dream of mine for a decade. Nine months into the enterprise, I have a small storefront in Westwood, an assistant who isn’t taking time off for auditions, and a full roster of clients. After years of living eight to a barrack in the Marines followed by shared quarters with my fellow bodyguards at my first boss’s mansion, having a place that has my name on it is all the proof I need that my solitary lifestyle is paying off.
Across the room, the coffee pot hisses as if reprimanding me.
“I don’t need company,” I grumble to the machine.
With a new business, I don't have time for people. Not unless you count the potential bodyguards I've interviewed. I can't do everything on my own. I’m not Superman.
Yet.
A soft yet grating noise pulls at my attention. Is that scratching? Is there some kind of vermin in the walls seeking shelter from an unusual-for-LA bout of November rain?
I take a sip of my coffee and wince. The bitter brew is colder than the drizzle outside. I pull up the schematics on the house of the client, who likes her privacy as much as I do, and scan the perimeter of the property for ways intruders can enter.
The scuffing noise invades my thoughts again, louder this time and definitely not coming from the walls but from the back door. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. My bodyguard mode activated, I sift through the possible worst-case scenarios.
Is someone trying to jimmy the lock? Break in?
If they think they’re stealing from me, they have a hard lesson coming their way.
I push back my chair, make sure my handgun is secure in my holster, snatch up the baseball bat I keep in the closet, and creep out of my office to investigate.
Orange light from the streetlamp offers little illumination through the window that faces the back parking lot, but I keep the inside light off. My jaw clenches. I’ll catch these thieves by surprise. Another scuffling noise, and the back door jiggles. With a quick twist of the knob, I fling the door open and swing at head height.
The bat flies through the empty air as something wet bumps against my leg. I spin to catch a blur of black speeding down the hallway.
“Hey . . . you . . .” I bang the door shut and tear after the creature. If it’s a rat, it’s exceptionally large. Maybe the most impressive rat in LA.
Nails scrape against my hardwood floors as the animal makes the turn. I surge forward, my legs pumping. Whatever it is, it’s quick. The black, spiky furball heads for my office, and I lunge at the form. My stomach slams against the hardwood, but I come up empty-handed.
From under my desk, two eyes stare at me. Mismatched eyes: one shocking blue, the other brown. They accompany a long snout covered in grimy, wiry hair. I grunt, and two large triangle ears perk up.
“Hello, Dog.” At my utterance, the animal’s head twists a fraction to the left like it’s a scientist studying a new species.
The dog tilts its head as if thinking and doesn’t take his stare off me. No growling. No baring teeth, just quiet curiosity, as if I, not he, am out of place. My heart beats faster.
“Where did you come from?” Right. Dogs don’t talk. So he… or is it a she? . . . is not about to answer.
I hold my breath and carefully stretch out my arm. “You can’t stay under there.”
My hand grazes rough fur, but the dog, like a loaded spring, charges past me. I do a burpee to get up to my feet and give chase. Again. The tiny intruder ricochets around my office like he’s in a pinball machine, scraping by the reception desk, overturning a chair in the waiting room, and bumping into the Ficus. Soil spills out of the potted plant. Next in the path of the creature’s wrath is the trash can that doesn't stand a chance against the tiny menace.
I curse at the dog, who is surprisingly nimble in this small space. Something I am not. But I know the layout, and if I keep corralling it forward, there’ll be only one place the dog can end up. The animal zips into the bathroom, and I slam the door shut. Perfect. Thankfully, my Major won’t ever find out that his training was used to detain a tiny dog, not an enemy combatant.
Sweat trickles down my temple. My Marines training did not teach me what to do with a captured stray dog. I brush my hand over the freshly cropped hair on my head and pace the hallway. What do I do? I hear the dog moving around on the other side of the door.
I growl at the ceiling.
Yep. I can’t solve this by myself.
I slide my phone out of my pocket.
This is what I’m going to have to do.
I pull up my assistant’s number and type up a message.
Me: There’s a stray dog in our bathroom.
My phone comes to life. Gretchen’s smiling face urges me to pick up.
I hit answer. “Hi?—”
“Is the door stuck again?” My assistant’s actual face, with a halo of long gray hair, dominates the screen. She’s great with technology, especially for someone from my parents’ generation, but she always gets too close to the screen when she’s not wearing her glasses. “The super promised he fixed the sticky handle.”
“He did. I locked the dog in.”
The phone swings away as I watch the photos in Gretchen’s apartment swoosh by. The movement stops, and her face reappears. “Are you afraid of it?”
“No.” I bark out. As if.
“How big is the dog?” Gretchen’s nose crinkles as she rests the phone somewhere on her desk.
“Small.” I cough. “Tiny.”
Gretchen’s eyebrows shoot up, but she schools her face back to the pleasant neutral position she welcomes my clients with. Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again.
Somehow, I just know I’m not going to like what she says next.