What draws you to a book? Maybe the cover catches your eye.
You read the blurb on the back cover or the teaser on the internet. With luck
there’s just enough detail there to spark your interest. Perhaps you read the first page or two and
see if it brings you into the story.
When I’ve facilitated writer’s workshops, one of the key
components we always discussed was to have that hook. You need to pull people
into your stories, find a way to engage the reader, to get them curious about
your characters and the dilemma they may be facing.
So the opening is the key. Whether it’s the first chapter or
a prologue, as a writer you must get their attention quickly.
One fellow writer used to say “I want to bring them aboard
quickly. So I need to grab them by the throat. Or some other body part!”
That’s not always easy to do with a book. But it’s something
I will always try. So with that in mind, here’s the deal. I’m going to post the first few pages of each
of my books over the next several weeks. That way you can check it out and see
for yourself which story appeals to you.
Let’s start with “Devious” the first book in the Jamie
Richmond series. Jamie is a former
investigative reporter who is now pursuing a career as a novelist. This will give you a glimpse into her character and her background.
Prologue
I can’t believe I’m standing here with a gun in my
hand. And it’s pointed at his chest. My heart’s pounding in such a pronounced
manner you’d think I had just run five miles. But there’s anger mixed with the
adrenaline coursing through my system.
If someone told me four months ago I’d be facing a
life or death situation, I would have gotten them a nice cup of tea and tried
to find some way to calm them down before the ambulance arrived to carry them
away. Danger is not my forte. I don’t live for danger. I live vicariously,
documenting the courage and exploits of others. The scariest thing I have ever
done is eat yogurt after the expiration date.
But now here I stand, gripping a weapon and
praying I won’t have to use it as he narrows the gap between us. Yet, despite
my hammering heart, I realize there is no way this ends neatly. There is too
much at stake. I’ve already had a visit with Death tonight, and it wasn’t
pleasant. Can I take the shot?
Or will he rip it away from me and kill me with
my own gun?
How could this be happening to me?
Chapter One
It seems sudden death always brings us together. Amid
the noise and confusion, I sensed his presence. Over there, behind the blinding
flashes of colored light. Despite the pulsating crowd of spectators, despite
the noise and the confusion, I saw him.
And he saw me.
He stood impassively, muscular chest straining to
be contained inside his jacket. Even the sleeves were stretched to capacity.
There was a scowl on his face. Perhaps it was a look of disgust, or maybe
defiance. His eyes narrowed when they registered my own. If I had been
expecting any acknowledgement, I was going to be disappointed. He turned his
back on me and disappeared behind the lights.
I turned away, shaking my head.
* * * *
It was three days later before he agreed to see
me. Despite the appointment I made, he kept me waiting fifteen minutes. At last
the door opened. He waved me inside, closing off the escape route firmly behind
me. There was that awkward moment when neither one of us knew exactly what to
do. Finally, with a snort that could have either been disgust or laughter, he
drew me close for a bear hug.
“You look good, Jamie.”
“You too, Bert. Still working out?”
“Every chance I get. How’s Vera?”
I tensed at the mention of her name. With his arm
still around me, I had no doubt that he could feel it.
“She’s good.”
“Still with that psychiatrist?”
I shook my head. “No way, that was a year ago.
She’s two beyond that. First there was a lawyer, now a stockbroker.”
“Sounds like crooks to me, just fancier versions.”
He waved me to a chair in front of his desk.
“I still think you were her favorite, although it
may have been a close race between you and the plastic surgeon.” He snorted
again and shook his head.
Sometimes it’s hard for me to think of Bert as my
father. Technically, he was, or is, my stepfather. He was my mother’s third
husband. The first, Peter Richmond, was an artist. His sculptures still
decorate several local galleries and museums. He had just been hitting his
stride, having done a number of successful commercial projects, when a fall
from scaffolding suddenly ended his career. That his life also ended then
seemed secondary to my mother. I was seven at the time.
She has progressed her way through a number of
romances and marriages, trying to find the right combination of husband—lover.
Bert married her when I was thirteen. She divorced him when I was twenty. She
was currently on her seventh husband. I’d lost count of the boyfriends in
between or during the other marriages. I’d never say it to her face, but she
has developed a severe Mrs. Robinson complex. Her last three lovers were half
her age.
Albert “Bert” Nowalski dressed more like a
businessman than a police captain. And maybe, nowadays, that’s what was
necessary. His tailored suit, freshly pressed, probably cost more than two
weeks’ pay. He favored Italian shoes that were always gleaming with polish, and
starched white shirts so crisp they looked brand new. He still wore the
expensive Swiss watch Vera had given him as a wedding present. If you hinted
that he was sentimental, he’d counter that it was merely an excellent timepiece
that fit well. Bert always kept his hair short, in a crew cut style that was
barely more than stubble. His piercing gray eyes never missed a trick,
something I’d learned the hard way during my teenage years.
“Why were you hanging out at that crime scene
Friday night? I thought you’d given up the police beat for something more
normal.” He settled into the chair behind his desk.
After several years working for one of the local
daily papers, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I’d started out with
society and fashion, then gradually worked my way into where my real interest
lies. Crime. I covered everything from the scenes, to arraignments and to
trials. Along the way, I had a scare or two; this made me want to work on my
own terms. Now, I write features that appeal to me and sell them to magazines
all over the country. Sometimes, I can put a new slant on the same article and
sell it to half a dozen different ‘specialty’ magazines. This allows me time to
set my own schedule and to work on what I really want to do—write mysteries.
I’ve done features on acrobats, gourmet chefs,
successful businesswomen, construction workers, motorcycle riding nuns and a
judge who was blind and used a guide dog to help him navigate his way, even in
the courtroom. There have been stories about new rock bands, musical prodigies
under the age of ten and a dyslexic spelling bee champ. Now, it was time for
something new. I’d hoped that my relationship with Bert, whatever that
currently was, would give me the inside track.
“It was just force of habit. I was driving by and
saw the lights. Guess I’m still a reporter at heart. If there was enough for a
complete story, I could have covered it and sold the effort to my old editor.”
“So why didn’t you follow it up?” Bert asked.
“By the time I asked a few questions, I realized
two other stringers had beaten me to the punch. They must have heard the calls
on the scanner. I gave mine up when I wanted to focus on features.”
"Good for you. I never liked the idea of you
digging into the crime beat.”
“You meet some of the most interesting people that
way,” I said with a smile.
"Too bad some of those ‘interesting people’
are lacking in table manners.” Bert rocked slowly in his chair. He was as
comfortable in his surroundings as I am at home. “So, why are you here, Jay?
You want to take one of your many stepfathers out to lunch?”
"Technically, I only have two steps: you and
Renaldo. And I wouldn’t waste the price of a Whopper on him.”
Bert snorted his laugh again. “Renaldo. There’s a
joker I hadn’t thought about in years. Wasn’t he selling time shares or
something?”
I nodded. “Last we heard from him, he was working
on the ocean in South Carolina. Right before the hurricane ripped through.”
“I recall when you were fifteen and went through a
phase where you were going to be a vegetarian. That lasted until I was grilling
steaks.” He grinned at the memory and gave his head a slow shake. “Level with
me, Taffy Ass. Why are you here?”
“Taffy ass? I haven’t heard that in years. I keep
hoping you’d forgotten that by now.”
“Not on your life. That was one of the funniest
things I’ve ever seen.”
Maybe to him, but to me, it was one of my most
embarrassing moments ever. It happened when I was sixteen. There was a dance at
school and I had gone with a group of kids. It wasn’t an official date. But
Nicky Valenti had been very attentive that night. He bought me a Coke and a
slice of pizza. We shared a few slow dances. Nicky was a senior. All the girls
thought he was charming, with a sly smile and soulful brown eyes. I was junior.
He had borrowed the keys to a friend’s car.
On the way out to the parking lot to ‘look at the
stars’, he’d bought me a few pieces of taffy. I was young. I was naïve. I slid
them into the back pocket of my jeans. After an hour of passionate kissing in
the backseat of the car, we returned to the dance. The taffy had melted through
my pocket, staining my jeans, my underwear and my bottom. My face was as red as
my hair when I tried to explain it away to Vera. Bert didn’t believe a word of
the story I came up with that night, and had tagged me taffy ass. He only used
it in private and always with impeccable timing.
I couldn’t con him. He was far too sharp to accept
anything but the truth. “I’m working on a mystery. I finally sold a book. It’ll
be published in the spring.”
A wide smile split his face. “That’s great! Why
didn’t you tell me?”
I blushed at his enthusiasm. “I don’t want to jinx
it. Until I see the actual book in my hands, I keep thinking something will go
wrong. Like a bad blind date.”
.Jay, I’ve told you a hundred times, you’ve got
talent. I said that back when you were working on the paper in high school.”
Bert always encouraged me. It’s nice to see some
things never change.
“They offered me an advance on a second book, and
I want one of my key characters to be a patrol officer. I’d like to ride a
shift or two with a uniformed trooper."
"The state police force is not in the habit
of allowing civilians to patrol with a trooper. Your presence could interfere
with the performance of his duties." Bert was trying hard to keep the
twinkle out of his eye. For a moment, he almost had me fooled.
"Surely there must be exceptions to every
policy, Captain, even in police work." I tried to think of something to
bargain with.
He chuckled and stopped rocking. "Don’t get
formal on me, little girl. Remember, I’m the one who caught you climbing up the
trellis after curfew when you first discovered boys.”
“Hey, I was fifteen. And that’s ancient history,
like a dozen years ago.”
The twinkle was definitely there. “Sixteen. But
who’s counting. Anyway, I didn't say we wouldn't allow it. I'm just not so sure
it would be a good idea. Things are a little tense among the troopers, with the
governor spouting off about budget reform for the new fiscal year."
I knew what he meant. The latest political savior
had some unorthodox ideas on attempting to balance the state's budget. Radical
changes in the number of state troopers were only one of the methods currently
being considered.
"What are you suggesting, Bert?"
"Best time for you to witness would be a
daylight watch. Things aren't nearly as hectic as when the sun goes down."
I leaned forward, trying to read his expression.
Nothing. Even as a kid, I could never gain any insight from his face. "If
it's all the same to you, I'd much rather take an evening shift."
Bert shook his head and closed his eyes.
"You're not going to make this easy for me, are you, Jay?"
"C'mon, Bert, have a heart. I’m talking about
one shift, in the evening, with a regular trooper. Eight hours and I'm out of
your hair. And I’ll never mention to Vera that I saw you, or how good you
look."
It was a shot, but I knew deep down that he still cared about Vera,
despite her numerous faults.
He paused, studying me with those cool eyes. I
wish I could get a sense of what was going on behind them, but Bert still
wouldn’t give anything away. He’d tell me just enough when he was ready, and
not before. At length, he slowly shook his head as if clearing his thoughts.
"Such flattery. You’re a piece of work, Jamie
Rae.” He rocked again. “But I’d find it more amusing if you did mention it to
your mother.”
I hooked a thumb toward the rocking chair.
"Nerves?"
He nodded once. "My therapist recommended it.
Claims the relaxing motion of rocking could help me deal with the stress of the
job. It ain't all traffic tickets and parades, you know."
I pounced on his comment. "No, I don't know.
I only know the parts from the cases I’ve covered, which usually involved
detectives. Which is precisely why I want, no, make that why I need to
do this. So I can find out. It will make my story more realistic if I can show
some of the real incidents that happen to a cop on patrol. Authentic background
information is what I need for this book."
“Is there anyone not writing the Great American
Novel?”
“Writing it is one thing. Getting it published is
something else. C’mon, Bert. Say yes and I’ll be your Valentine.”
The face splitting smile returned. “I remember the
first time you pulled that.”
I came around the desk and planted a kiss on his
cheek. “And who always sends you a card on Valentine’s Day?”
“You do.”
“And Christmas, Father’s Day and your birthday?”
“You do.”
“And who’s your favorite stepdaughter?”
“You’re my only stepdaughter.”
“Doesn’t that make me your favorite?”
“I guess it does.”
“So you’ll set it up?”
"Oh, all right,” he said with just a hint of
disgust. “I’ll see to it. But if anything goes sour during the night, I'm
giving the trooper specific orders to dump your taffy ass at the post."
“So are we clear? Any problems and they drop you
at the post. Understood?”
I stood erect and snapped off a salute.
"Understood."
Bert rose to escort me out to the lobby. I pulled
a tissue out of my purse and carefully wiped the lipstick off his cheek. Bert
was always fast on his feet, able to identify a problem and come up with a
solution before I’d even finished speaking. I got the impression that I'd been
snookered. He stopped me just outside his office, gently squeezing my elbow.
“Why couldn’t you do something safe, like teaching or modeling?”
I looked down at my chest. "I couldn't make
it as a model. I'm lacking a few of the essentials.”
“Bull. Legs like those could sell stockings. Hell,
even I'd buy a pair." He gave me another brief hug then turned to go back
to work.
“They call it hose now, Bert, pantyhose.”
“Hey, I’m an old-fashioned guy. Besides, stockings
sound a whole lot sexier than hose.”
Here's a photo of what Jamie might look like.
Here are some links where you can find Devious.
A bit of traveling music from Steve Miller.
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