Where's Jamie?

Last week I got a message from a friend who enjoys reading about the antics of my characters.  Along with a few other comments, she had one question. “Where’s Jamie?  It’s been a while since you’ve written about her.”

Well, that’s not entirely true.  Jamie had an integral role in the second Jefferson Chene mystery “Your Turn to Die”.  This seemed only fitting since Chene made his first appearance in print in “Vanishing Act” which is the second novel in the Jamie Richmond romance/mystery series.  In addition to the three individual books, Jamie also was the protagonist in “Stealing Haven” a short story about her summer vacation, set in South Haven, Michigan.

So it’s not like I’ve forgotten my stubborn redhead. She’s been reluctantly taking a backseat while I’m working on another project. It’s easy for me to picture her standing there, hands on her hips, impatiently tapping a foot with an indignant smirk on her face. When the current story is finished and I start working on her adventures, she will be muttering ‘about time’ in my ear.

As a writer, I strive to create memorable characters. I want them to be realistic, to share some of the challenges everyday people face. That makes them more believable. So when I have someone asking about her, as if she’s going to turn a corner and bump into Jamie, it makes me smile.

She must be real, right?

(Could this be Jamie?)

 

With the focus of today’s feature on Jamie, it seemed logical to start with her first appearance. Here’s an excerpt from “Devious”.

In this scene, Jamie has been riding along with Kleinschmidt, also known as Smitty, a state trooper on patrol. The intent was to do some research for a character in an upcoming book. At the beginning of the shift, she met Sergeant Malone.

We patrolled some of the surface streets for a while, delaying our return to the interstate. Kleinschmidt seemed restless. Maybe dinner hadn't agreed with him. If I devoured my meal that fast, my stomach would certainly revolt. We turned toward the approach ramp for the freeway and a pickup truck zoomed out of the dark, narrowly missing our front fender.

"What the hell was that?" Smitty snapped on the lights and the siren. The pickup was bathed in the red twirling light. The truck's color was a faded white, dotted along the fenders. Gradually it veered across the bridge for the interstate and eased over to the shoulder.

"Drunk driver?" I asked.

"It could be. Wait here." He glanced at me as he started to get out of the vehicle.  "And I mean it this time."

"Okay, okay."

 Smitty radioed in his location and climbed out of the patrol car. The spotlight mounted on his door was trained on the truck. Shadows filled the cab.

Kleinschmidt headed straight for the truck as the driver’s door swung open. There was no one else on the road. No traffic of any kind. This section of the city didn’t even have streetlights burning. This wasn’t a residential area. It was more commercial, with little factories, probably the type that supported the auto industry. Around metropolitan Detroit, a majority of the businesses relate to the automotive industry in one form or another.  Casually, I let my eyes drift over to the right, where the outline of a warehouse could just be seen beyond the cruiser’s spotlight. I was wondering if Smitty would give this person a warning or if his indigestion would result in a ticket.

 Suddenly, I saw a flash of light and heard a muffled bang. Smitty pitched onto his back, his right hand clawing feebly at his holster as a loud roar reached my ears. The door of the truck was still open, a brown arm extended beyond the edge of the spotlight. A gun was clutched in the gloved hand. I watched in horror as the trigger was pulled back for another shot.

Everything that happened next must have been instinct. Or maybe it was merely a reaction. Or dumb luck. Or the Force. Yeah, maybe it was the Force. I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure.

I reached across and pounded on the horn with one hand, flipping the buttons Smitty had used to activate the siren with the other. The sudden noise startled the driver.  His arm jerked back into the cab and the door slammed. Spraying stones and dust behind, the truck lurched onto the road and raced away.

Fumbling the microphone off the dash, I thumbed the button. "Kleinschmidt has been shot! Send an ambulance!" I dropped the microphone and managed to get my door open. The frame around the window clipped my forehead and knocked me back a step. 

I'd forgotten to turn off the siren and its wail was splitting my eardrums. “Idiot,” I muttered, “stay calm.”  This was easier to say than it ever was to do.

Reaching back inside, I switched the siren off then rushed around to the front of the car.  Smitty was lying on his back on the edge of the road. Blood soaked the gravel beneath him. His eyes were closed, but I could see his chest moving.

I dropped to my knees beside him. "You're going to be okay, Smitty. I called for help."

"Shot by a dog," he whispered. Kleinschmidt opened his eyes weakly. "First aid kit in the trunk. Stop the bleeding." His voice was fading so fast I had to press my ear above his mouth. I got a whiff of grilled onions. 

What if the truck came back?  What if they were waiting right now, just beyond the reach of the spotlight, waiting for me to get close so they could kill Smitty?  And kill the witness too? I cringed. They wouldn’t need to shoot us, just drive right over us with that truck. My imagination was running away with possibilities.

With a shake of my head, I chased such thoughts away. I ran back to the car. I dropped the keys three times after getting them out of the ignition before finally jamming the right one into the trunk lock. There was a white metal box with a red cross on it.  I lugged it back to Smitty and knelt beside him. Where the hell was that ambulance?

There were latex gloves inside the kit on top of all the equipment. I pulled them on and rummaged through the contents. I found some large sterile gauze pads and some medical tape. Somehow I managed to crudely tape the gauze to each side of his shoulder. The bullet had entered through a small hole just beneath the collarbone on his right side. The exit wound looked bigger than a golf ball. 

"You're going to be all right, Smitty." I don't know if I said this for his benefit or mine. 

He groaned and closed his eyes again.

I didn’t know what else to do. I’d called for help. I’d patched him up. There was no way I could move him. But I didn’t think I was supposed to anyway. I thought he was still breathing, but I wasn’t sure.  Closed eyes meant death. I was sure of it.

I rocked forward and slapped his cheek. Hard. "Don't you die on me!" I screamed.

His eyes fluttered open.

My limited medical knowledge flashed through my mind—coma, shock, heart attack, trauma, tonsillitis. I had no idea what else to do for him. Where were the professionals? They should have been here already!

My eyes kept flicking from Smitty’s face, to his wound, to the direction the truck had taken. Suddenly I heard the sound of a siren. Then another joined in. I swiveled my head, trying to find them. Another groan escaped Smitty’s lips. My eyes searched his body for signs of life. I thought it was too late.

The siren sounded close now. I glanced up as the ambulance and another patrol car arrived.

"What the hell took you guys so long?" I shouted as they rushed to us. The paramedics rudely pushed me aside and bent over Smitty. I was about to kick one guy squarely in the ass when someone grabbed me from behind and lifted me off the ground. I was carried back to Smitty's car, struggling all the way. Finally, they sat me down on the hood.  My eyes focused and I recognized Sergeant Malone.

"Relax, Jamie. Let the paramedics do their job."

I was exasperated. How could he be so calm when one of his own men lay there wounded?  "He could be dead by now, Malone. He's been lying there bleeding for over an hour."     

"It hasn't been an hour. It's only been three minutes." Malone tried to smile but it never reached his eyes.

"Three minutes?"

"Three minutes. Your call came in two minutes after Smitty radioed in his position. His report was logged in at ten-fourteen. Your call was at ten-sixteen. It's now ten-nineteen."

"Three minutes?" I repeated.

"That's all, Jamie." Malone pointed over my shoulder to the ambulance. They were already loading Smitty into the back of the wagon. One of the medics waved at Malone, flashing a thumbs up signal.  Malone returned the gesture.

"He's okay?" 

"He's not going to die. Kleinschmidt's damn lucky you were riding with him tonight. Help might not have gotten here so quickly if it weren't for you." We watched the ambulance race away, sirens wailing. The hospital was two miles up the road.

"It all happened so fast."

Buy Links:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B017Y9XMHC

https://books.apple.com/us/book/devious/id1059428211

 

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/devious-8

Music this week comes from Willie Nelson.

https://youtu.be/yoPYQ-FmQB4 

Update: The Movie

Last week I wrote about the competition on TaleFlick to generate interest in turning “Why 319?” into a movie. Turns out that over 30 novels were up for consideration, in a wide variety of genres. One book received more than 2,000 votes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t mine.  If you voted for it, thanks for the support.  I knew it was a long shot, but as Wayne Gretzky once said ‘I miss 100% of the shots I don’t take.’

Yet I found the experience interesting nonetheless. I’ve had a few opportunities in the past when discussing my novels about who would be cast in the different roles.  That sounds like a potential drinking game, where a group of authors and readers gather in a bar and play casting agent, trying to put together the best all-star cast for the big production.

Maybe this experiment will lead more people to pick up a copy of “Why 319?” in whatever format appeals to them (e-book, print or audio book) and give it a try.  They may be pleasantly surprised at the twists and turns, the characters involved and the story itself.

Meanwhile, it’s back to the keyboard.  There are characters and conflicts and stories to tell. 

Since “Why 319?” has been on my mind this week, here’s an excerpt from that story.  One of the key relationships here is between Chene and Detective Megan McDonald.  In this scene they take a break from the first day’s work on the case to grab a meal.

Megan was already at a booth in the corner by the time I got to Sharkey’s. Squeezed in beside her was a man in his fifties. He had a full head of wavy silver hair that still showed faint traces of blond and a neatly trimmed goatee. Blue eyes sparkled beneath his bushy brows. Although a couple inches shorter than Megan’s five six, he appeared physically fit and ready to take on the world. Megan was laughing at some comment he made when I sat on the opposite bench.

“She’s a bit young for you, old timer.”

“Nonsense, she’s over the age of consent. A beautiful woman is always fair game for the art of romance. Just look at her! Those luscious curves, that flirtatious smile, the wavy blonde hair…What man in his right mind wouldn’t want to flirt with her?” His voice was low and husky from too many cigarettes and too much scotch.

“Try romancing me, old man, and you’ll end up in the hospital,” Megan said with an affectionate grin.

He turned his attention to me. “You look like hell, Jeff. Is the insomnia still knocking you down?”

“Yeah, Ted. I figured a meal here and some of your scintillating conversation would put anyone to sleep.”

He wiggled a thick finger at me. “You better respect your elders, or I’ll report you to the nuns.” Then he shifted his gaze back to Megan. “And that goes for you, too. I’ve got enough dirt on the two of you to send those penguins to an early mass grave.”

“How about bringing us some food, old man?” I asked, trying my best to change the subject.

“It’s a lousy night. Cold, damp rain all day long, you need something hot, something filling.” He winked at Megan. “You trust me?”

“Occasionally.”

Ted considered it for a beat, then smiled broadly, a lecherous gleam in his eyes. “Hell, that’s better than I usually get. Leave it to me.”

With that, he slid out of the booth and headed for the kitchen. In less than a minute, one of the wait staff returned with two steaming bowls of Italian wedding soup and a bottle of Riesling. Until the food was in front of me, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Megan tasted it, then closed her eyes and sighed contentedly. “God, he can be a nuisance, but I really love that man.”

“Quickest way to get rid of Ted is to mention love.”

She shook her head. “We both know better than that.”

We ate the rest of the meal in silence. After the soup, we had mushroom caps stuffed with crab meat, then grilled scallops in lime sauce. I didn’t remember drinking the wine, but the bottle was empty as we finished eating. Megan ordered coffee and sat there watching me savor the last few ounces of wine.

“How many years have you known Ted now?”

I did the math. “Sixteen. It was in the summer.”

“Yeah, back when you were a badass street kid, living the life of crime.” A wide smile split her face and she rocked back and forth in her seat. “Until you got busted by that old man.”

“He wasn’t that old back then. And he could move pretty quickly.”

She shook her head slowly. “Good thing I’m the only one who knows this story. Guys like Kozlowski would never let you live it down.”

Megan and I attended the same elementary and high school. She was the first person to befriend me, and we’d been close ever since the third grade.

“You think Koz never committed a crime when he was a kid?”

A condescending look crossed her face. “I’m not talking about the crime. I’m talking about getting caught.”

She could be so annoying when she wanted to be. I ignored her.

“You really should go get some rest, Chene. We’ll probably be on the run most of the day. How do you want to begin?”

“We’ll start with the Warren detectives. Then I want to go back to the scene, even though it is a month old. Let’s see if we can view the room, maybe talk to the staff and get a feel for the layout of the place. Then we’ll move on to the family and friend interviews. Monday, we’ll start with the employer, coworkers, and contacts.”

Megan drained her coffee, then checked her watch. She raised her eyebrows at me, her face bearing a quizzical expression.

“You got a date?”

“Sort of. We talked about meeting in an hour.”

“And?”

“And I’d like to go home, freshen up, put on something frilly, a splash or two of perfume, and go jump his bones.” She batted her lashes at me and tried to appear innocent. It didn’t work.

“You’re such a romantic. You realize that’s a lot more information than I need.”

She slid from the booth and grabbed her jacket. “I’m just trying to give you ideas, Chene.” With that, she leaned over and gave me a sisterly kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be at the squad by eight. Thank Ted for dinner.”

Just that quickly she was out the door, leaving me with a lecherous old saloon keeper and the dregs of the wine.

Buy Links

https://www.amazon.com/dp/150921450X

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077ST97XZ

https://books.apple.com/us/book/why-319/id1222126642

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/why-319-2

Music this week comes from James Brown.

https://youtu.be/2ATmDmLAMWw