Detective Novel
Betrayal runs in private investigator Veronica
"Ronnie" Ingels' family. So, why is she surprised when her husband of
one year cheats on her? The real shock is his murder, with the local lawman
pegging her as the prime suspect.
Ronnie Ingels is a Brooklyn bred private
investigator who travels to west Texas, where her cheating husband is murdered.
As she hunts the killer to clear her name, she becomes the hunted.
Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes, a former Army
Ranger, is a man folks want on their side. Only he's not so sure at first, he's
on the meddling New York PI's side. As the evidence points away from her, he
realizes the more she butts in, the more danger she attracts to herself.
Interview...
TIP: Tell us something topical, interesting, funny, or something we would not expect about the writing of this novel.
Nike: HARMFUL INTENT started as a writing prompt which was supposed to end in a short story. The prompt was to take a character and put him/her into an uncomfortable circumstance. I believe in writing what you know and I know Brooklyn, NY. So, I created Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, a feisty, female Brooklyn PI and placed her in Abilene, TX. Then I have the handsome deputy sheriff, Dawson Hughes, suspect her of killing her cheating husband.
TIP: If this novel is part of a series, tell us about the series.
Nike: HARMFUL INTENT is the first novel in a series within a larger series. It's book one in the Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes three book detective series. That detective series is the first of four "couples series" that fall into a greater espionage series. There is a spy-master who runs Authorized Operations, a super-secret government organization contracting expert operatives such as Ronnie and Dawson. So, there are many more books to come. Right now this novel has been reduced to $1.99.
TIP: Do you write exclusively in one genre, or do you "cross-over" to other genres? What draws you to the genre(s) you write in?
Nike: I favor writing detective novels, and up until now that's what I've written. However, with this series I'm venturing into espionage and even into action-adventure. I think of it as Nancy Drew meets David Baldacci
Nike: The second book in this series which will soon release is DEADLY DESIGNS. Ronnie and Dawson are working squarely under the auspices of the spy-master and Authorized Operations. They're trying to rescue a seven-year-old whose kidnappers are terrorists.
EXCERPT:
Chapter One
Bay
Ridge, Brooklyn, NY
May,
Day One, Morning
Veronica
Ingels, Private Detective
I unstrapped the
banker's special Colt .22 from my ankle, then leaned against the bureau in the
one bedroom condo I shared with my husband, Mark.
Massaging my temples
did nothing for my whopper-headache. Infidelity surveillance. So many of the
bodies-in-the-buff I'd snapped shots of were much less impressive than might be
imagined. Awful way to make a living, but couldn't see myself doing anything
else. Catching the guilty party in the act had almost become a mission.
This past week,
the job that had me living out of a suitcase in a nondescript motel on Long
Island had been particularly icky. The sleazoid owner of a repo agency cheated
on his wife, my client. He, thought himself to be super macho, with this sandy
buzz-cut and a six pack pushing through his black silk-tee. He took one look at
the blond bombshell who thought she shouldn't have to make payments on her
Caddy, and... ahem... they'd made an arrangement.
Due to their total
disregard for modesty and all caution, the job ended several days ahead of
schedule. I dropped the incriminating photos off with my boss at the detective
agency. Thankfully, I didn't have to sit across a desk from the wife and show
the evidence to her. Well, it's what she'd paid for.
Earlier in the
morning, on my way home from the stakeout, the Southern State Parkway had made
like a parking lot. I maneuvered through stagnant, rush-hour traffic on my way
home, trying to erase the images of those two lowlifes in all their glory.
Sliding an Adele CD into the drive and turning the volume up had helped
somewhat.
Silence met me as
I opened the door to our condo. Mark's Sports
Illustrated magazine lay perfectly aligned with the corners of our rectangular,
glass coffee table. Right where Mr. Fastidious had set it before he left for
his speaking engagement.
I left the
suitcase in the entry way, tossed my keys on top of the magazine, and it slid
off the table with the keys and onto the floor. I left them, as Mark wouldn't
return for another two days. That was par for the course in a marriage with a
motivational speaker.
I usually begged
off on out-of-town assignments, but with Mark away, I had taken the
surveillance on Long Island. So why was my scowl mocking me in the mirror above
the bureau? "Okay, he's always on the road... so just suck it up."
After disregarding
package directions and downing four Extra Strength Excedrin, I picked up the
gold-framed wedding photo of Mark and me. There we were, on a glorious spring
day, locked in an embrace. Smiling, we gazed into each other's eyes on the
granite steps in front of the arched, red doors of my mother's church in Bay
Ridge, Brooklyn. My blond hair was in a French twist adorned with baby's
breath, not the high ponytail I threw it into for work. And, my dream dress...
a Battenberg lace sheath with a sweetheart neckline and a flutter train… had
transformed me into something elegant.
I did a quick
two-step with the photo clutched to my heart. One year later and it felt as if
we were still on our honeymoon. If only Mark didn't travel so much.
I pulled the Glock
pistol from my conceal and carry shoulder bag and took the clip out, opened our
closet, knelt and retrieved the gun lock-box from the far corner. Time to put
the weapons away and morph into my wifey
role. I'd make a trip to the supermarket and pick up a couple of steaks to have
on hand when Mark came home. Then a stop at Henry Schwartz Tobacconist for
Mark's favorite, a couple of Arturo Fuente Anejo cigars.
I was about to
unlock the box when I spied one of Mark's shirts crumpled in the opposite back
corner. It must have fallen off the hanger 'cause Mr. Neat would never have
dumped it there.
I snagged it off
the floor with the tip of my Glock, gave the garment a good shake, and was
about to return it to a hanger when I spotted deep-red lipstick on the collar.
My hand trembled. I wore soft pinks or muted pinkish-browns, if I bothered with
lip-color at all.
"No."
Deep in the reptilian part of my jaded private investigator's brain, I knew the
signs. I walked stiff-legged toward my bedside lamp and switched it on.
"Can't
be." I examined the shirt. Definitely lipstick and there was a heavy musky
scent as well. Not at all like my signature ocean-breeze cologne. I sniffed
again, willing it to smell like my light scent. No such luck!
I dropped the
Italian, custom tailored shirt on the floor and backed away as if it were a
viper about to strike. After taking several calming deep breaths, I reloaded
the Glock and shoved it back into my purse. With two swift steps, I swept the
Colt off the bureau and secured it in my ankle holster. I don't always carry
concealed, but in this instance, the weapons made me feel secure.
Rushing for the
door, I snatched my keys off the floor, kicked the magazine across the room as
if I were a quarterback, then struggled to keep my balance. I stumbled over the
silver, hard-sided weekender I'd lived out of during the infidelity
surveillance, and tumbled to the floor, skinning the heels of my hands on the
hardwood. In the process, my cell phone slid across the highly polished
flooring. I crawled after it.
It needed a
charge, but the call to my boss went through. I kept the details of my sad
story to a minimum, and he gave me a week off.
After squelching
the urge to scream, I grabbed the weekender, rushed out the door and took the
elevator down. My hands shook as I pulled my topaz-metallic Chevy Cruze Eco out
of the building's underground parking garage. Mark had said the car matched the
blue of my eyes. A tear ran down my cheek. I had to get away from here...
needed time to think.
I headed for the
airport.
Parking at JFK had
been a nightmare. Security queues were extremely long and TSA agents testy.
Flights were delayed due to a storm front moving toward the east from the
Midwest.
I stood at the
American Airlines ticket counter. "Yes, that's right. Veronica Ingels. The
return... um... make it one week from today."
"Certainly."
The young woman dressed in navy with a red and white scarf around her neck smiled
and in short order handed me my tickets and boarding pass.
"Excuse
me." I zigzagged through throngs of weary passengers on my way to the
women's room. A busty woman in black leggings and a zebra print tunic hurtled
past me on her way out of the lavatory. I sidestepped her, entered a stall, and
sat. I fished around inside my hard-sided weekender for the two portable gun
cases still in there from the surveillance job. I made sure my weapons were
unloaded, and locked them in the cases, then shoved them into my luggage and
closed it. I hurried to the counter to declare the weapons and sign the
necessary paperwork before boarding. TSA would take a hard look at my weekender
and it would be stowed in the hold. Wouldn't have to worry when I landed since
I was licensed to carry in Texas.
Just last week, my
best friend from college had said over the phone, "Come on down, honey,
any time. I've got the sweetest guest room overlookin' the pool." An offer
she'd made many times.
Of course, as per
usual, workaholic me begged off, citing a crushing load of cases at the agency.
However, if there ever was a time to take her up on her offer, this was it.
By this time my
cell phone had died, and I'd left my charger in my car in long-term parking. I
found a store on the concourse selling chargers, but the lines at the register
were so long I had to abandon that plan and run to board my plane.
The pilot battled
turbulence, advising us to keep our seat belts fastened, as we flew through
western storm clouds. I pulled out my pressed-powder compact and using its
mirror applied fresh lipstick, light pink. What I saw appalled me... a pasty
white pallor, dark circles under my eyes. Not surprising, as I was all but
ready to reach for a barf bag.
After changing
planes in D.C. and Dallas, hoping they didn't lose the stowed-bag with my
weapons, I arrived at my destination. Abilene.
"Good
evenin', ma'am." The clerk at the rental car counter smiled, drawing his
Texas twang out as if we had all the time in the world. That type of easy-going
attitude had New Yorkers virtually twitching when they went out of town.
I tried to mold my
lips into a smile. Hadn't eaten anything in hours, except peanuts, although the
flights had been so rough I probably couldn't have kept anything down. Focused?
I hardly knew the time zone, couldn't put two coherent thoughts together, and
wound up with what had to be the ugliest car on the lot, a lime green Smart
Coupe.
I threw my
weekender into the pint-sized trunk and in twenty minutes arrived at Cassidy's
Bridal Couture. The heavy glass door silently opened, and I stood in a gossamer
world of white. For the first time since leaving Brooklyn, I felt safe.
Rushing toward the
back, I made my way through an ocean of gowns, mostly bridal. Some
mother-of-the-bride, bridesmaids, and prom.
As I approached
the bridal veil display, I tripped over my own feet, disbelieving my eyes.
Mark held my
college BFF, Cassidy Renault, in his arms, his body pressed up against hers
with insistence, kissing her. Or, was he performing a tonsillectomy? When they
came up for air, he had a deep-red lipstick smudge at the corner of his lips.
I ducked behind a
rack of sale dresses, gasping for
breath.
"This won't
do, darlin'." Cassidy reached over, her talons matching the smudge on his
lips and snatched a tissue from a faux gold dispenser on the ornate highly
polished Louis XIV desk. She purred as she wiped his face.
I hurled myself in
their direction. No doubt, my body went into near spasms and conveyed all the
emotional turmoil coursing through me. Fear, anger, even self-loathing gnawed
at me.
"Ronnie, what
on earth are you doing here?"
Mark took a backward step and his voice registered shock, but not even a hint
of contrition.
"Me! I think
the better question is why did I find you here, Mark, with my so-called best
friend?"
Cassidy stepped
closer to my husband and held onto his arm. "Now, honey, I'm real sorry
you had to find out this way, truly I am. But since you have, you've got to
face facts."
I had heard
stories about ultra-feminine southern belles who were made of steel. Here stood
the woman I'd shared secrets with in college showing not a scintilla of
embarrassment. I waved a finger in that witch's face. "Don't you call me honey."
She pursed her
painted lips, looking like a red grouper. "Ronnie, nobody wants to hurt
you. You're lovely as the girl next door, but Mark has moved on."
It was a good
thing my weapons were locked in that stupid little car, because in that moment
I wanted to shoot them both through the heart with a single bullet. Truth be
told, my aim is that good.
Mark wrapped a
protective arm around Cassidy's shoulder. "Ronnie, I was going to talk to
you when I got home from this trip."
That explained why
his shirt with the lipstick stain had been left on the closet floor. He had no
reason to hide anymore. Maybe he wanted me to find it. "Oh, I see and just
what kind of motivational speaking have you been doing all this time?" My
voice dripped sarcasm.
He took a step
forward. "It's something you're just going to have to deal with, I'm afraid.
I'm asking for a divorce."
I pivoted, tripped
over my feet again, and this time knocked over the veil display. Took something
with yards of tulle halfway through the store before I shook it off. Tears
streaming down my face, I raced blindly out the door, probably looking like a
mad woman.
Like so many writers,
Nike Chillemi started writing at a very young age. She still has the Crayola,
fully illustrated book she penned (colored might be more accurate) as a little
girl about her then off-the-chart love of horses. Today, you might call her a
crime fictionista. Her passion is crime fiction. She likes her bad guys really
bad and her good guys smarter and better.
Nike is the founding
board member of the Grace Awards and is its Chair, a reader's choice awards for
excellence in Christian fiction. She has been a judge in the 2011, 2012, 2013,
and 2014 Carol Awards in the suspense, mystery, and romantic suspense
categories; and an Inspy Awards 2010 judge in the Suspense/Thriller/Mystery
category. Her four novel Sanctuary Point series, set in the mid-1940s has
finaled, won an award, and garnered critical acclaim. Her new contemporary
whodunit, HARMFUL INTENT released under the auspices of her own publishing
company, Crime Fictionista Press, won in the Grace Awards 2014
Mystery/Thriller/Romantic Suspense/Historic Suspense category. She has written
book reviews for The Christian Pulse online magazine. She is a member of
American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), Christian Indie Novelists, and John
3:16 Marketing Network.
Website: Nike Chillemi ~ Crime Fictionista
Amazon: HARMFUL INTENT
Amazon: Author Page
