We are delighted to be revealing the cover for Kimberly G. Giarratano’s Devil In Profile, which is the sequel to Death of a Dancing Queen and sees New Jersey P.I. Billie Levine finds herself at the forefront of a new crime adventure… perfect for fans of Veronica Mars and Serial.
Releasing on May 14th 2024 from Datura Books, Devil In Profile is available to pre-order from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop.org, so read on to discover the cover, synopsis, and even an excerpt!
Unlicensed P.I. Billie Levine is trying to bank some extra cash, so she picks up hours working as a process server for another investigative firm. Mindless and mostly 9 to 5, Billie is content to simply hand over court documents until during a routine stakeout, she stumbles upon the corpse of an elderly man, an art collector with ties to Nazi Germany.
Compared to Billie, the dead man has it easy. Billie is feeling on edge lately. Maybe it’s because her father is insisting his estranged kids come to his wedding in Sedona, or that David is making plans to move out, or that a smug teaching assistant is getting underfoot on her latest case.
Although, it’s possible she could use the help when the cops zero in on Billie’s boyfriend, Aaron, and his connections to an international art ring. Turns out, Aaron’s stint in Israel has left him with more than just a thick scar across his neck. The woman he screwed over wants revenge, and she’s determined to leverage Billie’s murder case to get it. With the detectives focused on Aaron, Billie sets her sights on stopping a killer who is tying up loose ends — Billie being one of them.
EXCERPT
CHAPTER SEVEN
Billie awoke to knocking on the car window and a woman blinking at her.
Dark hair in a messy bun. Olive skin. Lululemon leggings and a Patagonia jacket.
Recognizable face.
Fatima Mahmoud, Aaron’s new boss and Billie’s old classmate.
Fatima and Billie had never run in the same social circles, so it seemed weird that she should be outside Billie’s car, peering at her as if examining a lizard in an aquarium.
“Alive,” Fatima said cryptically to an even more recognizable face behind her – this one wearing a frown. Aaron.
Billie wiped drool from her mouth, lowered the window, and met a blast of cold air.
“What are you doing here?”
Fatima leaned over. “Making sure you’re not dead.”
“The hell you talking about?” Billie shifted her neck back and forth, trying to dislodge the soreness from having slept on it funny. How long was she out? She glanced above Fatima’s head to a salmon sky. A while if the sun’s descent was anything to go by.
“I was out for a run when I saw you in your car,” said Fatima, nodding at the Hyundai. “Not gonna lie – freaked me out. You looked unconscious.”
“You thought I was unconscious and so you called my boyfriend and not the paramedics?” Then to Aaron, she said, “How did you get here so fast?”
“I was already in the neighborhood.” His hands were thrust inside his jacket pockets. “I called you; you didn’t pick up.”
She checked her phone. Dead.
Gesturing to Fatima, Aaron said, “She had me worried.”
Nothing about this sounded likely, but Billie was too exhausted to argue. She could interrogate Aaron later, but for now, she grabbed the door handle. Fatima retreated a step to give Billie space to exit the vehicle and stretch her legs.
“It’s not safe to sleep in your car at night,” said Fatima.
“Says the girl jogging without a reflective vest,” Billie retorted. “Might I remind you both that this isn’t my first stakeout rodeo.”
“I don’t even know what that means.” Fatima held up her hands, having surrendered to the point. “I’m just trying to look out for another woman.” “Do you live in Elmwood Park?” asked Billie.
“Fair Lawn. What difference does that make?”
Billie waved that away as she glanced up. The streetlights popped on one by one. She then peeked around Fatima’s head to the exterior of Karl Sauer’s house. “Again, I appreciate the concern but – shit.”
Aaron whipped his head around. “What?”
Billie stabbed a finger at Karl’s door. “The sign fell. He must’ve come outside.” “Huh?” said Fatima as she squinted into the distance.
“I fucking missed him,” said Billie, nearly cringing at her own whininess. She reached into the open driver’s-side window and retrieved the papers she was supposed to serve him. When she turned back to Karl’s house, a figure darted out from behind the bushes. Covered in black from head to toe, he blinked at her from behind a ski mask and ran down the block, only to disappear around a corner.
Well, that couldn’t have been Karl. Men edging toward ninety did not sprint. “Did you see him?” she cried, pointing into the dark. “That guy running away?”
Fatima and Aaron shook their heads. Fatima’s gaze had been on the neighbor’s blinking Christmas lights while Aaron was staring at Billie.
“Nevermind,” said Billie. Her Spidey-sense tingled, and she made a beeline toward the house.
“Billie, no,” Aaron warned.
“I don’t like this,” Fatima nervously called from the street.
Billie ignored them both and swooped down to retrieve the handmade ‘No Solicitors’ sign that had fallen to the concrete step. She knocked loudly. “Mr Sauer?” No answer.
Again Aaron grumbled, “Fatima’s right; something is off.”
Her gaze was drawn to splintered wood alongside the door molding. Damage that hadn’t been there earlier. Something was definitely wrong. She reached for the knob, and it turned easily.
Aaron grabbed her elbow. “Bad feeling.”
“Should we call the police?” she asked. If there had been one guy fleeing the scene, maybe there was another still inside the house?
He hesitated. “Sure, let’s call the Bergen County Detectives Bureau and leave an anonymous tip right after we’re a safe distance from this place.”
But if Karl Sauer was inside, and he likely was, he could be hurt.
“I’m going in.” Billie shrugged off Aaron’s grip. Gingerly stepping over the threshold, she pushed the door wider, only to be met with an odor so foul it could rival the stench of Exit 13A on the New Jersey Turnpike. She stuck her head back outside and sucked in fresh air, desperately trying not to vomit.
“Jesus.” Aaron turned his face away and hacked. “Stay here.”
Unconvinced, Billie unwound her scarf and then tied it around her nose and mouth. She gave herself an internal pep talk. You can do this without hurling.
Sucking in a big breath of December air, she re-entered the house and nearly collided with a pile of moldy boxes that rose like a sentinel, blocking part of the foyer and the bottom of the stairs.
The living room was dark, the bay window covered up with canvases and framed prints.
Garbage bags sat on a sofa like walruses on a beachside cliff. Billie tried to maneuver down a tiny hallway carved out between see-through plastic bins filled with newspaper and old magazines. The smell grew stronger, even beneath her scarf. The fragrance of her Gain detergent wasn’t going to save her now.
She emerged into a tiny and dismal kitchen. Empty cans littered what Billie could only assume was the countertop. Dirty dishes piled high in a sink. Rusted pots and pans were left scattered on the stove, the remnants of cooked food engraved inside. Empty packaging tiled the floor.
Billie stifled a gag.
This house was the literal interpretation of the expression, ‘not enough room to swing a dead cat.’
Oh, God. Please don’t let me find a dead cat.
She shuffled toward a dining room packed with art books, figurines, acrylic paint, glassware and – Billie stopped. The stench had grown so powerful, her eyes watered. She had reached the epicenter.
Crouching slightly, Billie identified the fuzzy material of a loosely draped argyle sweater vest. Her eyes trailed down until they connected with shriveled hands, and then back up to a ghoulish gray skull with skin so thin and stretched, it was as if someone took a vacuum to the old man’s face and sucked out all his flesh.
Billie gasped before attempting to spin around. She stumbled back out the way she came, using the plastic bins as her guide, until she practically threw herself outside. She pushed down her scarf and puked up her guts.
So much for mantras.
When she righted herself, she found Aaron watching her, his expression unreadable. No, not unreadable, but blank as if none of this surprised him. Had he been so conditioned to the ghastly that watching his girlfriend puke up her lunch didn’t warrant a “what ya see in there?” Sirens wailed in the distance.
Aaron shifted uncomfortably. “I called the cops.”
She spit out remaining acid. “That was responsible of you.”
“I’m the most responsible,” he replied with a hint of humor, but his smile dropped the minute the flashing lights of a police cruiser cast shadows on his face. “Fatima split, by the way.”
“You could’ve split too,” she said to him as she wiped her mouth with a crumbled napkin she’d swiped earlier from one of her trips to Dunkin Donuts. “I would’ve handled it.”
“I have no doubt, but I’m not an asshole,” he said just as the officers exited their vehicle.
Something told Billie that even just being witnesses, they were going to pay dearly for this.
