THE DEADLY BUDDHA--Kate Conway Thriller No. 2 is available now on Amazon

Trapped into writing the life-story of an Oscar-winning Welsh heart-throb, investigative reporter Kate Conway can’t avoid falling in love with the guy—despite discovering the ghastly truth about his conniving mother and her diabolical lover in their quest for The Golden Buddha of Anyang.

Will Kate and her father unearth the final piece of evidence before the Malibu wedding?

THE DEADLY BUDDHA has museums filled with intrigue, swimming pools filled with temptation, a Welsh city filled with disappearing witnesses, crazed helicopter rides—and a 16-year-old Chinese charmer named Zookie, whose sensual body hides the secret of where the billion-dollar Buddha is buried.

CALL A MEETING

When my first novel started to drag I decided to call a meeting. Things were bogged down and I wasn’t sure why. So I sat the major characters down at an imaginary table and asked them what I should do to kick start The Lion and the Eagle, my novel about the Revolutionary War.

The villain was the loudest. Colonel Shrewsbury wanted more page time. He was madly in love with the heroine and wanted a longer love scene. He also wanted me to spend more time in portraying his good side—the love he held for his scullery maid mother banished from the Royal Castle following the episode in the broom closet with the King.

The hero was nice about it. Oliver Morrison  told me he wanted to grow up much faster so we could see and feel more of his hatred for Shrewsbury for killing his mother at the church picnic when he was seven.  He wanted to make sure Emily, the heroine, was at the picnic so she’d be a witness to the cross he carried (literally) after his mother’s death.

Emily was the boldest. She said if she was conflicted by her love of two men she wanted to come out of it with flying colors. She wanted a visible reminder of her rejection of Shrewsbury just before the story’s violent end. When she gallantly suggested he carve his initials in her left breast, how could I refuse?   

We all get stuck now and then.  And we all have our special ways of digging out. Whether it was brilliant or naïve, it worked back then and it still works today.

A Novel About The Korean War?

I was working on my sixth novel and had just finished a single chapter detailing the major character’s being sent to Korea while serving in the U.S. Army. I did this with the full realization of what a friend had told me some years earlier.

He had written a whole novel about the war and had landed an agent who was having a hard time finding a publisher. Finally my friend got his first real clue as to the problem when his manuscript came back for the last time. Atop the submission letter written by his agent were just three words signed cryptically by the latest publisher to reject it.

"Sorry, wrong war."

Huh?  All I could think about was Richard Condon’s THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE, James Michener’s THE BRIDGES OF TOKO-RI, and, more recently, James Brady’s THE BOYS OF AUGUST.

But I was forced to realize that publishers can have prejudices even when it comes to wars and that unpublished novelists have no choice but to pay attention—at least until either we gain the clout that comes with being published or the ability to be cunningly brilliant. 

Kate Walbert in THE GARDENS OF KYOTO deftly weaves a spell about a romance that takes place in the mid-1950s while citing a single but graphic incident during the war in Korea. Her writing and the mood it creates is absolutely intoxicating. I keep the novel handy for inspiration.

And I’m keeping alive my own major character’s experience during the Korean War. All I did was add the scene where his best friend was riddled by enemy machine gun bullets and died in his arms.

THAT THING CALLED MAGIC

A friend asked me recently to name my favorite book and for the hundredth time I felt a shiver of apology as I reluctantly muttered the words, The Great Gatsby.

Why the apology? I don’t really know.

All I do know is that I’ve never been able to find a book the equal of Gatsby when it came to that thing called magic—the ability of a book to rise above its covers and embrace you in a way you may never understand but will never forget.

It’s more than character, more than plot. Like so many things in life, it doesn’t have to be explained. It’s either there or it isn’t—in the characters, the plot, the location, the mood, the period, the style—all the elements working together, magically.

Thousands of authors have tried to capture the magic of Gatsby in their novels. Hunter Thompson is said to have typed out the entire novel on a typewriter in hopes of improving his writing style.

Magic like Gatsby is not transferable. You have to create your own.

Movies have spent millions trying to recreate Gatsby. Robert Redford tried to be Gatsby but he wound up being Robert Redford trying to be Gatsby. The magic wasn’t there.

Leonardo DiCaprio is giving Gatsby his best shot in a movie coming our way soon, and I wish him well. His Gatsby may be a tremendous critical and box office success. But magic like Gatsby is not for sale and it’s not transferable.

It’s just plain magic, period.

Who is Kate Conway? I am!

My name is Kate Conway and I’m an investigative reporter for a serious New York monthly magazine named Clarion.

I would like to make it clear right away that nothing makes my day happier than putting CEOs in jail or in the grave by exposing wild and wicked crimes in the highest and often strangest of places.

Some people say I am driven. But it’s much simpler than that. I believe the world would be a much better place if people knew the truth about things. And that’s why I fight corruption and evil and lying and deceit and anything that falls short of the truth.

I live in Greenwich Village and I own a Mazda Miata painted bright red and a cat named Spats. My father is a retired member of the NYPD with a bullet (also retired) in his right lung—and he proves quite handy now and then.

When it comes to men I’ve had my ups and downs. Although I have these horrible freckles over my face and arms and chest, my father’s side of the family also chose to endow me with fiery-red Irish hair and eyes that smile a certain way. When these elements join with my no-nonsense personality I seem to wind up in one high-octane relationship after another.

But while I have your attention let me assure you that I would never allow anything like sex to interfere with tracking down high-profile scumbags. It just makes things more entertaining for both of us.

The Mounting Storm is the first of three thrillers with yours truly as the female protagonist. So stick around—we're just getting started.

Read This Sample Chapter from "The Mounting Storm"

KATE SAT ALONE AT THE BAR, annoyed that Winston had not arrived first. She was passionate in her hatred of having to wait for anyone, anywhere, even if it was Winston’s invitation and Winston’s restaurant and Winston’s table. She hated power games of any kind, especially the one called Keeping the Other Person Waiting.

She’d been awake since shortly after two this morning—when she received the frantic call from Freddie. She immediately phoned her father, who told her to double lock her doors and not leave the house until he called back.

When Paul called again he said he’d alerted the inspector in charge of the Hate Crimes Task Force, his African-American friend Harlan Sprague. They’d shot up to Freddie’s apartment and had things under control.

They’d sent Freddie to visit his Aunt at her summer residence in Saratoga Springs with instructions not to return until Sprague said it was safe.

Kate glanced at her face in the mirror behind the bar. The black and blue mark had receded in size and morphed into a more artistic yellow and green. She’d covered it partially with a paisley scarf and teased her Irish red hair into ringlets that covered the rest.

But she wasn’t going to wear her designer shades. She wanted to be able to see Winston, study his sad, gray eyes—and let him gaze at the look of professional dedication in her green eyes. It was strictly business, nothing more she’d convinced herself.

When Winston arrived ten minutes late, he pushed through the crowd and headed directly for her, nodding to several friends along the way instead of pausing to chat. He apologized and she took his arm and let him lead her to his table in the front room.

He ordered half a dozen appetizers to share along with a sirloin salad for each and a bottle of Merlot from a small French vineyard. Kate saw him glance at the forehead, but noted with appreciation his reluctance to say anything unless she brought it up.

Kate was certain Frank Beasley would have clued Winston in on the ‘accident’—the same way Frank kept Kate in the loop on office politics.

Winston complimented her again on the award while Kate agreed he was absolutely right in his belief that her piece on the White Slave Trade, even though the headline rang with supermarket tabloid horror, was the stronger story.

Reeking of middle class suburban fear, it had propelled Long Island’s locksmith industry to a new level of prosperity. Shades of the National Enquirer or not, who was going to argue with someone determined to give you a pat on the back and honor you with another award? Then she decided to get down to business.

“Is WinCom going to buy Clarion and fire all of us?” she asked.

He laughed. He had been expecting the question, but not with the express train urgency she gave it. Seeing the smile in her eyes, he relaxed.

“Frank Beasley and I were Skull & Bones at Yale, and we both flew choppers in the Guard. He made it clear I can trust you,” Winston said, looking around the room and lowering his voice.

“It happens to be true we are in the middle of serious negotiations,” he went on. “Let’s just say that when the time comes we want the machinery to be oiled and ready to rock and roll.”

He saw the worry return to her face. “I wouldn’t be concerned if I were you,” he said. “Even before you won the Maggie my people told me you were their bright and shining star. You’re the franchise player, Kate—no doubt about it.”

“Oh, thank you, kind sir, for allowing me to live,” she said, pushing back her Irish red hair and drilling him with her eyes.

“But in my role as investigative reporter I am forced to ask how you expect to reconcile WinCom’s right-wing, take-no-prisoners politics with Clarion’s progressive and very human attitude toward the world? Be honest, Winston—will your father be running the show?”

He looked offended. “I’ve been given free reign along with a blank check. My goal is to expand WinCom’s circulation base by broadening our viewpoint. And I want to begin the experiment where it will be felt the most—with a small but gutsy magazine like Clarion.”

She had expected her question to strike a nerve but found his answer hard to believe. Wishing to show mercy, she flashed a quick smile and changed the subject.

“I love the way you financial guys boost careers and snuff them out just by snapping your fingers or pressing a key on a calculator,” she said.

“Get used to it,” he said. “It’s the new American way of life. Survival of the fittest, profit-wise.”

A long pause. As if by a signal, they both looked down at their plates and took a few bites. She was finding him an obnoxious bore.

Whether liberal or conservative, she detested blabbermouth success stories from second-generation know-it-alls, people who inherit thriving businesses, almost always men who waltzed to success on the battered shoulders of enterprising fathers willing to risk it all.

She was looking at one.

Burdening him with this handicap helped make up for the fact that she found him so devastatingly attractive. The muscular build. The soft vulnerability in his eyes. The Brad Pitt stubble of beard. The deft and sure movements. A height that forced her eyes to tilt slightly up to meet his. A face chiseled like a Greek god. And at almost twenty years her senior, the perfect age.

In addition to all this was the fact he had gobs of money and a certain style to go with his charming manners. That’s it, she decided. He was a charming prick.

“Of course,” he said, looking up from his sirloin salad, “we would want to maximize our chances of making a profit.”

She pointed at him with her fork. “What do you mean by that?” she said. “Charge admission to see the writers burned at the stake?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “We would want to look at repositioning the magazine. Ratchet it up or down half a notch. Or maybe sideways to take in more circulation.”

“I always thought we were right where we belong,” she persisted. “Halfway between the Harpers-Atlantic Monthly crowd and Vanity Fair. Or maybe a better way to describe us would be Vanity Fair without all that glossy celebrity hype.”

“Which wouldn’t leave much,” he said, dipping a roll in olive oil.

She wondered whether to scream, cry, or submit her resignation. But then something came over the handsome Scrooge.

“Look, Kate,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I didn’t mean to ask you to dinner to talk about how to save a venerable, old magazine from the scrap heap. Sure this is a business we’re in. But the only ideas worth putting major bucks behind are the bold and new ideas.”

He turned to her, a certain desperation in his eyes. “If you have any ideas—please, I’d love to hear them.”

It was the moment she’d been waiting for ever since her lunch with Frank Beasley.

Without taking her eyes from Winston’s, she reached into her bag and pulled out her trusty Magic Marker. She pushed the dishes and glasses aside and, as the couple at the next table turned to watch, began drawing.

She drew a large rectangle and in it put a circle that touched the edges. In the circle she put two eyes, a nose and a mouth. At the top she wrote in large letters the word FACES. She scribbled thick black scrolls where the headlines and subheads would be.

She explained the concept of an ‘idea’ magazine, thought-provoking but with lavish color photographs shot by Annie Liebovitz. It would have the feeling of class that you got from Town and Country, the sensuality that came from Vanity Fair, the substance and satirical bite of The New Yorker.

The ideas would come from anyone, not just celebrities or famous people or people who had made it.

They would come from people who had ideas for improving things that needed improving. Getting a grip on crime, poverty, and hunger. Exposing dishonesty and hypocrisy in politics and business. Dealing with the truth about racial injustice, drunk drivers, education, AIDS, rapists, the environment, stock market fraud, pornography, Hollywood, advertising, fashion, world peace.

But there would be one big difference from the forest of important magazines you always felt you had to read but seldom did.

You would have to read FACES.

It would have the zeal of Mother Jones but with a more profound and meaningful thrust. It would have the exuberance of Andy Warhol’s Interview Magazine but with more depth and meaning. It would be the coffee table magazine that never made it to the coffee table. It would be quoted more than any other magazine.

It would be the ‘in’ read and not just another slick with the annual list of the top twenty or fifty or one hundred movers and shakers—the old “people to watch” hooey that every magazine seemed to be doing and which made everyone look like they had paid to get mentioned, which in many cases they had.

And, yes, it would have advertising—beautiful, rich four-color sections and spreads and pull-outs for gorgeous furs, for expensive cars, for diamonds, for travel and resorts, for exotic foods, for cosmetics, for beautiful designer clothes—because if you were an advertiser you would simply have to be in FACES.

When she finished, Winston looked up at the ceiling for a moment that was so long she found herself looking up with him. Finally, he lowered his eyes and gazed steadily into hers.

“I’m having a few guests out to my place in the Hamptons for the holiday weekend. I would like you to be among them.”

Kate absolutely despised the Hamptons, the phoniness, the money, the rivalries, the conspicuous display of worldly goods whether they be real estate, cars, clothes, jewelry, or even the children whose parents seemed determined to go the distance for the title of MKIBSBTYK—My Kid Is A Bigger Spoiled Brat Than Your Kid.

The Hamptons were the perfect marriage of Big Money and Bad Manners. She much preferred the laid back quality of upstate New York or the Berkshires or even the saner parts of Cape Cod.

She looked at him before answering, digesting all over again his coolness, his incredible confidence, his mastery at what he does, his extremely good looks. And his eyes, those wonderful gray eyes with their look of sadness.

“Yes, I’ll come,” she said. “I love the Hamptons.”

On the way out, he handed her a box he had checked upon arriving. It was wrapped in gold foil and tied with a ribbon. He told her not to open it until she got home.

After hailing a cab and helping her inside, he apologized through the open window for neglecting to compliment her until now on the pants suit she was wearing.

It was black, of course.

"The Mounting Storm"--the First Kate Conway Novel in a Nutshell.

Nothing will stop investigative reporter Kate Conway when she begins to suspect that America’s powerful media czar, the brazen Stirling Winship, is not the British-born Cambridge graduate he claims to be. While tracking down a stolen Claude Monet masterpiece, Kate uncovers one grim deed after another in the tyrant’s rise to power—while unexpectedly falling in love with the man’s son.

Will her torrid relationship with the man of her dreams survive when the ultimate truth regarding the father’s past explodes in a deed that traumatizes an entire city? Will Kate pry open the horror of the deception before it’s too late? It’s all here—in the heart-stopping pages of The Mounting Storm—the lightning-fast chronicle of dark and sinister doings that thriller lovers have been waiting for.

--From the jacket copy of The Mounting Storm, the first in the series of Kate Conway thrillers.