THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK. Chapter One: What a way to meet!

THE SHRIEK OF BRAKES. A crunch of metal. An ugly thud followed by screams and shouts. The sounds stopped me cold. It was as if two tons of Detroit steel had smashed head-on into my own body.

Yet how could this be?—I’m nineteen stories above the crash scene and still rubbing my eyes at waking up in this awesome glass complex revered by architects and planners the world over as Walden Park.

I moved quickly to the terrace railing of my sister’s penthouse suite. Staring down and across the plaza to the intersection, I spotted the body sprawled in the crosswalk and wondered if it could be that of the kindly older lady who had introduced herself minutes earlier. She wanted to help pick up the bag of groceries that spilled when I tripped on the doorstep.

A long shot, for sure. But the odds were shortened by the aroma of her perfume still caressing my nostrils and the memory of those eyes twinkling at mine through the bangs of snowy white hair that had drooped down and across her forehead.

I couldn’t tell from this distance. But when I spotted something yellow at the victim’s feet, I winced. Holy Jesus—the color was the same as the umbrella my next door neighbor, Mrs. Traymore, had placed aside as she kneeled down to help.

Seconds later I was out the door and in the elevator, and when it arrived at the ground floor I bolted through the lobby and raced across the plaza, hoping every inch of the way I wouldn’t be seeing the last of my new friend. The haze of sudden tragedy hung over the area with people milling about, shock turning to anger, fingers stabbing at the roadway heading north.

I pushed my way through the crowd to a man in a suit kneeling beside the body. He was holding a limp hand but at the same time shaking his head. A voice behind me said he was a doctor.

A jogging jacket had been thrown over the victim’s chest but one look at the face with the blood spattered across the wrinkles, the mouth hanging open and the eyes closed tight, was all I needed to realize my new friend from PH-3 hadn’t made it.

Emergency vehicles arrived and soon the whole area swarmed with firemen, cops, and ambulance guys. The yellow umbrella was lying at my feet. I picked it up, wondering what I should do with it when I felt this weight pressing against my shoulder.

“Excuse me but would you please hold me in your arms for a moment before I collapse and make a complete fool of myself,” the voice pleaded as a woman leaned solidly into me.

Hey, back off, Lady, I wanted to say, along with That’s my neighbor sprawled dead at our feet and this is hardly the time to be socializing. But I hesitated, wanting to get a closer look at her.

The woman was tall and thin with full, wide lips and soft brown eyes and in her knockout of a business suit looked ready for a magazine cover. Then I noticed the tears. They were gushing down cheeks drained of color. Her mouth fell open, as if wanting to reply to my look of suspicion, but too late—her eyes closed and she swayed slightly to one side.

I caught her and pulled her into my surprised but willing arms. This classy woman had fainted dead away. I held her tight for a long moment until I felt her coming around.

“Easy does it,” I whispered in her ear. “Take it easy.”

Something about her was beginning to seem familiar and that was when I remembered the photo in my sister’s apartment. “Wait a minute—could you be my sister Cindy’s friend?” I asked, loosening my grip ever so slightly. “You’re Lacey Ferguson, aren’t you?”

Her head moved back as she studied my face. “Good Heavens—you have to be Tom Ramsey—and I am so embarrassed. Abigail and I were on our way to a meeting with these important people who—”

But the sentence stammered to a close as Lacey choked on her sobs. The tears were lady-like but they were tears nonetheless.

We were getting wet from the rain. I opened the umbrella and led her to a bench where we could sit down. I put an arm around her shoulder and again huddled her tight against me. It must have helped because her words steadied, overcoming the sobs.

“Miss Traymore was our neighbor,” she began. “We were crossing the street together and Abigail was lagging behind, trying to find something in that chic alligator portfolio she can’t be without.” Lacey paused, glancing over at the body and then up at me.

“I heard the roar of the van,” she went on—“like it was speeding up. It was white and unmarked and sideswiped this other car that tried to brake. It hit poor Abigail, dear God, it plowed into her with this God-awful thud. We all yelled for the driver to stop. But the cowardly little prick just kept going.”

The rain was coming down steadily now. I held the umbrella over both of us with one hand while the other comforted the head pressed against my sweatshirt. My sister had told me how outspokenly sharp her neighbor Lacey was, managing the division of a company engaged in marketing a new breed of personal computer small enough to fit on an office desk. Cindy said she was thinking of buying one for her apartment.

“I still can’t believe what happened,” Lacey said, as I handed her a fresh Kleenex. “Tootsie was an absolute angel.”

“Tootsie?”

“Abigail Traymore. She insisted your sister and I call her Tootsie.”

“Tootsie and I met this morning,” I said, explaining how the grocery bag split when I got off the elevator and misjudged the short series of steps to the entrance. “Such a sweetheart—I was going to knock on her door with a bouquet of roses. Now it looks like I’ll be placing them on her grave.”

This drew a smile from Lacey. “We’ve all been expecting you, Tom,” she said. “Cindy had shown me your photo a dozen times—she and I simply adored Tootsie. This sure is a terrible way of greeting our newest visitor, especially after all you’ve been through.”

Before running off to London for six weeks, Cindy had insisted I take over her place and unwind with some much-needed R and R after my long and bloody assignment in Cambodia.

I’d seen plenty of blood as a platoon leader in Korea and on the police beat for my newspaper but the horror of seeing children with their arms and legs hacked off by machetes, their mothers gang raped with breasts slashed, the men disemboweled and left for the tigers and snakes—it got to me!

It made me realize I had to make changes in my own life—growing up and coming to grips with things that I used to laugh at or ignore.

Lacey sat up. Someone had pointed in our direction and a burly motorcycle guy in a blue uniform and black boots came over with his pad out and began writing down Lacey’s name and address.

“Did you see the driver’s face?” he asked, without looking up.

“I tried—his head was turned the other way,” Lacey said.

“Did you see the license plate?”

“It happened so fast, officer. Surely someone did.”

The officer shook his head. “Looks like he got clean away,” he said. “But we’ll keep trying. Sometimes people wait a while before coming forward.” He asked Lacey to be available for further questioning if necessary.

We all heard the shout—“Hey, Burnett, get a load of this.” It came from a guy in an orange vest on his hands and knees staring at something in the gutter. The officer snapped his pad shut and we followed him.

“You won’t believe this,” the guy in the vest said.

The three of us bent over and stared. Staring back at us were two pairs of tiny eyes belonging to a bride and groom sitting atop the remains of a wedding cake. Both looked surprised and helpless as they sank into the mash of white icing and yellow doughy texture. The whole thing was in a white box with a tire print on the edge.

The officer scratched his head and squinted. “What’s this supposed to be? Someone getting married?”
He turned to Lacey. “Was your friend getting married by any chance?”

“Good Heavens, no,” Lacey said. “That was ages ago—she was divorced.”

“It was just lying there,” the man in the vest said. “What the Hell should we do—eat it?” Officer Burnett shrugged. “Bag it and take it in.”

I walked Lacey back to the bench and sat next to her. Someone was giving the officer what must have been the first real clue: the van was a brand new Ford—a 1983 Econoline.

We watched as two men in white jackets came up and gently slid the body onto the gurney along with Tootsie’s purse and alligator portfolio and wheeled it to the ambulance.

Burnett explained they would take her to the coroner’s and await word from family members about the funeral arrangements. As the door slammed shut and the vehicle merged into traffic, Lacey rose from the bench and the tears started gushing again.

“Goodbye, Tootsie dear,” she bawled, throwing a kiss before turning back to me and wiping her eyes.

“If she were going to the hospital, Tom, she’d expect me to bring a pitcher of martinis. But now it’s too late. Can you believe it? Our beloved Tootsie—dead?

I steadied Lacey and walked her back to the building, holding the umbrella over her as the rain started pelting down. On the ride up in the elevator she told me how she and her husband wanted to have me over for dinner, but that this obviously wasn’t a good time.

I certainly agreed, telling her I had all the time in the world before easing into my assignment—and the City that had chosen to welcome me in such a morbid way.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked as we parted at her doorway.

She nodded. “And thanks. Tom, for keeping me afloat back there,” she said. “Your sister will be impressed. When I call about Tootsie I’m going to mention how you took such good care of your new neighbor.”

THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK. Cross my heart

Cross my heart and swear on my father’s Ellery Queen collection.  THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK has just been published and is now available through Amazon Books. And I most humbly and sincerely believe I’ve unleashed a thriller with a plot that’s going to turn some heads. 

It’s 30 years ago and a newspaper reporter visiting Philadelphia accidentally discovers the secret love affair between the City’s leading architect and a movie star who left years earlier to marry into royalty.  When the Princess returns the affair is rekindled, blazing with a beauty and resolve that threatens the international establishment. 

But the City has a weird and fearful side and lurking in its shadows is the Wedding Cake Killer, who doesn’t appreciate anyone messing with the marriage oath. 

In crafting THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK  I envisioned a thriller that combined  agonizing suspense with a heavy dose of romance.  Then I added a thin veil of fantasy to leave a lover of mysteries guessing right up to the end—and hopefully eager for more. 

Amazon Books. THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK  by William Thompson Ong. Look me up.

The line at the newspaper kiosk

I remember first hearing about it.

I remember those long three days that followed, watching the TV spellbound, even those who still thought TV was beneath us.

I remember the pictures of the motorcade. Blood on Jackie's dress, Cronkite delivering the news, Oswald being shot, the long lines at the bier, little John John's salute, DeGaulle walking proudly at the head of the cortege journeying with Blackjack and the boots turned backwards, to Arlington. And the beat of the drums on that solemn Monday morning. 

I remember JFK almost every day of my life, the turning point in politics, a Catholic who allayed our  fears, a colorful guy full of wisdom and humor and not afraid to be himself. A game changer.

But for some strange reason I will also always remember the guy ahead of me in the long line at the newspaper kiosk on that Friday afternoon at 42nd and Broadway.  The Post and Daily News were out with big headlines. When he got to the aproned dealer he hesitated.  While all of us were brushing back the tears he alone had something to say.  And in my own sorrow this, verbatim, is what I heard.

"Is this the stockmarket final?"

OUR AUSTRALIAN FRIEND

Our dear friend Imre Molnar was an Australian, provost of a major art college, artist, lecturer, dynamic influence upon the U.S. automobile industry--and motorcyclist practically raised on trips through the outback.

In  the final pages of my novel THE DEADLY BUDDHA, I wanted the major male character, a Welsh movie star, to hop on his Ducati and take a motorcycle trip through LA's Topanga Canyon, during which he would confess to the reader his involvement years earlier in the death of a young college student trying to interview him.  The scene took four pages.  And the writing was terrific--except for one thing. I had never been on a motorcycle. I gave the pages to Imre and  by return mail he had added just the touches I needed.

Imre visited with Rita and me during the Christmas vacation last year. On January 2nd he was visiting friends in the California desert when he suffered a heart attack that was instantly fatal. It was the same day the novel was published.

Chapter 1 from THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS: Say hello (and goodbye) to fashionista Paisley LaForge

IT’S THREE O’CLOCK in the morning. She’s alone and almost asleep in the voluptuous bed when she hears the rustling sound and feels the gloved hand slide across her cheek and —THWAMMMMP!—clamp tight across her mouth.

A shudder shoots through her like an arrow carved from ice. Every sinew, every membrane, every cell of her imperial body freezes. 

She can’t move. She can’t talk. She can only dread what is happening to the most powerful woman in the world of fashion—the woman her jealous peers, dropping to their knees, have crowned La Fashionista.  

Some ignorant and misinformed lowlife is trying to kill her. 

It’s only been a few hours since her friends from Paris threw the awesome après-ski shindig in her honor—twenty-five Croesus-rich socialites plus the top five international retail-stock moguls, to say nothing of her swarm of magazine people—to present her the gold Aphrodite.

Then the drunken scene with Philo—her kissy-sweet paramour proceeding to make a perfect ass of himself groping the young wife and ex-model thing from Copenhagen. Can anyone blame La Fashionista for storming out—alone and in a huff?        

Returning to the Tower Suite of the elegant hotel, she slams the Aphrodite down on the bar, hurls the chinchilla halfway across the room, splashes brandy into a glass, and takes an enormous swallow. This she follows with five deep breaths before pressing the button on her iPhone.

With Die Valkure blasting, she leans in front of her laptop screen and scans the list of industry peeves and annoyances to unload at the noon staff brunch.  Eagerly, she adds a scornful word or three and highlights a sentence in red for those Neanderthals in legal.              

She tosses down the rest of the brandy and in the mirror catches a final glimpse of the matronly curve of her bust, the skin on her face pulled Botox tight around cat-like eyes and serious lips, the frosted gray curls dangling limply in hopes the Parisian stylist flying in at ten will be on time—and, of course, that gorgeous chain of Tiffany pearls triple-stranded across her throat.

Calm now in her Gucci nightgown, La Fashionista snaps off the light and sinks into the softness of the four-poster with the Louis XIV canopy. She pulls the satin sheet and coverlet up around her shoulders.  Then she turns on her side and faces the row of casement windows, the drapes closed tight against the glistening moonlit slopes of Chamonix.

The eyes flicker, adjusting to the absence of light, seeking to close. When they do, even La Fashionista’s slight smile bears the look of confident power.

And then—THAT DREADFUL GLOVE!

The glove has a sweaty, greasy odor, not the subtle fragrance of the expensive lotions and moisturizers and rare emollients privileged to kiss her body—and, not to be forgotten, those drops of Chanel lingering on her neck and wrists.

But now a second glove replaces the first. She struggles but feels her strength ebbing. The second glove is soaked with a brashly sweet wetness that inflames her nostrils and screams Give up, Lady, for once someone else is in command.

Good Christ, don’t they know La Fashionista is the one and only Paisley LaForge, the voice of Gorjuss, the magazine everybody reads first because it is the Holy Bible of fashion and the editor is God Herself?

Don’t they know she can make or break a new line with a single scathing word from her fertile, chichi vocabulary—and that La Fashionista has come all the way from New York to breathe new life into the dying crop of indolent French designers?

She hears what sounds like the squeak of metal. Or is it a hum? Whispers—yes, there must be more than one.

If only she could talk. If only they could hear her thoughts on the subject, her clever suggestions. But that glove!

You may help yourselves to the pearl thing, she wants them to hear her say—it’s an original.  Sorry for not bringing the rest of the jewels. But if you’d be willing to settle for some fantastic fakes, check the black box on the cabinet. And next to it on the bar is the Aphrodite—take it, please.         

She can arrange other things—this is France, after all. Doesn’t she have the ear of the President after that article on the man’s awesome new wife—her stunning wardrobe?  And she knows the hotel has some terrific job openings—you’ll get to wear spiffy uniforms with dangling gold braid.

La Fashionista can get you into clothes—ooh-la-la, can she ever! How fabulous you’ll look strutting up and down the Avenue des Champs d’Elysees, drawing flattering stares while everyone shouts—look, oh look at them, aren’t they natty, aren’t they sharp, don’t they know how to dress, aren’t they the frosting on the cake, the cat’s meow?

Can’t you please take that nasty glove away—show a little courtesy for La Fashionista and her ideas? I am trying my best to cooperate.

All right, whoever you are, if you want to play hardball yours truly is also known behind her back as the Iron Lady and as such can have your asses ‘renditioned’ (to use the glitzy new word) back to New York where she’s on a first name basis with the Mayor and has friends in the D.A.’s office. 

At the snap of the Iron Lady’s fingers, certain elements of the industry will be privileged to enter your cell in the wee hours to gouge out your eyes, shove a nightstick up your tight, little assholes, and remove your darling little pricks with a switchblade.

One or all of the above, fellas—your choice! Don’t mess with the Iron Lady.

The angry surge of contempt has her going now and she kicks out a leg and moves an arm as she struggles to raise her head from the pillow.

But the black glove moves swiftly from her mouth and with the other glove presses two black thumbs behind her neck while the fingers of both hands spread across her jawbones and begin the process of squeezing. Squeezing tight around her thin neck and those precious pearls. Tighter even. And then—

AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaack.

The scream is barely out of her mouth. Amid the jangle of pearls she feels the sudden, serious wrench. Much too far—Jesus guys!

She hears the ‘snap’—no, make a note that it is more like the ‘crack’ of a stalk of fresh celery breaking. But it is too late.

 Everything is morphing into the strangest color. Nothing like it in anything La

Fashionista has ever written or seen—nothing at all. Then a blank page.

And now even that is gone.

 ********

 

THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS, the third in the series of Kate Conway thrillers, is now available through Amazon Books in both soft cover and e-book.  And with the action starting with the first sentence on page one, we’ve got another terror-packed thriller to rival THE MOUNTING STORM and THE DEADLY BUDDHA.

INTERVIEW WITH 6 THRILLER WRITERS--PROUD TO BE AMONG THEM

Part II of Bob Yehling's interview with six mystery-suspense-thriller writers. Good company--glad to be among them.

September 16, 2013 · 8:19 am

One of my favorite weeks of the year, Southern California Writers Conference Week, has arrived! This weekend’s event in Newport Beach promises to be a great one, with new workshops and a very talented and esteemed group of faculty, editors and agents....

Speaking of which, last week, we met six crime, mystery and action thriller writers to whom I’ve given a playful
nickname, The Sleuthsayers. All have written excellent novels (for most, more than one), and have developed great insight not only on their plots and writing voices, but also on the craft itself.

This group includes Jenny Hillborne, author of The Jackson Mystery Series (Hide and Seek, Madness & Murder); Frank Ritter (The Killing Games), Gayle Carline (Peri Minneopa Mystery Series, including Hit or Missus and Hot Mess), William Thompson Ong (Kate Conway Series, including The Fashionista Murders and The Deadly Buddha), Claudia Whitsitt (The Samantha Series, including Intimacy Issues and Identity Issues), and Wes Albers (Black & White).

In this blog, our six novelists talk about how they keep track of the many elements in their work, why these books are such big hits with readers (crime, mystery and thriller genres dominate fiction and e-book sales), and aspects of their personal backgrounds that give us clues as to the stones they turn in print.

WORD JOURNEYS BLOG: How do you keep track of the various narrative and character threads you run through your books?

Wes Albers: I save all my outlines, drafts, cards, lists, and notes, and all kinds of general refuse that comes with writing. Mostly I keep it all rattling around in my head but then I use all those other things as resources to remember where I was going, what I wanted to do, things I might want to do in one book, and things I might want to do in another.

Gayle Carline: I “reverse outline” – I have an Excel spreadsheet (why yes, I am a geek) with several pages. I list characters with their descriptions and brief notes, keep track of my word count, and I have a page where I give a brief synopsis of each chapter after I’ve written it, along with whose POV it was written in, and even who is in the scene(s). I use this page in a lot of ways, one of which is to map out the tension/action points of the book. It helps me see, at a glance, whether I’ve got too many chapters of clue gathering/expository stuff that slow the pace.

William Thompson Ong: Most of these I keep in my head. However, I keep a running diary of key elements at the end of the manuscript where I can get to them fast. Once I have my plot and characters under control, I try not to depend on those eternal lists we’re all supposed to keep. If it’s right and it fits I’ll remember it.

Jenny Hillborne: I do a lot of re-reading, and I keep character bios that I constantly refer to.

Frank Ritter: Storyboarding. I use 3×5 cards cut in half and pinned to the storyboard. I move them around to better build plot and characters. It was The Godfather novel that showed me that I had to storyboard, because Mario Puzo stole his own suspense with his handling of the death of Sonny, in which Sonny’s death is sprung out of nowhere. It is nearly 200 pages before the reader finds out what happened to Sonny, and by then, who cares? The movie fixed this problem. Also, he lost track of his plot with Sonny’s girlfriend in Las Vegas – nearly fifty pages to handle a one-page introduction of a Las Vegas doctor. The movie deleted the entire scene, as it should have. My comparison of this book to its movie taught me a great deal about writing thrillers.

Claudia Whitsitt: My husband! He’s read all of my work at least a dozen times and has a great head for details. He’s a great resource. I also record chapter summaries as I write, so that I can easily refer back and remind myself what I’ve covered and where I’ve covered it.

WJ BLOG: Why do you think these genres are such a hit with readers?

Whitsitt: Mystery/suspense novels pull us away from our real lives and transport us into a world of intrigue. Experiencing new characters, solving the mystery, reading on the edge of the page, and being sucked into the story is what readers of this genre love. It’s also a safe way to experience the fear of our own mortality.

As a reader of mystery and suspense long before I became a writer, I love the conquering hero, good overcoming evil, and ordinary folks faced with extraordinary circumstances. There’s nothing more entertaining than a great page-turner.

Ritter: They are fast paced, well plotted and give satisfaction to the reader when the bad guy gets it in the end. They also introduce the reader to far-off lands and cultures without being a travel guide. Finally, I think they give the reader a personal-heroic-lack-of-frustration feeling that the good guys can win, and that it is OK to break some of the rules to achieve that end.

Hillborne: Who doesn’t love a good mystery? We love to solve puzzles and pit our wits against the bad guys (and the cops).
Hide and Seek, by Jenny Hilborne

Ong: We offer the reader a rare steak instead of a full-course dinner. And usually that steak is dripping blood. We come up with characters that charm you one minute and stick a stiletto between your ribs the next. We keep the reader guessing right down to the end.

Carline: I think we like to feel smart. We like to go along with the hero/heroine and feel like we’re helping them solve the crime.

Albers: I got into law enforcement because I wanted an adventure. I was already interested in writing when I took this job but what I didn’t anticipate is the perspective it would give me. I have been able to be present during the absolute best, worst, funniest, cruelest, most compassionate, and volatile moments of thousands of people’s lives. I was able to be an insider in a way that few will ever experience, or if they do, it is once or twice in a lifetime.

People are drawn to this genre for that very reason. It lets them be an insider. The intimacy of a book lets them feel like they are there and witnessing something they don’t see in their daily life. It also lets people do it safely. There is no doubt there is a drive to see the good, but there is also a pretty persistent draw for people to see the bad and the dark.

WJ BLOG: Finally, any personal background that lends itself to the stories you write?

Albers: Well, there is obviously the nearly quarter century of law enforcement but there has also been my years with the Southern California Writers’ Conference. I wasn’t always the Director. I started many years ago started as a conferee there to learn from all the other writers. When I say writers, I do not necessarily mean authors. We’ve had many of those there as well, people who have realized their dream of publication and are there to help others or to talk about how they got published, but what I’m talking about is the group as a whole. We are all writers, some accomplished, some highly published, but many who just like to write, or who are trying to be published. Everyone has stories and experiences and perspectives and thoughts. It has been my contact with this group as a whole that has helped me create the stories I write.

Carline: Well, my protagonist is a former housecleaner, and while I’ve never been a professional, I’ve been known to sacrifice a manicure to scrubbing grout. And anyone who knows my husband knows that he is possibly the most laconic man on the planet, so my sleuthing skills are constantly put to the test as I try to figure out where he is and what he’s doing.

Hillborne: My stories include many elements of truth. To protect the innocent (and the guilty), I can’t reveal which bits are fact and which are fiction.

Ritter: I was a bodyguard for decades and a private investigator for nearly forty years. In addition, I write in six genres and am a multiple-award winning playwright, which helps immensely with dialogue. I have chosen to write my novels in the “Adult Thriller” genre because it is the closest to the world I worked and lived in, i.e., this genre furthers both plot and characters with R-rated action and X-rated sex and passion … just like the real world.

Whitsitt: Teaching for thirty-seven years as well as mothering five children plays a huge role in all of my books. (Talk about writing material!) I’ve been devoted to children my entire life as well as personally experiencing their struggles. My main character, Samantha, is a teacher, mother, and champion for children.

Ong: My years spent as one of the original Mad Men gave me a lot to write about when it came to the Human Struggle—the false ideals and the hypocrisy, the lying and the cheating, the occasional triumphs versus the stunning defeats. It was an industry rife with alcohol and sex, the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat, broken promises, broken dreams, and broken hearts. In other words, it was the perfect training ground for someone seeking the stuff that makes fictional characters live and breathe.

They say you should write what you know. But if you have known love and death and marriage and divorce and have lived long enough to feel the tremendous ups and downs of life—you will be rich in the stuff writers need.

Why Thrillers Are Fun to Write, and #1 to Read: William Thompson Ong Interview

(NOTE: This is the 2nd part of the Bob Yehling interview with William Thompson (Tom) Ong)

After he retired from a long career in the advertising industry, William Thompson Ong knew he wanted to return to his other love –writing – but didn’t know where to start. Like other writers, he wanted to draw plenty of fun and enjoyment from his daily sessions. However, he also wanted to write books that would find large audiences.

Ong did some research, and it brought him back to one of the favorite genres he read as a youth and young man: action thrillers with plenty of mystery. Bingo! He transformed into a typing thoroughbred, and burst out of the gates. In just a few years, he has written seven novels and a popular thriller series. In the second part of this exclusive interview, Ong reflects on why thrillers are so much fun to write, why they are the #1 fiction genre for readers (just ahead of the other ingredient in his books, romance), and how the stars have aligned ideally in the persona of Kate Conway, his protagonists for the novel series The Mounting Storm, The Deadly Buddha, and The Fashionista Murders, all available on Amazon.com.

WORDJOURNEYS.COM: What is it about the personalities and characteristics of investigative journalists that make them ideal protagonists for thrillers and mysteries? 

WILLIAM THOMPSON ONG: I’d like to answer with some comparisons between the detective and the newspaper guy or gal. Both appear to be dedicated to discovering breakthrough facts or evidence they can weave into a conclusive story or an indictment.  Aren’t they both in the same business, after all—fighting crime?

In Kate Conway’s case, the hurdles are set higher. The investigative reporter is in a class by herself at a newspaper or magazine journal, assigned to the really big and explosive stuff—stories and cases that go far beyond the murder story.  These are the bright, tenacious, and fearless guys and gals who won’t be home for Christmas—they’ll be spending it hiding in a basement in Teheran to escape a terrorist’s sword. These are the guys and gals whose names will appear on the stories that garner Pulitzer Prizes for their papers—(to say nothing of boosting circulation enough to keep today’s newspapers alive for another year.)  And in most cases they’ll be acting alone—not with the NYPD at their disposal.

WJ: You mentioned a disparity between typical education levels of an investigative journalist and detective, which creates major story problems in moving crime novels along because of the distrust with which one often views the other in real life. How did you get around that in your series?

TO: I made Kate’s father a gnarly ex-detective—(Paul Conway is a career dick from Brooklyn). When Kate needs help she whistles and Paul Conway appears, wise in the details of police procedure (which Kate and I choose not to be) and just dropping his name opens doors for Kate. Some may think I am cheating by supplying Kate with a crutch like this. But it allows Kate to cruise on a higher level and solve the really complicated crimes.

All of this explains why I lean away from the straight detective story in favor of the mystery-thriller. I’m still that stickler for detail.  But now I can keep a lot more balls in the air when it comes to plotting.

WJ: In The Fashionista Murders, and also The Mounting Storm, you give an expert’s touch to how you portray the high fashion industry and the high-end art world. Are these interests of yours, or just story drivers that you researched (well) and brought to life?

Like Kate Conway herself in The Fashionista Murders, I am totally turned off by fashion—which is why I attached the serial killer to the story. In The Mounting Storm, introducing Kate to Margaret Winship opened up the world of art and museums and society that heightened Kate’s search for the missing Monet she suspects belonged to her grandmother and triggered Kate’s unmasking the Nazi.

It also opened all of Kate’s subsequent novels to the swanky world of high finance and billionaires and celebrity society with its pretension and snobbery and deviousness—absolutely wonderful and trusty elements for layering your novel.  These elements are story drivers and not comfortable elements already present in my life—although at one time I seriously considered becoming an artist.

WJ: You had an interesting way of becoming a thriller writer after leaving the advertising industry:

TO: I did. My decision to write thrillers was based on some good old-fashioned seat-of-the-pants research.  I found thrillers to be the most popular genre. I also found there were more female readers than male readers, which helped lead me to inventing Kate Conway.  Discovering that romances were the second hottest genre convinced me to spread Kate’s adventures with hot and spicy romance.

WJ: Were you a big reader of mysteries, thrillers and crime fiction in your growing up years? Who were your favorite authors, and what influenced you most about their works, styles and/or voices?

TO: When I was 9, my father brought home The Five Orange Pips and lightning struck. I became a Sherlock Holmes fan forever, admiring his characters and atmosphere (who can resist The Hound of the Baskervilles for atmosphere?) as much as his sleuthing.  But as I grew older, my tastes gravitated to more intricate thrillers like The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, Gorky Park, The Manchurian Candidate, and The Day of the Jackal.

By the time I reached college, writing style became important—the   grace and class of W. Somerset Maugham as well as the biting vividness of Hemingway and the magic of F. Scott Fitzgerald. (I have worn out several soft-cover editions of A Farewell to Arms and The Great Gatsby.)

WJ: Story structure and writing style definitely resonates in your books. We start off on one trail, only to be switched to another – then another –  always with entanglements of some kind involved. Is this a reflection of the way Kate keeps changing and running into surprises? Or the storycrafting style you’ve decided to run with?

TO: It’s both. The multi-layering of plot that I began in The Mounting Storm logically became a pattern for all of Kate’s novels.  In the beginning I had no thought of making the novel into a series.  It was to be a dark and brooding Citizen Kane type of story dramatizing the deviousness of Stirling Winship with Kate almost a minor figure. On the advice of an agent I cut some 90 pages and 30,000 words of background color on Stirling and turned it into a fast-paced thriller featuring Kate. But almost all the plots and subplots remained intact and we were off to the races with the Kate Conway series.

WJ: Rather than go the traditional publishing route, you’ve partner-published with Charles Redner and RiPublishing. Could you elaborate on the advantages you’ve found to the path you’re taking?

TO: The advantages? I am getting to see my books in print, I’m getting strong reviews, and I’m selling enough books to encourage me to keep going. Plus, it’s happening right now. This sure beats waiting around while an editor fiddles and fusses with changes for a year and then spends another year wondering whether the publishing house bosses will give me the final green light.

Self-publishing no longer bears a stigma. It’s attracting big name authors as well as beginners.  If you can’t afford to wait, it’s the place to be. If your books have the necessary magic, they will almost certainly rise to the top.

Partnership-publishing is even better. In Charlie Redner, I have the advantage of a fellow author who acts as my publisher and also my agent when it comes to advice.  There’s a lot of advice you’ll need, especially if you’re like me and have a mind that was built to function in the old days before the computer and the internet—back when we spent our time thinking and doing things instead of walking around pressing buttons on gadgets. (But thank Heaven the word processor replaced my typewriter!)

WJ: Final question: In each of your books, what is the one scene, situation, or character shift that surprised you most when it came flying from your mind to pen or computer screen?

TO: What a terrific question for ending this interview!

In The Mounting Storm, it’s the scene where Kate’s having dinner as the guest of Winston Winship.  She has found the guy an obnoxious bore and lets us know it. But then he says something encouraging about her idea for a new magazine—and she warms to him. When he invites Kate to the party he’s throwing in the Hamptons, which she absolutely hates…

            Kate 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.

In The Deadly Buddha, in the party scene at the Hollywood movie studio, Kate has no idea the handsome dude chatting her up—and from whom she reluctantly accepts a ride back to her hotel—is the Welsh movie star she’s been ordered to interview.  He stops at the Griffith Observatory and they find themselves having a ball as they recall from memory the lines James Dean and Natalie Wood exchanged in Rebel Without a Cause. This is how the scene ends:

             Kate didn’t lean over and kiss him, although she thought about it. They were too busy laughing. They laughed all the way back to the hotel. The doorman helped her out. She turned to wave goodbye, but he was already in the circle and heading toward the Wilshire exit, his hand waving carelessly in the air.

           That was the moment Kate realized she didn’t even know his name.

In The Fashionista Murders, we go through the thought process that keeps Kate from giving in to sex, this time in the apartment-studio and in the arms of the handsome photographer covering the fashion shows with her:

Maybe the shrink her friends had dragged her to was right—instead of shutting men out of her life she should loosen up when she felt her buttons being pushed and let things happen. Maybe she needs to change—not just Cam.

          “You are not only a sex maniac but a full-fledged, card-carrying, conniving bastard,” was the way she began the terms of her surrender.  

           She took a step back, grasping both his hands in hers while shaking her mane of Irish red hair. “And now that I have made it ridiculously clear, you may do what you want with me—so long as it’s not boring, distasteful, or so devious it will land us in jail.”

 I warned you how much fun it is writing thrillers, especially when you decide to stretch the boundaries a little. Thanks again for inviting me into your sanctuary.