Tag Archives: Jeff Buick

Fiction, Reviews

‘One is Evil,’ by Jeff Buick

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I had never heard of the Canadian author Jeff Buick before I picked up One is Evil, the first volume in a prospective series. I’m pleased to report that I was highly impressed.

Bobby Greco used to be an Orlando, Florida homicide cop. Set up by crooked vice cops, he got kicked off the force. But he had friends who owed him favors, and managed to snag a good job doing insurance investigations.

It’s in that capacity that he checks out a claim relating to Alexis Chamberlain, the wife of the highly respected head of a major aerospace technology firm. It’s just a routine job – the company is ready to pay off on the claim. But Bobby has a cop’s instincts, and those instincts tell him something is off about this woman. Looking into her life more deeply, he reaches a startling conclusion – this isn’t the same woman. Somehow, she’s been switched for a duplicate. Which puts an unknown entity within reach of some of the country’s most sensitive military secrets.

That spark sets off an avalanche of consequences. Bobby teams up with an attractive female NSA agent, and before long not only they but their families are under threat – even as the clock is running out for the real Alexis Chamberlain. The action will stretch from the American south to the French Riviera, and on to Siberia.

There were flaws in One is Evil. The Canadian author sometimes gets American diction wrong – the Girl Scouts become the Girl Guides, bars become pubs. Cookies, of course, become biscuits. The prose is effective but not elegant, and there’s an occasional spelling mistake.

But the plot is intricate and beautifully choreographed. The dramatic tension ratchets up mercilessly. Like any thriller, One is Evil was less than entirely plausible, but it was convincing, and I bought into it completely. I also liked and cared about the characters.

One is Evil is a winner, and Jeff Buick is an author worth following.

Fiction, Reviews

‘A Killing Game,’ by Jeff Buick

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Curtis Westcott is Chief of Homicide in Boston in A Killling Game, first book in a series by Jeff Buick. In this story, a rich and powerful man’s daughter is kidnapped by a criminal who doesn’t want money, but revenge. And to show the police how smart he is.

As the story proceeds, Curtis realizes that the killer is leaving a series of messages for him. These messages contain hidden riddles which – if he can solve them – will make it possible for him to stop the murder.

That’s really all I think I’m going to tell you about the plot. Because frankly, I don’t think this book deserves a lot of description.

It follows a formula you see often in thrillers – the super-smart criminal mastermind plays a game with the police, confident that his superior intelligence makes him unassailable, but longing at the same time for “a worthy adversary.”

I’m pretty sure this never happens in real life. A writer can make it work, but it takes a lot of skill.

Also, the plot involves a trail of obscure brain puzzles, which the detectives have to solve before the clock runs out.

I’m confident that this never, ever happens in real life. I did not believe this aspect of the story for a single moment.

Also, it struck me as ironic that the plot calls for the interpretation of ridiculously obscure verbal clues, while the author himself didn’t trust the reader to understand his plain words – the book is in fact overwritten. It would benefit from a great deal of cutting.

This happens when an author assumes his audience is too stupid to understand him, or when he doubts his own narrative power, so he reiterates everything he says.

[Here’s a Deathless Principle from Walker’s School of Writing: Good writing is like leading a friend along a path to see a beautiful vista. Once you’ve led him to the ridge where he can look out and see it, don’t keep informing him what he’s seeing. If you led him to the right spot he’ll see for himself.]

So I didn’t care much for A Killing Game. Though I have to admit I powered through to the end, just to see how it came out. Which, I suppose, means the author actually did his job, even if he didn’t do it the way I’d have liked.