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 Babylon
Blues
It’s 1994, and veteran homicide detective
John Bowers teams up with his partner
Minola Raye to solve another grisly murder
in Babylon—Portland, Oregon’s fringe
district of losers and forgotten victims. Like
hungry sharks, Babylon’s riffraff feed on the
innocent and vulnerable, and only case-hardened
cops like Bowers seek justice in a system that has no
heart.
 Blue
Butterfly is the first in a series featuring Detective
John Bowers.
Tracking a call
girl's killer through Portland's sleazy sex trade, John uncovers a
police bureau prostitution ring and bags a political primetime
player with an appetite for S&M. While the cops, ME and
prosecutors touch all the bases in a job they sometimes love to
hate, the Bureau's dirty little secrets begin to unravel.
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BABYLON BLUES
The second book in the series leads the
reader through the back streets and alley ways of Portland's seamier
districts where the homicide cops are the only ones to mourn the
murder of throw-a-way victims.
"Another page-turner with Detective Bowers and his partner Minnie Raye
with all the gripping, romantic realism we've come to expect from
author Bates." Jay Hammersfeld, Rose City Review
"Bloody murder, helpless victims, sex, romance, humor and right-on
forensics amid the bureaucratic quagmire of real-life homicide cops --
a great read in a procedural series that nails it." Deputy Ron
Saltz, Lincoln County Sheriff's Dept.
PREVIEW:
"He stank of tobacco, red wine and a week’s residue of plaque coated
on his mismatched grinders like paste on wallboard. He hadn’t shaved
in four days or scrubbed his hide since he’d soaked in the flophouse
tub two weeks ago, drained a bottle of Mad Dog, fallen asleep and
almost drowned in the scummy water. His sour stink clung to him like
old longjohns.
An El Camino roared back onto the highway. The glare of its headlights
backlit his grizzled figure as he wrestled a five-gallon gas can in
front of the window. He stood on it and boosted himself up over the
sill. Tumbling onto the kitchen floor, he took a moment to accustom
his eyes to the murk. He looked around. The hump-backed refrigerator
grumbled a bass riff to accompany the sibilant whisper of highway
traffic. The minute hand staggered to four minutes past two on the
wall clock. The faucet dripped. There was a plate of Oreo cookies on
the table. The intruder stuffed a few in his mouth and shoved more in
his jacket pockets. His fingers curled around the plastic handle of a
serrated steak knife as he moved toward the living room, stepped on a
discarded newspaper by the oil heater and left a muddy print.
Ahead of him were two doors, one partially open – he saw a claw foot
bathtub and pink towels hanging on a chrome rack. The other door was
closed. He unzipped his pants. What he wanted was to take a crap,
maybe even warm his feet in the tub if he had the chance. That’d take
the chill off his bones and ease the pain in his worn-out joints.
He shuffled forward and then stopped, waiting for the echoing creak in
the floor to wane. Taking one step across the bathroom threshold, he
glanced toward the closed door to his right and paused. Then he
hitched up his pants, turned around, opened the bedroom door and saw
her.
She had fallen into a senseless dream, weakened by the endorphins
paralyzing her muscles as she was pulled into slumber’s endless abyss.
Her first waking sensation was the crushing weight falling on her
chest as if some night-stalking bird of prey had swooped down from the
ceiling and clutched her in its talons. The beast’s foul-smelling
breath poisoned the air. With a startled chirp, she came to and stared
straight into hell. He was on top of her, his match-head eyes
scorching holes through the gloom. A grimy hand slammed over her mouth
before she had a chance to scream.
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