Babylon Blues: A Detective John Bowers Mystery
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.
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.
Ray Bates Mysteriest 2006-2016 All Rights Reserved