Pulp fiction’s contrived
shoot-outs, split personality serial killers and neighborhood terrorists
are the bane of Detective Sgt. John Quincy Bowers, a 43 year old Bureau
veteran working the Portland homicide scene. Stepping on feminine
landmines and dogging a perp whatever the cost add up to gritty drama,
steamy sex and hands-on forensic sleuthing in the City of Roses.
Bowers casts a big shadow. An Oregon native and former Pac Ten lineman,
he’s a stubborn, old-school cop with a street-hardened addiction to a job
he sometimes loves to hate. He’s not an alchy, not looking for a lost meth-head
daughter and not in a trauma fog from his tour in Nam. He’s a straight-up
guy, single again, no kids and no bad habits that carry a maximum
sentence. The only thing he’s recovering from is blonde and cost him his
furniture, his drift boat and his motivation in the split. Hanging out at
the Buzzard Café, a pit stop for vets, wannabes, has-beens and New Age
misfits like Bowers, he rails at the politically correct injustice in his
life while waiting for another shitcan case.
But now John has a new partner – Betty Boop with a nine millimeter on her
hip. She’s Minola Raye, a curvy, gung-ho, New Orleans Creole who can make
a man’s middle-age crisis something to look forward to. She drives like
Evel Knievel, shuns his greasy-spoon pig-outs and challenges his
white-loaf, Boomer philosophy with the zeal of a terrier in a tub of
garter snakes as they track down the City’s A-list killers.
John Bowers’ life on the streets is suddenly a whole lot more interesting.