Blue Butterfly: A Detective John Bowers Mystery

By Ray Bates

Detective John Bowers is a wily veteran with the Portland Police Bureau. The only mystery Bowers hasn't solved in 23 years behind the badge is blonde and comes in all flavors. The last split cost him his house, his furniture, his drift boat and his motivation. John blames it all on bloodsucking divorce lawyers.

Tracking a call girl's killer through Portland's sleazy sex trade, John and his new partner Minola Raye (Betty Boop with a nine mm on her hip) discover aBureau cover-upandunravel a VIP's dirty little secrets in a job they sometimes love to hate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 29, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467076159

Ray Bates

About the Author   RAY BATES’ police procedurals, mysteries and magazine articles reflect a true Northwest flavor. Bates’ varied background in criminal justice and forensic science includes stints as technical consultant for Regency-Fox Films, national investigator and lecturer. Bates writes a series of contemporary procedurals based in Portland, Oregon with Central Precinct Detective Sergeant John Bowers, an off-center veteran of the Robbery-Homicide Unit. Blue Butterfly, 1st book in the Bowers’ series, is packed with realism, a street-savvy cast, snappy dialog and steamy romance to woo both true crime and mystey junkies.. A Pacific Coast native, Bates resides in Portland with his wife and cat Felonious Manx where he keeps busy writing quirky mysteries, thrillers and police procedurals.  

Book preview

Blue Butterfly

by

Ray Bates

A Detective John Bowers Mystery

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2006 Ray Bates. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/22/2006

ISBN: 1-4259-4137-0 (sc)

ISBN: 1-4259-4136-2 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-7615-9 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2006905034

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

About the Author

Other Books by Ray Bates

Babylon Blues

Camelot Club

Pontiac Pirates

Sweet Sorrow

City Serenade

Cold Kill

http://www.raybatesmysteries.com

To the dedicated men and women who serve with the Portland, Oregon Police Bureau and especially the suits on the 13th floor.

If anyone blames me because I, a skilled servant of Aphrodite, go hunting … to catch girls, I have this to say to him: Zeus, Hades and the Lord of the Sea were all slaves of violent desire. If the gods are (and they tell us to follow their example), what wrong am I doing by imitating them?

Anon

The Greek Anthology

Portland, Oregon

1994

Chapter One

When she got out of the car, the street light flickered once and then died. The gravel parking strip was as dark as the bottom of a prune juice can. She’d have liked to see where she was going without falling on her ass at least. The creepy shadows made her a little nervous as she walked toward the puddle of light circling the marina gate.

Fumbling with her key, she slipped on the splintered planks and caught her heel. Fuck! Her teeth were chattering in the cold. All she needed now was a rain squall to make this evening a real bummer.

As she continued down the ramp, fluted ripples shivered in the Willamette Slough slapping softly against the pier. A barrel steeped in Diesel fuel lolled against a slimy rope and blocked her path. Rotten pilings poked like splintered bones through the marl in an eerie tableau. What a dumpy place for a date.

Why did he call so late? she groused as she dodged a bait box. Her privates still throbbed from yesterday. After her big night with the Sportswriters’ Convention, she could afford to take a day off. But she’d blown all her money on Wild Turkey, hornets and a roofer named Miguel with no front teeth. One more trick to turn tonight and then no johns, no business, no fucking men around at all. As soon as she finished here, she was going to head home, fill the Jacuzzi and soak herself to death while sucking a bottle of Chablis bone dry.

She grabbed a stanchion to steady herself, high-stepping over the schooner’s rail to land on the deck. Lights blazed from the cabin portholes. Their cheery glow did nothing to assuage her spine-chilling shivers as the knifelike wind tore through her flimsy outfit. Gawd, she hoped it was warmer inside than it had been last time she was here. He told her he never had time to prepare the boat for their dates. Like her time wasn’t worth shit – her hassle in getting rigged up for this fucking weirdo wasn’t something he had to take into account. Some accommodation should be made for her coming out in the middle of the night in the damned freezing cold, sloshing through puddles, hiking up and down ladders and trashing her new high heels.

A frigid gust sent ripples of goose bumps up her bare legs. She loosened her jacket just enough to expose the black corset underneath. Too bad more clients didn’t get a turn on from woolly longjohns she was thinking as she pressed her knees together before tapping on the door.

Hi. Open your jacket – lemme see what you have on. His voice was husky, as thick and creamy as chowder. His eyes locked on like radar, and she knew from the glassy stare he had already snorted a line of coke. Selfish bastard.

She sighed with practiced resignation and jerked the zipper down to bare her generous bosom which swelled like fresh dough over the corset stays. Okay? Hey, lemme in. I’m freezin my ass out here.

Yeah, come on in. I like that. You look good.

The door swung wide. She tripped over the threshold and climbed down into the cabin. She hated boats – damned things rocked and rolled and made her sick to her stomach. Smelled bad, too. Goddam pain in the ass is what this trick was. She didn’t like coming here. But the money was good – very good. Just thinking about the payoff for this date took the edge off the chill.

It’s freezin out there. You got anything to warm me up, Sweetie? She was hoping for some Scotch or her favorite rum and Coke.

Sure. I got hot coffee. Irish coffee. Want some?

Yeah. My tits got icicles hangin off em. She sat on the cushions piled against the bulkhead. The door was open leading to the stateroom, and the spread was pulled back. She crossed her legs and flashed the red garter straps lying like licorice whips on her thighs. Only a whisper of black gauze covered her briar patch of pubic hair.

Take the jacket off. Lemme see you, Baby.

In a minute. Gimme my drink first. She took the mug he offered and sipped slowly. The liquor slid down her throat like hot motor oil and made her toes tingle.

Warming up?

Yeah. That’s better. She feigned a lascivious smile. Truth was, her period was due. She felt bloated and crampy and didn’t give a flying fuck whether she put on a terrific act for this over-stuffed jerk or not.

Show me your gorgeous tits, Baby. His eyes were shining with a predatory urgency which always initiated their sessions.

Let’s do our business first, okay?

The money was laid in her palm. Five hundred?

Perfect. Thanks. She folded the stash and tucked it into her coat pocket.

He took her cup, sat on the bed and motioned for her to join him. Take off your jacket. I don’t have a lotta time tonight, Marcy. I’m hungry. Lemme suck on your tits.

She shrugged off her coat, carried it to the bed and draped it over the pillows. Then she lay back resting on her elbows. He tugged at the bustier until both breasts were free. Hot, muscular lips clamped over her nipple and sucked hard enough to make her eyes water. Marcy tried to hurry as much of the preliminaries as she could although this part was easiest – no strain, no pain.

When her eyes blinked opened, she was looking up at the stainless steel hardware screwed into the mahogany overhead. It was a drag being hung for so long while her client took forever to get off, licking her like a blind dog nursing a bone, working with that damn dildo until Marcy thought her knees would give out. She should have won an Oscar for some of her performances on this goddam tub. It was drafty and uncomfortable. Made her back ache. But she might as well get into it. The money was worth it, and she could party all weekend now with his cash in her pocket.

Marcy stood and pulled down the flimsy panties. A glistening tongue flicked out and lapped at her tender, pink, wet spots hidden beneath a snarl of ebony coils. Only when the fleshy tip of her clit was tickled, did she quiver with real pleasure.

Hey, Honey. I’m hot for you. Do it to me real good tonight, Baby, she purred.

Get in position for me, Marcy, Baby. God, I’m hungry for it. You? Are you starving for me, Marcy? Want me to do it to you, huh? Talk to me. Want me to turn you black and blue, huh? Smack your pretty, white ass? Suck you dry, Baby?

His voice bogged down in urgent whispers which used to amuse her a long time ago when she first heard their echoes in the raunchy cubicles along Columbia Boulevard. Now nothing much fanned her fires. Not johns. Not even five-hundred dollar tricks. Sometimes if they panted and drooled, burst out of their shorts and offered to lick her like a lollipop, it helped get her into the mood and play the part better. There was art to this occupation. More art than skill really. Turning tricks for the good money was a lot more complicated than just fucking and sucking. Marcy had learned that early on. The johns wanted to make believe they were super studs, macho men with something special she hadn’t seen a gazillion times before. Marcy understood that. She could turn the act on and off like flicking a light switch. That’s why she was doing johns in Beemers instead of pickup trucks.

She ran her fingers through the thick, silvery hair burrowed in her loins. Right now at this moment, men were the most susceptible morons on Earth, she was musing with a bored expression. It was like all the blood from their brains drained into their cocks and left them with the mental ability of a garden slug.

Marcy knew the routine well enough. This john had a standing order for the same trick. Never any changes, no new moves. Everything had to go smooth as snot or he couldn’t get it up.

She stole a glance at her watch and then moved away from the bed, knelt on the varnished cabin sole and raised her hands over her head. She was ready. A length of yellow nylon cord was looped around her wrists. The end of the cord was then run through an eyebolt fastened to an overhead grommet, the slack taken up, and the line pulled taut until her arms were stretched high. Strung up like a side of beef, she was barely able to keep her knees braced on the bare floorboards.

Behind her, he had grasped both ankles and drawn them wide apart to expose her ass and pussy. She knew the next part well enough, too, by now. It was no big deal really, but she didn’t like it. She liked it least of all.

He rolled up a tee shirt and pulled it tight across her mouth and chin. Marcy had to remind herself to relax, to try to get into it a little and concentrate on the wad of hundred-dollar bills in her leather jacket. As her pulse sped up, she encouraged herself by concentrating on what she was going to do once she turned this trick. She and her roommate LaVonna were headed to Seattle for a little fun. They just might blow their whole stash on some China White and party all night long with those two mechanics from the Boeing plant who always had free grass and a hot SUV with an air mattress in the back.

Marcy flinched as the first slap caught her off guard still thinking about Seattle and the weekend. She had to tend to business now – zone out until the blood rose to the surface of her skin and numbed the spanking he was delivering with new-found fervor.

I’m gonna beat your ass, Marcy. The voice grew huskier as the leather snapped against her flesh. I’m gonna beat the shit out of you, Girl. Bitch. Fucking whore bitch.

Slap … . Slap … . Slap. Marcy clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. He had strung her up too high, too tight this time. Her arms were cramping. And this was enough spanking. It was too fucking hard. It hurt. More than a sting – it burned like hell. Felt like he was whipping the damned dog. She was entitled to extra compensation for this much fucking abuse. As the strap cut into her again, she recoiled, inciting him to apply the leather with even more energy as his face shone with fresh sweat.

You fucking, filthy slut-bitch!

The strapping came faster and harder as she panted beneath the makeshift muzzle. She couldn’t help squirming away from the hot pain falling on her buttocks. When the whipping stopped, Marcy went limp, hanging from the cord while she tried to catch her breath. Her wrists were rubbed raw. This was definitely going to mean more money. The motherfucking bastard had left marks. Just wait until he took the gag off, and she had a chance to give this john a piece of her mind. Marcy ought to triple the price. That was only fair. Hell, this creep was still getting off cheap.

This is what you like, isn’t it? A big, black dick up your ass? You like this, Bitch?

Marcy tensed when the head of the dildo nudged against her ass cheeks. She took a deep breath. That always helped it go in without hurting so much. But, hey, that’s why she got the money she did. How many whores could pull this off? Marcy was a pro. He began thrusting with the dildo – harder, faster, deeper. She counted to fifty while he jammed the rubber penis home. Goddam, this was a long night. He seemed to be stuck at the top of the roller coaster. Maybe the coke had hot-wired him. All she could think about now was making it to the finish, wanting it to end.

She moaned when the dildo stabbed against her tailbone. This was turning out to be a real downer, a bad trick getting worse. She might throw up. Her guts were jumping like fleas on a wet hound. This was really hurting now. A lot. Like when the dentist’s drill hit a nerve before the novocaine kicked in.

How do you like this, Bitch? Can you feel this? Do you feel it, Bitch?

Marcy shuddered from a sudden jolt speeding through her body like electric current as a vibrator jammed between her buttocks. She chilled at the sickly feel of cold plastic bruising her insides. Goddam! This was hurting! Fuck him and fuck his kinky trip. She was going to scratch the eyes out of this sick pervert, rip this cocksucker a new asshole when she got the chance. Kick him in the nuts before she was through, too. Who the hell did he think he was to treat her like this? It was time to knock it off and let her up.

Shut the fuck up, Bitch! He tightened the muzzle when she struggled to get up.

She tried to twist her wrists free of the cord but couldn’t. She tried to kick him, but the dildos only pushed farther into her. A hard slap made her ears roar.

Out of control! her mind shrieked in horror. He had gone completely crazy for some reason. What had she done wrong? Oh, God! Fear swarmed in her belly and rippled down her limbs until she felt nothing but the weight of her heart crashing against her ribcage. She was floundering in a storm surge of hysteria, caught in a whirlpool of panic and pain. Why did he want to hurt her? Did he know how terrified she was? What could she do to make him stop? Was there anyone who could help her?

He grabbed her hair and yanked. She barely recognized the crazed eyes which stared back at her. In place of a familiar face, she saw instead a demon, the lewd mask of a terrifying monster. Who was this man? Why was he doing this? Why wouldn’t he stop? Mascara streamed down her face, painting both cheeks. The tears only made it harder to breathe beneath the gag. What was happening? How did everything spin out of control?

You fucking bitch. You think you’re so fucking smart. Too fucking smart. See if you enjoy this, you stupid cunt.

Marcy kicked with both feet. One shoe came off and flew across the cabin. She heard a crinkling noise behind her, and when she twisted around to identify her new torment, something closed over her head – a billow of transparent plastic. She thrashed frantically trying to free herself. She was so confused – why didn’t he stop? Was he just trying to scare her enough to get off? Did he know how terrified she was? Did the bastard care? Oh, god, why didn’t it stop? Her muffled pleas went unanswered. Please, please, don’t hurt me, she began to pray.

Another length of nylon cord was looped over Marcy’s head and drawn around her neck. Locks of hair tangled in the suture as it tightened, suffocating Marcy until fluid trickled from her nose. Convulsing as she fought for life, her body flopped like a landed fish, the cord cutting bloody bracelets on her wrists. Her hands clawed the air while the shroud snuffed the last breath from her lungs.

It was over as quickly as it began. She never had time to sort things out, to try to find a reason for her suffering. She just hung there, her muscles firing clonic twitches, her heart jumping into a fibrillating rhythm until it finally quivered to a premature stop.

Bitch! God, I’m turned on. He ripped the plastic free. Hurrying now, delirious with a blooming need about to burst, he pushed himself inside her, pumped twice and shivered himself to a senseless swoon.

By the time he came, Marcy was already gone.

Chapter Two

On Nicolai Street, a slovenly morning sun meandered through whipped-potato clouds and warmed the oily puddles on the Lavender Lounge lot. The beer joint was wedged in the crisscrosses of the Union Pacific tracks winding through the city’s northwest industrial enclave.

Crouched in the overhang of a sway-backed loading dock, the tavern was a relic from the district’s more prosperous past when the roadhouse barely passed muster as a respectable supper club. After World War I, uppercrust wasters flocked from the West Hills to revel in the juke joint’s hot jazz and smuggled Canadian whiskey. Those days were beyond the comprehension of the new proprietor, a Lebanese pharmacy student who had cashed in his college endowment, borrowed ten thousand more from his Indiana in-laws and invested in America. His current clientele was a farrago of parolees, faded-denim laborers and soft-bellied salesmen drinking solo in the musty gloom.

Elevated freeways blighted the old working class neighborhood north of Vaughn Street, cleaving the blue-collar haunts from the civility of downtown Portland. Near Nicolai, soaring ramps to the Fremont Bridge whined with the pulse of motorized arteries crossing the Willamette River while at ground level, concrete piers stood like mighty temple columns to break the flow of traffic pinballing around dead-ends, switchbacks and cul de sacs mastered only by locals.

Wendy Roberts, a red-knuckled waitress only two paychecks away from owning her Subaru hatchback free and clear, had arrived fifteen minutes late at the Lavender Lounge. They opened at ten, and she had at least an hour’s work to get ready for the third-shift crews from Guild’s Lake.

When she pulled in and parked, she noticed something on the pavement in back. It looked like a bag of garbage had split open. Somebody’s unauthorized trash deposit, she concluded glumly, locking her car. Jeez, it stank around here. The dumpster lids were up, and flies were swarming. As she headed for the front door, she heard the insects buzzing and swatted the air as she hurried inside. People acted like pigs when they had the chance, she muttered. Now the flies were as thick as kernels on a corncob in back.

Phew, she hissed, pinching her nostrils closed. She made a mental note to give the back porch and storeroom a good spraying with Raid.

Before she had her apron on, Gene came in. He tended bar on weekends when it got a little rowdy with payday partiers.

Jeez, Gene, she started before he could even say hello. Those damn flies are awful out back. Who in hell left the dumpsters unlocked last night?

He shrugged. Thought I closed em.

Well, some asshole tossed their garbage in the lot. You better clean it up before it stinks even worse. The flies are really something – use that industrial strength stuff this time.

Yeah, sure. He had his own schedule to keep, and Wendy could get off his back.

He lit the bar signs, stacked glasses from the dishwasher and headed outside with an empty liquor box. Before tossing his load, he glanced toward Nicolai Street and spotted the clump on the asphalt. He took a few steps closer, peered around the corner of the dumpster and saw a flash of white flesh. Jesus! He fought off an urge to throw up. There was no doubt about it – this was no garbage sack, no passed-out wino sleeping it off. This was a dead body, a young woman almost naked and very obviously murdered. She still had the yellow nylon ropes looped around her wrists and neck.

He ran inside and hollered at Wendy who was wiping down tables. Hey! Call 911!

She dropped her rag. What? That bag of garbage I saw?

Jesus! It’s a murdered girl, Wendy. It’s a fuckin dead body. He pulled at his face with both hands. For crissakes, call 911! Right now!

She headed for the phone. As she punched in the number, she couldn’t help wondering if it was someone she knew. Thank God she hadn’t gone over to investigate herself. She was shaking. This was the first time in her life she had ever been this close to a dead person, and if she had her way, it would be the last. There were openings at the Fujitsu plant in Gresham and come Monday morning, Wendy would be applying.

Across town at the Justice Center on Second Avenue, Central Precinct Dispatch called Detective Sergeant Minola Raye working on-call homicide for the weekend. At nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, she was only halfway through a bowl of Raisin Bran at her kitchen table. Twenty minutes later, she pulled up at the Lavender Lounge seconds behind Detective Mac Bando to parlay with the day watch detectives who had assisted at the scene until the shift supervisor could assign the case to the robbery-homicide unit. The patrol sergeant had already taped off the crime scene, set up a temporary command post to screen the pool of officers and reporters who began to arrive and posted a rookie to scribe everybody entering the cordoned area.

Minnie established a second command post well outside the perimeter which was off limits to all but the homicide team. Then she summoned the criminalists and county medical examiner on her cell phone to foil amateur sleuths monitoring police scanners. The pathologist had been across the river at the scene of a drowning accident but was on his way.

With the groundwork in place, Sergeant Raye followed the patrolman’s lead behind the lounge to the open dumpsters and her first look at the victim. A young, white woman lay like a broken doll on the pavement. She was on her back with both arms partly extended, bright yellow ligatures looped around her wrists. There was a dark stain beneath her hips – crankcase oil, not blood. No grease or loose gravel from the parking lot was on the victim – she had simply been dumped like the rest of the rotting refuse in the dumpsters.

Those are really starting to stink, Minnie griped, crinkling her nose.

Smells like fake crab – gonna get real rich around here when it heats up.

I hate that shit.

It’s just hake, the officer said. White fish with some food coloring, Sarge.

She cocked an eyebrow. Tastes like recycled Nikes if you ask me.

The uniform summarized his notes. The bartender said he closed up last night at two-thirty, and he didn’t see the victim. Dumpster lids are up. Waitress said she could smell the stink when she came in and thought somebody had thrown some trash in the lot.

Maybe somebody planned on tossing the vic in the dumpster and got interrupted. We’ll have to take a look anyhow. The officer grimaced, and Minnie grinned back. Hey, that’s why God invented rookies.

Right. He skimmed the second page. No light on in back – went out sometime last week, he thinks, and nobody’s gotten around to getting it fixed. Dark as pitch back here.

Minnie squatted and slipped her hands in her pockets. Rule of thumb sizing up a homicide scene: mouth shut, eyes and ears open and hands holstered. The first thing that struck Minnie as she stared through her designer dark glasses was how pale the woman was. Black moles speckled her flesh like a toad’s belly. She wore bordello lingerie: a black satin corset with scarlet ribbons. One shoe was on, a bright red needle pump with a gold bow. The knees on both black mesh stockings were shredded. The toenails were painted with orange flame enamel. Flecks of blood peppered the upper lip, and dried mucus plugged both nostrils. A half-open stare reflected a frantic fight for breath. What looked like a mild measles rash scattered in a bandit mask pattern across the woman’s face was in fact a sign of asphyxiation. Death had not been a sudden escape – she had time to comprehend what was happening to her.

Minnie’s first impression was a trick gone bad. This victim had no obvious defensive wounds so whoever had betrayed her trust had been swift and purposeful. There were no signs of remarkable savagery on the corpse: no cigarette burns, stab wounds, bite marks or missing body parts – all private perversions Minnie had seen practiced on prostitutes before, the ones thrown out in the woods to rot like garden mulch. In the beginning, this must have been a compliant victim.

Sergeant Raye stood up and traversed the same path back across the parking lot to avoid unnecessary contamination of the scene. No closer examination of the victim was possible until the ME and his team arrived to process the body.

This was not going to be a quick collar, no easy pieces. Prostitutes kept careless company, dangerous liaisons which were furtive, ephemeral and anonymous thus becoming easy prey all too often. Dumpers were the hardest cases to crack. No murder scene, few clues, no witnesses. Not a good beginning for Minnie’s first case at Central – a real shitcan.

Last winter, Sergeant Raye had headed the interagency task force tracking the sicko plywood worker who had carved up a dozen prossies, chopped off their lips as souvenirs and dumped the bodies in a foothill forest. For months the night ladies working Sandy Boulevard and Eighty-Second Avenue stayed off the streets as the body count climbed. They got lucky when one victim survived her ordeal and ID’d the sonuvabitch.

Minnie considered herself a true warrior in the crusade to keep the city safe – even for prossies and bag ladies on her beat – and what turned her on most was catching bad guys. Nothing else in life was ever as compelling. What could she be except a cop?

A thirty-four year old Louisiana Creole, a descendant of fiery Gulf shrimpers and Baptist preachers, Minola Raye had moved to Oregon after college, looking for a place where she could own her own failure or success. Back in Baton Rouge, she had a large extended family including three tough older brothers who schooled her in steely competition. As adults all the Raye kids were drawn to challenges which tested their physical endurance. The oldest son was a Gulf War veteran with the 82nd Airborne who liked to hang glide and scale mountains in his leisure time. The middle boy had been a wide receiver for the Bengals, and the youngest brother ran a deep-sea salvage business in Florida. There were no quitters, no slackers, no sympathy for underachievers in the Raye family. On reflection, Minnie often told her parents, her sibling struggles in childhood as the perennial underdog had been a perfect preparation for police work.

Raye had transfered to Central Precinct when a vacancy opened up with the resignation of Detective Sergeant John Bowers’ former partner. She couldn’t believe her good fortune when the chance to ride with Bowers came her way – he was a Bureau legend of some proportions, a hard-working, upfront vet who didn’t take himself too seriously, old school and hard as hell to bullshit, but that only made Minnie want to partner with him all the more. And then there was the physical aspect – an added attraction Minnie did not underrate. Bowers was a guy women felt challenged to break into. And Minola Raye majored in romantic B and E’s.

Her petite size belied the case-hardened tenacity which marked her reputation as a seasoned investigator. With her short, curly black hair, Orphan-Annie eyes and curvy, Rubenesque figure, Minnie was often the star of more than one peer’s prurient daydream.

Everyone agreed that Minnie Raye and John Bowers were going to make a formidable team at Central if Commander Hall could figure a way to mix the duo’s flammable personalities without starting a Bureau meltdown. Bowers had the years of experience, the gut-radar which could zero in on a crime scene and pick up a perp’s trail as if he’d already read the last chapter of the book. Minnie had a drag strip mentality: no waiting around to make a tighter case for the DA, just jump on the bastards before the lights turned red.

Working her newest homicide this morning, Sergeant Raye surveyed the scene with methodical efficiency. She allowed herself to dwell on nothing beyond the desire to make a solid arrest and close the case with a conviction. There was absolutely no allowance in her agenda for emotional engagement, sappy sympathy or outrage. Cops who got personal with their vics morphed into head cases and burned out fast.

Nails are clean, not even chipped, she observed to Detective Mac Bando hovering at her side. Gels. Since this working girl could afford a pricey manicure, her clients may have been a cut above the regular johns in bowling league windbreakers cruising the streets in ratty four-by-fours. I don’t recognize her from the East Side.

Me neither, Sarge. See what hits we get on prints. They would run the fingerprints through AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identity System database, to ID the victim. It seemed a sure bet they’d pull up an arrest record for solicitation, trespass, loitering, PCS. The usual menu.

Anybody by here on patrol last night?

Pete Rasmussen had a 2200 Code 3 medical at the Mexican joint on Vaughn. Didn’t see a thing. Bando took a look over his shoulder at the small crowd of railroad workers gathering along the tracks at the end of Nicolai. Want to close em down, Sarge?

Call Burlington Northern and get a supervisor on the horn. We need to walk the tracks before any trains roll. And get those yahoos back to where they came from.

Emergency calls generated a swarm of gapers and gawkers who clogged the streets around a crime scene, complicated communications and were a general pain in the ass. Reporters on the police beat were often as bad as civilians out for a cheap thrill.

Here we go. Minnie nodded toward the team of blue jackets congregating at the forward command post. CID was getting ready to process the scene.

The Criminal Identification Division comprised Police Bureau criminalists assigned from the Investigative Branch to cover every homicide. This morning, since it seemed they had only half the picture, a corpse but no murder scene, the coroner’s staff would assist the Bureau with evidence collection.

A sporty Land Rover pulled around the blockade of city cruisers and parked behind the CID van. A moment later, a familiar face poked through the sea of blue uniforms and broke open in a generous smile on spotting Minnie Raye.

Hi, Deacon. What took you so long? She hailed him first, beating the medical examiner to the quip, a game she knew he enjoyed.

Pathologist Wyndham Clivon was called Deacon by everyone including his immediate family. The nickname referred to his stint as a deaconate in the Episcopal Church before he chose medicine and forensic pathology as more rewarding pursuits. My fuzz buster is on the fritz. I had to suppress my normal anticipatory zeal for our rendezvous, Sergeant, and drive like a responsible citizen for once. He winked, buttoned the top of his cardigan and took a first look at the corpse. As he approached, his greeting smile vanished, replaced by a professional countenance which belied no emotion to be misinterpreted by reporters, mourners, critics or defense attorneys perusing the crime scene films.

How’s your drowning? Minnie asked, stepping aside for the ME’s assistant.

Three boys on the beach see an inner tube float by. Two boys can swim so the third kid wades in up to his neck to get the tube, steps in a hole and disappears. We think we’ll live forever, don’t we?

"That’s definitely