Chapter 2

"Let us not be too particular; it is better to have old secondhand diamonds than none at all."

–Mark Twain

Rayne

For the next few hours after returning to my office, I interviewed everyone in the Taylor family. Henry Taylor was the perfect picture of a grieving husband. Even though he had been with another woman the last night of his wife's life, he played the part perfectly.

I knew there were people out there that had open marriages and, even though it was extremely difficult for me, I had to let that slide. What I saw was a man who was in complete shock that his wife was gone.

The way he'd been when he'd seen her lying on their entryway floor… there was no faking the horror in his eyes.

The two Taylor boys, Beau and Wyatt, came into the station for their interviews at different times. Beau had been in Lafayette for a week for a job and had rushed home hours after finding out about his mother. His alibi checked out, and I was fairly sure the guy was more pissed at whoever had dared to do this than he was grief-stricken at the loss of his mother. But I knew anger was a step in the recovery from losing someone so violently.

Wyatt had spent the night with his on again, off again girlfriend Clara Mangrum. Clara worked at the station in the Standards and Accountability office. I didn't know where exactly, either Internal Affairs or records.

Before I even had a chance to contact Wyatt to have him come in for an interview, Clara knocked on my office door. The woman's short brown hair was cut in that new style all the newly graduated girls wore.

I didn't know much about her other than she was roughly nineteen or twenty. The Taylor boys were my age, which meant there was easily a ten-year difference.

"Got a sec?" Clara asked.

I motioned to the chair across from my desk. "Shut the door," I said and waited until she settled in the seat.

"Wyatt was with me last night. The whole night," she blurted out.

"Okay." I waited.

"I saw you meeting with Beau, and the whole town is talking about his mother's death, so I figured you'd be calling Wyatt next," she added.

I nodded. "I was just about to call him in."

She smiled. "Now you don't have to." She started to get up, but I held my hand up, stopping her.

"I'll still need to talk to him personally," I said and motioned for her to sit back down. "Plus, I'll need more details from you." I flipped open my notepad while she sank back in the chair.

"I'll need your address," I asked.

Clara rattled off an address on the east side of town.

The Taylor's plantation sat directly outside the highway circling Gemsville, to the northeast. Not a long drive from Clara's house.

I'd pegged her from the first day as having been raised with money. The clothes she wore, her hairstyle, and the fact that she always had diamonds in her ears weren't the only clues. She walked and talked like someone who had done everything she could to avoid letting anyone know she was from a small town in Louisiana.

"Do you live there alone?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered. I raised my eyebrows at her. "My parents summer in Maine."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "And they live in Gemsville the rest of the time?"

She sighed. "No, they bought a winter home in Florida last year after I graduated."

I nodded. "They left you the house?"

She shrugged. "They haven't sold it out from under me, if that's what you're asking."

"Are you going to college?" I asked.

She shrugged again. "I was going to community college, but after getting this job and…" She dropped off.

I waited. "Go on," I said when she didn't continue.

She sighed. "After I started seeing Wyatt, I dropped out."

"Any reason?" I asked.

"Wyatt is important to me," she said, and once more I waited for more details. "He doesn't like to date women smarter than he is."

I chuckled and then balked when I realized she meant it.

"Seriously?" I asked.

She nodded. I rolled my eyes and could tell that she was embarrassed at her admission.

"What time did you and he meet up yesterday?" I asked, trying to focus on the questions.

"After I got off work. We went to Louie's for dinner."

Louie's was an upscale restaurant that sat on the banks of the river. Most nights there was music on the patio and deck area that hung over the water's edge. Still, the place charged more for a burger than I wanted to pay, so I didn't normally frequent the joint.

"How long did you stay?" I asked.

"Until the band stopped playing, around midnight. Then we headed to my place. I tried to convince Wyatt to move back in with me…" She shook her head, sending her spiky hair to sway. "He was there until he got the call from his dad this morning about what had happened."

I had a few more questions for her but my phone rang and she motioned that she had to get back to work.

When Wyatt came in half an hour later, he corroborated Clara's story down to every last detail. He had the appearance of a grieving son, emotions that I was sure his brother would eventually reach. The fact that Wyatt was further along in the healing process didn't surprise me. Wyatt had always been a few steps ahead of Beau in life.

After I had the immediate family interviews done, I knew there was one major loose end I had to tie up, so I took a stroll down the street to Sabrina DeRouen's office at the local newspaper building.

"Got a sec?" I asked her when I knocked on her office door.

Her eyes narrowed and she nodded slowly at me.

"Good." I smiled and moved to stand next to her. "Stand up, hands behind your back." I pulled out my handcuffs.

"You are not doing this." She groaned.

My smile grew. "Sure I am." I waited.

She took a deep breath and then shook her head. "Why? For taking a picture?"

"You were on my crime scene moments after I arrived. I'd like to know why. For now, let's call it trespassing. Oh, and bring the drive from that fancy camera you carry around."

"You have my camera," she pointed out.

"And you have the drive." I held up the cuffs. "Coming?" I tilted my head and remained silent.

"Rayne," she groaned.

"We can do this the hard way?" I wiggled the cuffs. "Or we can just take a little stroll. I seem to remember outdoing you on the mats last time we sparred. You're still a brown belt?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I quit karate when we were thirteen."

"Still." I motioned for her to stand up and turn around.

"This is stupid." She threw her hands up and stood, motioning for me to lead the way.

"Everything okay, Sabrina?" Larry, the editor of the paper, asked from the doorway.

"Just taking Sabrina in for a few questions," I said cheerfully as I put my cuffs back in my pocket.

"You girls really should learn to get along again," Larry said, shaking his head.

"This isn't necessary," Sabrina said as we walked down the sidewalk together.

"Sure it is. Do you know why?" I asked as I held the door to the station open for her.

"Why?" Sabrina asked.

"Because you embarrassed me by sneaking onto my crime scene," I answered as I ushered her towards one of the interview rooms. "I'd like to know how you knew to be there."

I motioned for her to get comfortable. When she sat down in the chair, I smiled and said, "I'll be back."

I walked out of the room, making sure the door was locked behind me, and grabbed a cup of coffee. I enjoyed every sip of the foul-tasting mug before walking back into the room half an hour later.

"You're a child," Sabrina said when I finally sat across from her.

"I need that camera drive," I said in return.

"What drive?" Sabrina smiled.

I laughed.

Sabrina DeRouen was my best and worst enemy. I think we butted heads because we were so much alike. I appreciated her smarts, her wit, and her strength. I'm sure she felt the same about me.

We had been close friends when we were younger. I liked to think we still were. Only, the friendship we had was nothing like the one I had with anyone else in town. We seemed to feed off one another. Yin and yang. The connection of complementary forces connected by the common goal of doing right in the world.

I had become a cop while Sabrina had turned to telling the world the hidden truths.

"Why were you at the Taylor's this morning?" I asked.

"I followed you and Owen," she answered quickly. My eyebrows rose slightly. "Officer Morrison."

"Why?" I asked.

"You don't go out on many calls. When you do, it tends to be… newsworthy. I've followed you on a few other calls that ended up helping me build my career." She leaned on the table. "I followed a hunch and it paid off."

Yeah, I knew Sabrina often followed me around town. This morning, however, since I hadn't been driving, I hadn't noticed or even looked out for her bright blue Honda in the rear mirror.

"Where were you last night up until you walked into my crime scene?" I asked.

Sabrina leaned back in the chair and took a moment to answer.

"Nowhere near the Taylor's place. I worked at the office until around nine. Went home, alone, and was back at my office around six. When I knew it was going to be a slow workday, I headed across the street for coffee and a muffin. I spotted you and Owen heading out and took a chance." She tilted her head. "How many suspects do you have?"

"You don't get to ask questions," I pointed out. "You were seeing Beau Taylor at one point," I said, looking down at my file.

Sabrina laughed. "In junior high school. Up until I found out he is a narcissist."

"What about Wyatt?" I asked.

She shook her head. "He has a whole different set of issues that I didn't want to try fixing."

"The drive?" I said, holding out my hand.

It was another half an hour before she finally coughed over the drive and I released her to go back to work. It was obvious that she had nothing to do with Sharon's murder. Still, I admired her strength and persistence as she peppered me with questions.

At this moment, I had to keep my cards close to my chest. A murderer was lurking in the shadows of this town, fully convinced they had just evaded justice. Any misstep on my part could unravel the entire investigation just as it was getting started. The thought of not catching Sharon's murderer weighed heavily on me for the rest of the day.

First thing the following morning, as I was scanning over the autopsy reports, Sherry tossed a newspaper on my desk. The image of me kneeling over the mayor's mutilated body was front and center on the cover.

"Son of a…" I dropped off as I scanned the headline and article. "I should have used the cuffs on Sabrina DeRouen." I groaned as I tossed the paper down on my desk.

Sherry chuckled. "You two either need to fight or fuck," she said as she turned and walked out of my office.

I thought of paying the local newspaper office another visit, but my day was stacked as it was. I had more than a dozen interviews lined up. Every single employee in the mayor's office was scheduled to come in and sit with me.

The day after that, the story broke nationwide, and the image of me hovering over Sharon Taylor flashed on every television screen in the world. Some of them blurred the gruesome details out. Others didn't even bother.

In the next few days, I finished interviewing everyone who had ever worked in the mayor's office. The woman's secretary was the one coordinating the funeral arrangements, since she was an old family friend.

In the mayor's absence, Jackson Pennington, the city council president, filled her shoes. I had tried several times to get in to interview him, but I had only been able to talk to his secretary so far.

Everyone else in the city building cooperated with me. Not only because I'd known every one of them my entire life but because they were good people who cared about what had happened.

I had yet to interview anyone down at Bayou Brews and Blues, where Henry Taylor had spent the night his wife was killed.

I had never met Faye Baker before. She, like Clara, was almost ten years younger than I was. I didn't know her from school and I doubted I could pick her out of the handful of other waitresses that worked at the bar. Even though I'd frequented the place, she wasn't one of the waitresses that I knew personally. Yet.

Even though it was too early for most of the staff to be in the bar, I headed down to Bayou Brews and Blues just before lunch.

Kenya Jackson, the manager of the bar, unlocked the door for me.

"Morning, officer." The woman ran her eyes up and down me. "We don't open for another half hour."

"Is Faye Baker around?" I asked, glancing inside. I could see Evelyn Hart, Zoey Thompson, and Autumn Carter, all waitresses, setting up for the day.

"No, she's out for the week." Kenya leaned on the door. "Can I help you?"

"Kenya, we both know why I need to talk to Faye. When will she be working?" I asked. "Better yet, why don't you tell me where she's staying?"

Kenya's smile flashed. "Get a warrant."

"Better yet, how about I get an inspection?" I warned, nodding towards the bar.

"My place is clean," Kenya countered, her eyes narrowing.

"Then you have nothing to fear from an inspection." I waited.

"She lives upstairs." She motioned above her with her chin. "Third floor." My eyebrows arched in surprise. "But I know for a fact that she's not there today."

Without waiting, I headed towards the iron stairs on the side of the alleyway that led up to the third floor.

I knocked on the door for almost five minutes.

After slipping one of my cards into the door handle with a quick note on the back, I headed back down and stopped when I saw Evelyn leaning against the back door, smoking.

"You have rats," Evelyn said firmly. My eyes narrowed slightly. "The kind that scurry around in the middle of the night. The kind that talk and tell stories they shouldn't," she added.

I understood her meaning instantly. She was saying someone in the precinct was dirty.

"Have any names for me?" I asked.

She tilted her head slightly, then shook it. "No. But I'm sure you can find out how many there are yourself. After all, you're the famous detective that's all over the news right now." She smiled, dropped her cigarette, toed it into the pavement, and walked back inside.

I turned to go and then stopped and flashed a smile.

"Drinking already?" Aria Hartwell, my best friend since, well, as long as I could remember, said as she walked toward me on the sidewalk.

"No, just work," I answered.

Aria was pretty much my opposite in looks. I was a very firm five foot eight inches tall while Aria was a petite five foot even. My long dark brown hair looked dull next to her short spiky platinum blonde style, even with the caramel highlights she'd given me. Then there were my brown eyes, which were dull compared to her shiny sky-blue ones.

Still, our friendship was probably one of the most solid things in my life. Shortly after graduating, Aria attended cosmetology school and then opened up her own hair salon business, Jazzed Up, which was the sole reason I always had caramel highlights in my hair.

"You didn't respond to my text." She wiggled her bright teal phone in my face.

"I'm working," I replied as I fell in step with her while we headed towards her salon.

"Are you on for this weekend?" she asked, wrapping her arm in mine.

"Maybe," I answered and got an immediate groan from Aria.

"Rayne," she whined.

"What time? Where?" I asked.

"We were thinking of heading to Alexandria. There's this little bar?—"

"Nope." I stopped. "What about…" I motioned with my head back towards Bayou Brews.

Aria sighed. "Do you want to stick close to home or is it a work thing?"

"Both," I answered.

Aria rolled her eyes. "Fine, we'll see you there at eight?"

I nodded.

Then she reached up and touched my hair. "You're due for a trim. When you bring your mom in, I'll carve out time."

"I don't know if Edith wants to come in yet," I answered.

Aria's blue eyes turned sad. "I have everything set for her when she's ready. It has to be her decision though." She leaned in and hugged me. "Go, be a detective. Catch a bad guy or girl," she added with a smile.

"See you this weekend," I called out as she let herself into her building.

I glanced around the town and watched people come and go.

The older part of downtown had morphed into a very nice place to be. When I'd been in high school, I could scarcely remember ever wanting to be down here let alone walk on the sidewalk alone.

Back then, most of the old buildings had sat empty or had dusty antique stores in them. There had been a handful of old smoky bars that only the hardest drunks frequented.

Now we had four popular restaurants, more than a dozen little shops like Aria's place, clothing stores, and a home goods store. Two very popular bars had live music and packed out each weekend.

"Hey, Rayne," someone called out as they passed by in a car.

I waved and then walked back to the station. I unlocked my office door and tossed my keys down on the desk. I sat down and glanced around my office. It was a little messy, but I had gotten so caught up in the case that I hadn't taken the time to clean. There were files scattered everywhere, along with several cups of coffee.

I picked up a cup of cold coffee, hoping it was the one from this morning, and quickly chugged down the cold liquid.

I was not even close to solving this case. Usually, I was one of the first people at the station in the morning and the last one to leave.

I took my work very seriously and wanted to do whatever it took to make my fellow officers and my community feel safe.

The murderer had either been very smart and had covered their tracks or had gotten lucky and left very few clues. My guess was the first one. We were dealing with someone who planned this out. They wanted Sharon dead for a reason.

One thing was clear at this point—this wasn't a crime of passion. Even the gruesome way she'd died, there was an art to it. Each slice was meticulous. Calculated. Precise.

We were still going through all of the fingerprints lifted from the home, but thus far, there weren't any that didn't belong to the family, close friends, or coworkers. Any of them could be the murderer.

The murder weapon hadn't been found anywhere in the home or on the grounds. Since the driveway was part gravel and part asphalt, there weren't any tire tracks to look out for either.

Hell, there wasn't even a muddy boot print to go off.

I scoured the reports until my eyes blurred. Sherry dropped off a sandwich that I'd ordered along with a cold soda from the machine in the lobby area.

I hadn't realized it had gotten so late until Randy knocked on my door.

"Go home," he said, running his eyes over my messy office. "And clean your room," he added with a wink.

"Night." I waved to him as he left.

Standing up and stretching, I accidentally knocked over a stack of paperwork. When I picked up the folder that had fallen, I noticed something odd in one of the files. Someone had gone through it, taking some of the pages and replacing them with blank ones.

After half an hour of glancing through all the files, I realized that they had all been tampered with in some way. I had no idea who would have done this or why they would have done it. My office was always locked. The files were always kept inside a locked drawer or file cabinet.

Only Randy and I had keys. Not even the cleaning crew that came in after hours to clean the building had keys to my office. I normally left my full trash bin just outside for them to empty each evening.

I sat back down at my desk and went through the files, trying to figure out what had happened. I had files on each of the suspects in this case. Files I had worked very hard on putting together since the murder.

The only file that was missing pages was the one on Jackson Pennington. Why his file?

So far, the man was low on my radar to interview in Sharon's death. Yes, he and Sharon worked together in the county building downtown but, as far as I could tell, that was as far as their relationship went.

His prints hadn't appeared anywhere in the Taylor home. Yet.

Besides the fact that they owned half of the town, Pennington's family was a mystery. The man had come into town more than five years back, reeking of wealth. The first thing he'd done was buy up half of the businesses and properties and raise rents everywhere.

I'd never seen the man without an expensive suit on and at least two secretaries following behind him getting anything he wanted. He oozed wealth and knew how to show it off. He wore arrogance as well as he wore his Armani suit.

I pulled up the digital files and compared them to the physical files to see what was missing.

It seemed to be timelines of the man's schedule that I'd gotten from his secretary. One of the reasons I'd put him lower on the list of suspects was because he'd been out of town when Sharon had been killed, which had been estimated as between one fifteen and one forty-five in the morning.

None of the missing papers seemed all that important. Not that I could tell, at any rate.

I printed extra copies of the missing papers and replaced them in the files and then finished cleaning up and organizing my office. Then I took the files home with me.

By that weekend, I was seriously running on fumes. With only a handful of clues, which didn't amount to squat, and a very small list of suspects, I was growing frustrated.