Page 2 of Diamonds in the Mud

Sherry sighed and shook her head. “Can’t, everyone is out on morning calls already. It’s you and the rookie.”

I held in a groan. Owen Morrison wasn’t really a rookie. He’d been there almost two years. It had taken almost three years of working behind this desk before they stopped calling me a rookie.

“I’ll make a call to the Taylors.” I reached for my phone only to have Sherry make a tsking sound. “What?” I set my phone back down.

“I tried that. No one answered,” she responded.

I frowned. “Okay,” I said slowly.

Sherry sighed. “Rayne, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job⁠—”

She stopped when I laughed, a dry burst that I hoped would show Sherry just how humorous I thought her statement was. It must have done the job because her eyes narrowed at me and her lips twitched slightly. “Okay, so that’s how it is,” she said with a nod, sending her hair flying again. “Girl, get your skinny white-as-a-ghost butt out of that chair and drive out to that god-ugly plantation, which is a high-and-mighty symbol of all the Taylor family took from my people decades ago, and check it out in person. I know you’re not a beat cop, but you’re still a cop. And take the rookie with you.”

Before I could respond, she turned on her heels and strolled out of my office.

Damn it. She was right.

I held in a groan and grabbed the paper bag with my now very cold bacon kolache in it and headed out the door.

“Where you off to, boss?” Owen Morrison asked as I walked by. He was one of the Strategic Intel Analysis Officers, or SIAs, under me.

I stopped a few feet from him and narrowed my eyes at the blond man. He was roughly my age, tall and blond. He looked like a Greek god and was sexy enough that there was a line of women hoping to hang on his arm each weekend. Even though he ticked a few of my must-have marks, such as his many tattoos and general bad-boy vibe, I hadn’t fallen for his tricks. Mainly because I knew that there was only half a brain under that gorgeous blond head of hair.

“What have you got going right now?” I asked begrudgingly. I didn’t want to drag the man with me, but if he drove I might have enough time to eat my cold food.

Owen shrugged. “Nothing.”

I nodded for him to follow me. “We’re heading out to the Taylor plantation for a Code 415,” I threw over my shoulder at him. “You’re driving.”

While Owen drove, I downed my cold breakfast and scanned through the day’s headlines on my phone. By the time we pulled into the long drive to the plantation, which was lined with hundred-year-old oak trees, I was feeling more myself, but the image of the puppies’ bodies was still seared in my brain as I climbed out of the patrol car and headed up the long stone pathway to the massive wood and glass doors.

“Jesus, look at this place,” Owen said beside me.

“Watch your language, officer,” I mumbled just as I rang the doorbell. I knew how stuffy the Taylors were. The family was easily one of the most influential in town, not to mention in the largest church in the county.

I watched Owen straighten his shoulders and quickly cracked my fingers as I waited.

When no one answered, I took a step closer to the door to peer through the etched-glass windows.

“Shit,” I groaned. I closed my eyes at the horror I’d gotten a glimpse of just inside the massive entryway of the home. The image of the dead puppies was no longer the most gruesome thing in my mind.

“What?” Owen said from behind me.

Reaching out, I nudged the door with my elbow. I wasn’t surprised when the heavy door slid open smoothly.

“Boss?” Owen cautioned.

“Get me a wagon here stat,” I said, before stepping inside. “And call the captain,” I tossed over my shoulder. “Scratch that, call the Chief,” I said upon seeing Mayor Sharon Taylor lying on the gray-and-white Italian marble floor with half of her face missing.

“Shit,” Owen groaned behind me. I glanced back just in time to see my officer lose his breakfast outside the front door.

“Clean that up,” I barked at him. “After you make those calls.”

We both turned when we heard a car pull up behind the patrol car.

Seeing the pink Cadillac, I groaned. It was the same one that Sharon and Henry Taylor drove all over town. In her younger years, long before she or her husband had dipped their toes into politics, Sharon Taylor had sold Mary Kay products.

“Is that the husband?” Owen asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.