Page 8 of Diamonds in the Mud

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.”