Diamonds in the Mud

Prologue

From the case files of the local police department in Avoyelles Parish, Louisiana, dated November 3rd:

"Today at approximately 06:15 a.m. CST, Officers James Lee and Randy Cordova were out on patrol on County Road 56 near mile marker 38 when they pulled onto the highway’s shoulder to remove some tree debris in the road from last night’s storm.

Officer Cordova claims that roughly five minutes after pulling over, he heard a sound like that of a dying animal emanating from the eastern marsh. The officers worked their way approximately thirty feet into the wetlands and then called for immediate backup when they spotted a child. They were unable to reach the exact spot without sinking into the marsh themselves.

When Chief Roswell arrived, it took the three of them almost half an hour to pull the young girl, estimated to be about five years old, out of the soggy marsh. She had been buried chest-deep in the mud and was covered with bug bites and what appeared to be burns and lacerations.

The child was rushed to the medical center where it was estimated that she had been stuck in the marsh for more than twenty-four hours. The girl, who couldn’t remember her name, was severely dehydrated and…"

The rest of the words in the handwritten report were smudged and no longer legible.

Chapter One

A real diamond is never perfect.

–Anthony Doerr

Rayne

I finished typing my single-page report and immediately fought the urge to wad it up and chuck it at someone’s head.

Who in the hell would do such a thing?

An entire box of puppies, no older than a few hours old, had been tossed into the dumpster behind the Piggly Wiggly on O’Riley Street. Their little bodies were stuck in place due to the tar-like substance that someone had poured all over their fur.

I’d seen a lot in the five years since I’d taken the job as investigations lieutenant at the PD in my hometown of Gemsville, Louisiana, but this was the worst thing I’d ever laid eyes on. The worst kinds of criminals were those who harmed the innocent and weak.

Gemsville was built like a lot of small towns scattered all over the South. The city and county buildings and the old town center were in the heart of the town, which was circled by a large highway. Most of the businesses, schools, and homes were in the inner circle. The Red River ran smack through the middle of the town and was the unofficial separation between classes.

The larger, higher-class homes sat to the east side of the river while the smaller ones were on the west. These rules were set long before I’d been born, and most of the businesses followed them too, except for the businesses directly downtown, which had been renovated in the past ten years or so. Most of them catered to younger crowds in an effort to drive money into the revived location.

Since taking this job in the town I’d been raised in, home of some forty-thousand people, I’d witnessed drug overdoses, spousal and child abuse, and straight-up murders. Still, I knew that the box of dead puppies would be the thing to keep me up at night.

It wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning and my gut was rolling. I doubted I could eat the kolache I’d picked up before getting the call about the dogs.

Rayne? Someone knocked on my door, and I jerked my head up from my messy desk. We got a call. Sherry Ericson, the PD’s version of an office assistant, stuck her head in my door. The woman’s perfect mocha-colored skin always reminded me that I should take better care of my own skin.

A call? I asked, waiting. I knew Sherry did things on her own time. If she was ever in a hurry, that’s when I knew I’d better start to worry.

She leaned on my doorway and sighed. You know the two Bobbys?

I rolled my eyes. What’d they do now?

Nothing. She shook her head back, sending her beautiful afro swaying. Which reminded me that I was probably due for a hair appointment. How long had it been? A year? I reached up as I waited for Sherry to finish the story and played with the split ends in my muddy brown, straight-as-a-nail hair. They called in to complain about loud noises coming from the Taylor’s last night around one.

This surprised me. The two Bobbys, as everyone in the precinct called them, were Robert Elwood Sr. and Robert Elwood Jr. Over the course of the last ten years or so, the father and son duo had spent more time in the drunk tank than they’d spent in their own beds. What surprised me wasn’t the fact that the Bobbys had called the cops, but that they’d called about a noise problem at Henry and Sharon Taylor’s residence. The Taylors were Gemsville’s very own It family. Sharon Taylor had recently been re-elected as the town’s mayor, while her husband sat on almost every single board in town, including the school board, the city council, and the boards responsible for planning and building, parks and recreation, and historical preservation. He even sometimes sat in on the police and fire district meetings. The family had their hands in everything that was Gemsville.

The Bobbys’ single-wide trailer sat less than five hundred yards from the Taylor’s old ten-thousand-square-foot mansion and its pristine ten-acre, perfectly manicured yard. The historic plantation, complete with white marble columns, had been in Henry Taylor’s family since the slave trading days. It was a historic gem and also one of the largest homes in the parish.

There were a lot of rumors around town about the Taylor plantation. Some were good and some, like the fact that it was haunted, not so good.

It was a well-known fact that the Taylors never let common people, such as they considered me to be, into the massive place. Every year during the holidays, they held an elite ball with a very exclusive guest list that included ten other couples either from very wealthy families or of high political station. They never allowed anyone single into the mix, or so the rumors said. There were a few exceptions for coworkers who held power or money, but that was it.

The fact that the two Bobbys had heard a loud noise coming from the place didn’t sit well with me.

So, have a couple uniforms stop by and⁠—

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.

Yup. Go make yourself useful and play offensive lineman. Don’t let him inside, I added when he narrowed his eyes at me. Then I nudged Owen towards the older man, who was storming up the drive with a very angry look on his face.

Stepping into the home again, I pulled out my cell phone and made the call to the chief of police myself. Instantly, I noticed the temperature change inside. The air must have been turned up high. How much did it cost to cool the massive place? Too much, I thought as the phone rang.

Chief Randy Cordova picked up on the second ring.

Hey, sweetie. Just hearing his voice made me smile.

Hey, I said, then I dropped the smile as I turned to the mess that used to be the mayor of the town. I have a Code 187 at the Taylor residence. I paused. It’s Sharon. I walked over and knelt beside what I assumed was her neck area and felt for a pulse. DOA, I added.

Shit. Randy sighed. Have you secured the scene?

Yes, I said just as Henry Taylor burst through the door, pushing Owen into what looked like an antique table, knocking over a massive vase that held more than two dozen long-stem white roses.

I closed my eyes at the sound of the loud crash as Randy screamed in my ear, What was that?

I’ll call you back. Just get the crew out here. I hung up the phone in time to catch Henry Taylor from throwing up and passing out all over his dead wife.

Damn it, officer! I screamed. Get this man out of my crime scene.

Owen jumped up and then stumbled forward, keeping his eyes far from the scene behind my shoulder as I pushed the now almost unconscious Henry Taylor into his arms.

I swear to god, this is the last time I take you on a call, I mumbled towards Owen.

I’m good with that, Owen shot back as he half pulled, half carried the man back out of the door.

Now there was water from the vase, flowers, and bits of broken vase all over my crime scene. Shit.

Turning around, I crushed one of the white flowers under my boot and sent a silent curse up to the heavens. What in the fuck did I do to deserve this?

Taking several calm breaths, I straightened my shoulders, pulled out my phone, and snapped a few photos of the scene before the spilled water could reach the body. Then I turned on the recording app on my phone and started taking notes. No detail was too small.

I pretty much had photographic memory, but the recordings helped to remind me of small details.

I noted the temperature of the home. The position of the body. What she was wearing. The fact that the front door hadn’t been locked or shut all the way.

I glanced around and rattled off a few key notes about items found near her, such as rugs, furniture, and a slipper that had fallen off her foot and was lying almost two feet away.

Then I knelt next to the body and started listing off things about her.

There was black soot on her left index finger, and a small sample of blood under her nails. She might have fought back at one point or it could be her blood. The forensic pathologist would determine that.

There were more than two dozen stab wounds to the chest, face, hands, arms, and legs that I could see. Part of her face was hamburger meat. Could a knife cause such damage?

I glanced around the room for the weapon.

Stepping over more white roses, I knelt beside the body again.

From what I could remember of Sharon Taylor, she’d been a woman roughly sixty years old. She had sandy blonde hair that was always in style and perfectly highlighted, and she dressed in the most expensive fashions.

I glanced down at the simple gray pants, dark black hiking boots, and black button-up shirt that I normally wore. It wasn’t that I didn’t have style, I just didn’t wear it to work. Not when there was a possibility of getting vomit, piss, or blood on me.

Just then, the front door opened. I jerked my head up and was instantly blinded by the flash from a camera. Not the small flashes you have on a cell phone, the real deal. The kind attached to cameras that made a noise when they snapped a picture.

For less than a second, I was blinded completely.

Owen! I screamed as I started blinking frantically.

Shit! I heard Owen say and then I focused my eyes just in time to see him struggling to pull back a dark-haired woman. I didn’t get a look at her face as a mass of long wavy dark hair blocked my view. Still, I knew exactly who it was and held in a groan.

Detain her, I called out, shaking my head and blinking a few dozen times. Handcuff her if you have to, I yelled as I rubbed my eyes to force them to focus again. When I could see more than a few inches in front of my face again, I turned back to my job.

Sharon was dressed in a bathrobe. The sexy kind, not your average stay-at-home-and-watch-a-movie-on-the-weeknight kind. The kind that said, You’ll like what’s underneath.

I pulled the pen out of my pocket and nudged the silk aside. Yup, more silk in hot pink underneath.

I glanced up at the door when I heard shouting, which brought a few questions to mind. Where were their twin boys, Beau and Wyatt. Did they still live at home? I’d gone to school with them. They’d been stars in every sport and members of every club in school, while I’d been a shy kid who had enjoyed dissecting lab animals and working hard for both of my black belts, but I still knew almost everything there was to know about the two most popular boys in my class. Maybe that was the reason that Owen, a blond clean-cut super-jock, wasn’t my type? The brothers fit that mold and were, well, spoiled brats.

Why in the hell was the husband just getting home? Were they separated? I hadn’t heard any rumors about it. Then again, I wasn’t the gossiping type.

I jotted down a few questions in my notepad as I glanced around the room. I stood up and started to head further into the room but stopped when I heard a car door slam outside. I moved towards the door, trying not to slip in the water from the flowers or crush any more roses under my boots.

Damn it, Owen, I barked when I saw a dark sedan peel out of the driveway.

She’s a slippery one, Owen said with a smirk. I narrowed my eyes at him. Shit, boss, Sabrina’s not going anywhere. He held up a camera.

Sabrina? I asked. Since when are you and DeRouen on a first-name basis? I narrowed my eyes as Owen looked guiltily at me.

Sabrina DeRouen was the town’s hottest on-scene reporter. I’d known the woman for as long as I could remember. She was by far the nosiest person in town. Well, right behind me. At any rate, she had a reputation for not letting up on anything she sank her teeth into. I was the same way, which is why I made a damned good investigations lieutenant.

How in the hell did she know what’s going on here? I asked.

Owen shrugged. She said she got a tip that she should head out here from an anonymous caller. I took her camera so we should be good.

I reached up and flipped open the back of the Canon camera. Yeah, she played you. I pointed out that the SD card slot was empty.

Shit. Owen ran his hands through his hair. Sorry, boss.

Was that Sharon? Henry Taylor asked from where he sat on one of the cushioned lounge chairs on the massive porch. Who would have done such a thing to her? The man ran his hands through his hair.

Henry Taylor was a lot like his sons. Fit, blonde, and for a man his age, very good-looking. Both the Taylors had been fit to my recollection. The rumors were they were looking to buy the twenty-four-hour gym that sat on the outskirts of town.

Bag that, I told Owen, motioning towards the camera. You’re batting zero, buddy, I warned him. I’ll have your badge if you don’t… Owen’s eyebrows shot up and I sighed. Just because your daddy is the damned deputy chief of police doesn’t mean I can’t send you to the hole and have you filing papers for the rest of your life, I hissed, and then I walked over and sat next to Henry.

Mr. Taylor, do you know who I am? I asked firmly.

The man wiped his eyes with his hands and then nodded. Detective Rayne.

I nodded. Then you know my reputation around town. It was meant as a warning, but I could see by the way the man was looking at me that he’d taken it as a promise that I’d catch whoever did this to his wife. Want to tell me exactly where you were? He frowned as he looked down into his hands. Where did you just come from? I switched tactics.

The Bayou, Henry mumbled.

Bayou Brews and Blues was one of the many dive bars in town. I knew for a fact that it closed down at one each morning.

I made a show of glancing at my watch slowly. It was a quarter past eight, which meant that the man had been MIA for more than seven hours.

I… Henry jerked his gaze up and then added, Stayed late.

With? I asked, understanding his meaning. The handful of waitresses that worked at Bayou’s did more than flirt. And since I’d noticed his disheveled appearance when he’d barged into the house, it was very obvious that the man had spent the night in someone’s bed.

Henry’s eyes jerked up towards mine. You don’t need… He stopped when my eyebrows arched, then he glanced towards the front door. This can’t get out. It will ruin… He dropped off, his eyes still on the door. Shit.

I could see that he’d realized that his marriage had come to a crashing end already. Not because of a scandal stemming from an affair, but because his wife was lying in pieces just inside the front door of their home.

Yeah, shit, I agreed. Who? I asked again.

Faye, he said finally with a sigh. Faye Baker. She and I… Well, Sharon and I… we had an understanding. He broke off as a tear slid down his cheek. It wasn’t the fake kind either. I’d seen plenty over the years and could tell.

Right. Do you happen to know who your wife was with last night, for her end of the understanding? I asked.

Henry shook his head. There are several possibilities. She didn’t tell me who she was with each time. I didn’t want to know. He ran his hands through his hair again.

I’ll need names, I said, pulling out my notepad and pen, and handing them to him. Phone numbers if you have them.

He took the pad and pen and, as he wrote, I noticed how badly his hands shook. This was a man who was either seriously emotionally affected by his wife’s death or scared. I hadn’t made up my mind yet which.

We’ll need you down at the station, I started just as several cars pulled into the long drive. You can ride with Owen. I stood up, tucking the pad and pen back into my pocket.

Henry stood and watched the cars park beside his. When can I… He motioned back towards the front door.

I’d suggest you get a room down at the Cypress Inn for a few days. I turned away from him and nodded at the chief of police as he strolled up the stairs on the porch. You didn’t have to come all the way down here, Chief, I pointed out as he stopped in front of me.

Randy Cordova stood for a moment and smiled at me. The man’s silver hair had always been cut short. His silver-blue eyes shone with kindness and most of the time with humor. His smile was addictive to everyone who knew him. The man had a way of making everyone, especially me, relax.

Hi, sweetie, he said finally and wrapped his arm around my shoulders as he nudged me aside so Owen and Mr. Taylor could pass by. Henry, he said to the man with a nod. Henry, for his part, nodded his respect and kept following Owen. We both stood in silence for a moment. Then he turned back towards me. I figured I’d better make an appearance with a case this big. He shook his head while he watched Owen helping Henry into the back of his patrol car. The man was pale and shaken. He doesn’t look to be holding up well. Was he here?

Nope, arrived less than five minutes after we did. I motioned as we stepped up on the porch. That’s Officer Morrison’s mess there. I pointed to the pile of vomit outside the door. And that’s Mr. Taylor’s, I said, stepping over the other man’s mess just inside the door. This mess—I waved towards the water, broken vase, and crushed flowers—is thanks to the son of the man you made your deputy.

Randy sighed. Shit.

Yeah. I shook my head.

He sure did make a mess, Randy said, stepping over the flowers. Shit, he said when he saw Sharon.

Yeah, I said again, moving beside him.

Well, detective, where do you want me to start? he asked me.

Dad, I groaned as I rolled my eyes. Get the hell out of my crime scene, I begged.

Randy smiled. There’s my girl. He patted me on the shoulder and walked towards the door. I expect you to keep me updated, he called as he stepped out the door.

Chapter Two

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