Sheriff White shifted in her seat. “I would advise you to stop talking.”
I relaxed in my seat and glanced outside at the passing scenery. “I bet your still wet right now.”
Emily gripped the steering wheel harder and kept quiet. She couldn't stop thinking about the kiss just like me. If she was going to play this game of arresting me, then I wasn't going to make it easy for her.
We arrived at the police station and Emily took me into the basement jail where there were four cells lined up in a row. Only one other guy was down there, patrolling his cell back and forth. He was obviously still drunk. The Sheriff produced a key from her pocket and unlocked the farthest cell to the right. She proceeded to undue my handcuffs and pushed me inside the cell before locking me in.
I put my arms through the bars and rested against them. “You're going to miss me, Sheriff,” I said with a big grin.
Emily approached the jail cell until our noses almost touched. I could almost taste her mouth again. My whole body tensed up. “You can't have this,” she whispered and walked away, swaying her hips back and forth. My eyes were glued to that hot piece of ass until she was out of sight.
I resigned to the small bench that was supposed to be used for sleeping. The guy in the cell next to me kept pacing back and forth, talking to himself about mayonnaise on hot dogs. “What's your name?” I asked him.
The man stopped in his tracks and looked up. “Name's Ronnie,” he said in a perfectly normal voice. He gazed back down at the floor and started doing his laps again.
Making conversation was the easiest way to pass the time while in lockup. “I'm Caleb, what're you in for?” Even if your cell-mate was a little crazy.
Ronnie kept shaking his head and kicking his left foot. “No mayonnaise on hot dogs.”
Not going to get much out of him. I lay back on the cement bench and closed my eyes. Steps down the stairs woke me up only moments later. I sat up to see Officer Johnson come in. “Glad to see you back here, Johnson. Guess you wised up and took our advice.” Johnson was our inside guy at the police station. When he told us that he was going to quit because of the new sheriff, we told him to get back there or start digging your own grave.
“I didn't really have a choice, did I?” he replied. In his hands was a bottle of Jack Daniels. He slipped the bottle through the bars and into my hands. “Something to hold you over.”
“Much appreciated.” I unscrewed the top and took a swig. The alcohol burned so good. “Do they have anything on me, Johnson?”
“Just grasping at straws. The new Sheriff thinks she's hot shit. Has no idea how this town works.”
“Keep me posted and keep the booze flowing.”
Johnson nodded and left. I walked over to the edge of my cell and passed the bottle to Ronnie. “Take a drink, Ronnie, it might calm you down.”
Ronnie grasped the bottle with two hands and tipped it until the liquid poured into his mouth. He wiped his chin with his sleeve and handed the bottle back. “Mayonnaise tastes good.”
I took another sip. “It sure does, Ronnie.”
Chapter Twelve
Emily
I went to my office to relax and collect myself. Caleb was so fucking frustrating. He was totally right about the kiss though—it was out of this world. My ankles were still shaking just thinking about it. But I had more important things to consider, like how to make this murder stick. I went over the Black Widow and Death Merchants files to see if I had missed anything.
Moore knocked on the door and walked in. “We got the results back from the lab.”
I shut the files. “Did they find a match on that partial thumb print?”
Moore shook his head and handed me the results. No Match. I waved away Moore and tapped my forehead with a pen for ideas. My only option left was to poke holes in his alibi. Caleb said that he was at The Stinky Goat all night. Let's see what I could find there.
I pulled into the dirt lot of the Stinky Goat. It was only three in the afternoon—a little too early for drinking but the parking lot was full. This town seemed to be different than most. I walked in to find every seat filled and a haze of cigarette smoke. Didn't people have jobs? The place was beyond a shit hole, broken peanut shells covered the floor like carpet. Every step made a crunch beneath my feet. Must be the only bar in town.
I approached a couple sitting in a booth and asked if they knew Caleb Taylor. They shook their heads and I moved on. After a lot of blank stares, I went looking for the owner.
The guy behind the bar was large and looming with a face of granite. His mutton-chops didn't really match the little bit of facial hair on his chin. I squeezed my way into the bar and waved him over. “I'm looking for the owner.”