Somewhere in swampass Louisiana.
A faint snort of relief passed through his nostrils. Clay was glad to be somewhere with actual paved roads and buildings, not just endless backwater swampland. Though it probably was only a little different back in Memphis, the humidity felt just a little worse here, a little stickier, a little more poisonous. Whatever possessed the French to set up shop here a couple hundred years ago, he didn't rate it much.
But he was here for a reason, which had gone by the name of Eleanor Black. The recent turn of his career had been a clusterfuck - the only thing he could figure of it, and from what he had actually heard, was that Black played a part in that.
His career was all but over, he was eighty-five percent certain. Granted, charges would be difficult to stick, and the Department would've been reluctant to pursue one of its own, but the shitshow that came after Black "resigned" and skipped town was enough to almost guarantee there would be too much heat on him. On the slim odds he kept his job, that the internal review of his conduct turned up inconclusive, well... he'd be looking over his shoulders until he stepped out.
Options on where he could go from here was anyone's guess. Go private security; that was one option. Ex-law enforcement, even those with murky stories, could find work there easy enough. He'd considered it, but he'd also made a share of enemies out in Memphis. The badge wasn't a shield he could rely on anymore. Become a private investigator, well it's not like he didn't have the credentials, but he wasn't sure he wanted to spend the rest of his days casing out cheating spouses and serving court papers. Assuming the past didn't catch up with him, he could go
anywhere now. It's not like he was tied down anymore.
He eyeballed the wedding band around his finger. He wasn't sure why he'd even bothered taking it with him. That ship had sailed, struck an iceberg and plummeted to the depths of the ocean. He'd played his part in that breakup, but it stung nonetheless.
Death by a thousand cuts.She wanted a family, and he'd been reluctant about the whole idea, at least at that point of his life. What did he know about being a father? He
was a badge, and that was his limit. Was he even capable of being a half-decent father? What baseline point of reference did he actually have for fatherhood?
It wasn't just his old man giving him a couple lumps, though it didn't help. As a cop, he'd seen enough kids in a bad way, babies left in week old diapers next to crack pipes, toddlers sifting through and eating garbage because their folks were too busy shooting up to feed them. He hadn't realised at first, but he'd subconsciously built up a higher standard of what a parent should be - and he couldn't live up to that. Half-decent didn't cut it.
Part of him still hated her for the divorce, though. The way it was done. God dammit, he'd tried to make sure she was taken care of no matter what. They didn't lack for means, but it wasn't enough, and the extracurricular work had made Lisa suspicious. Fair, he hadn't always been at the bar like he'd sometimes said, but that didn't mean he was sleeping around. For all his failings, all his loose plays, he
had been faithful to their marriage. If it wasn't for that, the house being sold off, and all the other hassle inolved, he wouldn't have even needed the money.
Frustrated, Clayton slammed a palm on his dashboard. It didn't matter. What was done, was done - and he'd not travelled all the way to bumfuck nowhere for the god damn sightseeing. Checking himself over, and making sure his things were in order, he climbed out of the car and eyeballed the sign not too far away.
"Webb Family Coffee House"
Right now, a coffee wouldn't be a bad idea. He'd missed out on that particular morning ritual for long enough.
@FernstoneThe Webb Family Coffee House
For a little while, he sat off to the side, nursing a mocha in one hand and a ring donut in the other. He was nothing, if not habitual, and a part of his old routine was as much. Others trickled into the place, meeting under this Jennifer. Most of them looked like they were kids, or close enough. And he was willing to bet they were all out of town. None of the crawdad drawl you'd get around this side of the Gulf.
Hearing the stories, for a second he considered just upping and leaving. Million dollar question - who was Eleanor Black? By the word of these guys, she'd been a mother, daughter, doctor, lover, friend - but not a cop. For a moment, he wondered if he'd been wasting his time. Maybe these people were just conspiracists on a loose trail, or Black had been playing some other game - but it didn't add up. This was the screwy thing. He'd
known an Eleanor Black, and in broad strokes she shared some common factors with the others - foreign romance and parenthood excluded. As the story went, she'd come in on transfer out of Quintin, backyard swampland, and ingratiated herself with enough competency that she joined the MPD's Investigative Division. But these guys were, for the most part, describing a Black that was wholly different. But he was out of options and the alternatives weren't worth considering; either wait for the music and spend most of his remaining life in a cell, or go on the run with nothing but the clothes on his back. At least this way, he had some damage control. For now, he'd play ball, see what he could find out. Worst case scenario, he'd just delayed the inevitable.
The truth was that Black was the
only other badge that knew about the money. Moreso, she was one of the only people who knew how they came across the money, and what they'd done to keep it. When he asked, nobody said a word to him. But at the same time, this didn't smell like witness protection, and witnesses generally didn't get to make off with a stash of several million dollars.
As the talk shifted to this enigmatic family matriach, Mary-Louise Black, he gulped down another mouthful of his caffeinated cocoa. It was unfolding into a wild goosechase. Haunted swamps and old slaveholder families camped out on their rotting plantations, exherting influence through some incestuous connections to the town. He got the impression, at the very least, that local law enforcement would be indifferent at best, and obstruct them at worst - he wasn't willing to play the MPD card either, just in case that pulled the wrong strings back home. Not to mention the locals probably were none too friendly, but there were a couple different answers to that problem. So speaking to the woman herself, he was willing to hold fire for a little while, let someone else tackle that alligator.
The other leads, his brow arched at. The butler wasn't a bad start. Might've had a grudge, but that might've played in his favour, having background of the family and all. The missing girls, on the other hand... how long had they been missing, one night? Something about that spooked him just a little. They were jumping to conclusions, possibly, in assuming this local doctor was involved - but he could understand some of the rationale that one might go to hit that conclusion.
"Sorry, didn't want to interrupt. I'm Carl," Clay lied,
"Eleanor is... was my wife, I guess." He briefly glanced at the metal band around his ring finger, then pushed some air back through his nostrils,
"And I'm just tryin' to figure out what's happened with her and us."The best lies are grounded in truth. Mentally, he built up a small profile of this new persona - making sure not to stray
too far from a real foundation.
"It makes sense what you're saying, hurts to say it, but there's a consistent trend there. The Eleanors we know walked out on all of us without a trace, as far as we can tell, so they... she probably doesn't want to be found. Same is probably gonna go for these people from the old families."While he wanted to go after the butler, a pang of...
something made him think back to the missing girls. He looked towards the English kid who claimed an Eleanor Black from Quinton, Louisiana was her mother - and her suggestion of going after the doctor.
"It's not a bad idea, what were you thinking?"
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