The Whispering Room (10 page)

A
s fleecy white clouds scuttled across the bright blue sky, temporarily blocking the sun, Lynette Jennings cast a wary eye heavenward. Despite the cloud coverage, the day was hot and humid, with only the barest hint of a breeze blowing in from the lake.

But a storm was headed their way.

Lynette could feel it in her bones.

She'd lived all her life on the Louisiana Gulf Coast, and even as a kid, she'd always been highly attuned to a sudden shift in weather patterns and wind direction, the slightest drop of barometric pressure. The atmospheric changes seemed to creep along her skin, giving her aches and pains in her joints and chilling her all the way down to her core.

A storm was brewing, all right. She could smell the rain already.

The wind shifted ever so slightly, and she thought
to herself that it was time for her and J.D. to make tracks. She'd taken him out for a stroll along the shady side of the sidewalk, and as she turned back toward the house, it seemed to Lynette that the edges of the low-hanging cumulus clouds had already begun to darken.

She stopped for a moment to adjust the top on the stroller. J.D. had fallen asleep, and as Lynette fiddled with the canopy, she paused to graze her finger along his soft cheek.

You sweet little thing. You're just the spitting image of your poor daddy.

But there was something of Evangeline in the beguiling curve of his lips, in the way his brow puckered when he got upset.

And those eyes.

So dark a blue, they were almost violet, and so deep, a body could easily drown in them.

Lynette had never seen a baby with such intense, knowing eyes.

He had quite the temper at times, too, but in sleep, he looked so vulnerable and innocent.

A precious little angel.

A shadow passed across the baby's face, and Lynette looked up, expecting to find that the sky had darkened even more. But instead, a man stood just behind her, gazing down at her sleeping grandchild.

His sudden appearance caught Lynette by sur
prise, and for a moment, she didn't even notice the terrible scar on the side of his face.

What she did notice, though, were his eyes.

Black as coal and focused on the baby.

Abruptly, she stood, putting herself between the man and the stroller. “Can I help you?”

His smile was oddly charming, considering his grotesque appearance, but with the black hair and dark clothes, he seemed too much like a manifestation of the coming storm.

He held up a pale hand, and Lynette couldn't help but notice how long and bony his fingers were. The gesture was graceful, but those skeletal fingers were creepy.

“Sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I'm trying to find a friend's house, and I've been driving in circles for the better part of an hour. I saw you out here with the baby and I thought…
hoped
you could help me find my way.”

“What's the address?” Lynette said with a frown, although his deep voice was surprisingly pleasant. But she didn't like how silently he'd come up behind her. She also didn't like the way he kept glancing down at her sleeping grandson.

“Twelve-fourteen Sabine Way.”

“I've never heard of that street. I think you must have the wrong neighborhood.”

“Cypress Valley?”

“No, this is Cypress Grove.”

“Ah. That explains why I can't find his house, then.”

He moved to the side of the walkway so that he had a better view of J.D. Lynette fought the urge to once again step in front of the stroller.

He smiled then, as if he'd picked up on her trepidation, and that was when Lynette began to truly fear him.

There was something diabolical in that smile. Something evil lurking in those dark, dark eyes.

He inclined his head toward the stroller. “Yours?”

“My grandbaby. Now if you'll excuse me,” she said coldly, “I have to get home. It's about to rain.”

“So it is.” His eyes trapped her again, and it was as if one of those skeletal fingers had traced an icy trail up her spine. “You can feel it, can't you? Something bad is coming this way.”

Without answering, Lynette moved behind the stroller and gripped the handle tightly so that he wouldn't see the sudden tremble of her hands.

She wondered what she would do if he stepped in front of the stroller and barred her way. Her cell phone was in the diaper bag stowed on the rack beneath the seat. If he made a move toward her or the baby, she'd never be able to reach it in time.

But the only way he'd ever touch her grandchild was over her dead body. Somehow Lynette didn't think that obstacle would unduly concern him.

Two houses up, Peggy Ann Grainger came out her front door and headed down the walkway to check her mailbox. Lynette lifted a hand and called out to her. “Hey, there! Yoo-hoo! Peggy Ann!”

The woman looked up and around, and then waved back when she spotted Lynette. “Hey, Lynette! Long time no see.”

“You enjoy your trip to Florida?” Lynette shot a wary glance at the stranger. He was staring down at her in amusement. It was all she could do to suppress a shudder.

“Sure did. Ate too much, though. What else is new?” To Lynette's relief, Peggy Ann started toward them. “That your grandbaby you got there with you?”

“Come see how much he's grown!”

The man continued to smile down at Lynette, but something shifted in his eyes. When he turned to glance at Peggy Ann, Lynette could have sworn she saw a flash of red near his pupils.

“Excuse me,” she said again as she wheeled the stroller around him. “Good luck finding your friend's house.”

She didn't look back until she met up with Peggy Ann on the sidewalk, and then she glanced over her shoulder as the other woman bent to admire the sleeping baby.

The man strode across the street where he climbed into an old black Cadillac Eldorado. After
a moment, he started the engine and pulled away from the curb, and it was only then that Lynette glimpsed the passenger in the front seat.

A beautiful blond woman stared out the window as they drove by. Her gaze was fixed, not on Lynette or Peggy Ann, but on the stroller that carried the sleeping baby.

N
ash was having a late breakfast in his favorite dive when he saw Evangeline Theroux walk in. He wanted to believe it was just one of those odd occurrences, but he knew better than to discount her investigative skills.

He dropped his gaze to the newspaper in front of him and didn't look up again until she stopped beside his booth.

Today she had on a gray suit with black shoes, and her badge was clipped to a leather messenger bag strapped across her slim torso. Her blond hair looked windblown, as if she'd been riding in a convertible, but he suspected she'd been running her fingers through it in agitation.

“Special Agent Nash?” She plopped down on the red vinyl bench without waiting for an invitation. “I'm Evangeline Theroux. But then…you already know who I am, don't you?”

His gaze moved over her in a curious sweep. The lashes that rimmed her blue eyes were coated with mascara, but she wore no other makeup, and beneath her tan, he could see a shower of freckles on her nose and across her cheekbones.

From a distance, the ill-fitting drab suit coupled with the blond ponytail and the plain shoes had given her the appearance of a kid playing dress-up, but now Nash noticed the tiny lines around her eyes. He knew from her file that she was thirty-three, and up close, she looked every year of her age and then some.

“What can I do for you, Detective Theroux?”

She smiled at the use of her title. “So you do know who I am.”

He held up the
Times-Picayune.
“I was just reading about you in the paper.”

“Now that's what I call synchronicity.” She cocked her head, her expression benign, but he could see the glitter of anger in her electric blue eyes. “What I find really strange, though, is that you don't seem all that surprised to see me. Why is that?”

“I've been in this business for a long time. Nothing surprises me anymore.”

“That whole jaded G-man shtick…” She waved a hand. “It's a little tired, don't you think?”

Her drawl was exaggerated, her tone openly goading. Nash was amused. He tossed aside the
paper and picked up his coffee cup. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I heard you like to come here. Seems you're a creature of habit.” She smiled at his expression. “Now you do look surprised. You federal boys aren't the only ones with the resources and know-how to track someone down, you know.”

“Well, we do have a pretty good record,” he said.

“Right. And how's that whole Jimmy Hoffa search coming along?”

“We're still pursuing leads,” he said without cracking a smile. “We don't like to rush in impulsively and make a lot of mistakes.”

She missed his subtle jab. Or ignored it. “If that's what passes for a sense of humor down at the federal building these days, I think you guys should seriously rethink having those sticks removed from your butts.”

“Now that's funny,” he said.

“Really? Because I was dead serious.” She waved off an approaching waitress, then glanced at his empty cup. “Oh, did you want more coffee?”

“That's okay. One cup's my limit.”

“The old Hoover Discipline, huh?”

Nash shoved the empty cup aside and sat back against the padded bench. “So now that you've found me, what is it I can do for you, Detective Theroux?”

“I'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind.”
Or even if you do mind,
her eyes told him.

“Am I to consider this an official NOPD visit?”

“Official?” She threaded her fingers together and popped her knuckles. “Not hardly, considering I've been taken off the Courtland case. But then, I expect you already knew about that, too, didn't you?”

“What makes you think so?”

She cut her eyes to the ceiling as if considering the answer. “Oh, let's see, maybe because less than twenty-four hours after I spot you at a crime scene, I'm removed from the case for reasons that don't make a whole helluva lot of sense. And at the same time, my captain just happens to let your name drop. Call me paranoid, but I can't help wondering if there's a connection.”

So much for Draiden's subtlety. “I think you must be laboring under a gross misapprehension, Detective. The FBI doesn't make a habit of meddling in the operation of local police departments.”

“You don't make a habit of getting your hands dirty with plain old everyday murder, either, but there you were at my crime scene yesterday. Are you telling me that was a coincidence? You just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

When he said nothing, she smiled. “I'll take your lack of response as a no.”

“All right,” he finally said. “Let's just say, for the sake of argument, we currently have an ongoing situation that's eaten up a lot of manpower, resources and taxpayer money over the past couple of
years. We wouldn't like it much if some clueless detective blundered in over her head and we had to risk the whole operation just to wade in and pull her out.”

Temper flared in her eyes, but she managed to give him a sly smile. “For someone so clueless, I seem to have gotten your attention pretty fast.”

“Clueless only in regard to our current situation. Goes without saying you're an intelligent detective with a reputation for being tenacious and thorough in your investigations. In fact, it's your tenacity that worries us the most. Obviously, in law enforcement, resolve and determination are admirable qualities, but in this case, an obstinate disposition could be a detriment to everyone involved.”

“I like all those big words,” she said. “A clueless bumpkin like me gets all tingly at anything over two syllables. But maybe, just so I can keep up, you could dial it back a notch and explain to me again how doing my job is such a bad thing.”

“It's simple. Inadvertently stirring up a hornet's nest could get a lot of people killed. Yourself included.”

“The hornet's nest being Sonny Betts?”

“He has a lot of fingers in a lot of pies these days, and a cop asking questions would be of less concern to him and his people than a speed bump. After all, you have to drive around a speed bump, but a nosy detective could just be made to go away. Is that blunt enough for you?”

“That's pretty blunt, all right.”

“Good.” He threw some bills on the table and stood. “Why don't we take a walk?”

Outside, a bank of low-lying clouds temporarily obscured the sun, dropping the temperature to the low nineties, and the breeze that blew off the river felt cool in the shade along Decatur. The doors to some of the souvenir shops were open and the scent of jasmine and frangipani drifted through, mingling with the less appealing aroma of the gutter.

As they neared Jackson Square, the carriages were already lined up along the curb, and the bored horses swished away flies and gnats with their tails as they watched the passersby with dark, liquid eyes.

Nash and Evangeline walked into the square and sat down on a bench near Pirates' Alley, where the sidewalk artists were busily setting up their paints and easels beneath striped umbrellas. The air here smelled old and damp, the timeless perfume of crumbling brick, stagnant fountains and creeping ivy.

“I've always liked coming here,” Nash said. “It was one of the things I missed most about New Orleans when I lived in Washington.”

She turned in surprise, as if his casual comment had caught her off guard. “What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”

He shrugged. “Just making an observation.”

She looked as if she didn't quite know what to make of him at that moment. A part of her wanted
to demand they go back to their previous conversation, while another part cautioned she might learn something useful if she just sat back and let him do the talking.

He smiled to himself. He had no doubt Evangeline Theroux was a complicated woman, but in some respects, he could read her quite easily.

“What's with that shit-eating grin?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing. Like I said, I enjoy coming to the Quarter.”

She settled back against the warm wrought-iron bench. “You must have been gone a long time. You've lost your accent.”

That's not the only thing I've lost,
he thought as he glanced at her profile.

She sat near him on the bench, her shoulder not quite touching his, but Nash could feel the warmth from her body. He found something strangely comforting about her nearness. Something softly reminiscent about the sound of her voice and the scent of lavender that drifted up from her hair. He recognized the feeling for what it was, of course—the first faint stirring of attraction.

And it seemed to Nash at that moment that her appeal was in keeping with the nostalgic tug of the Quarter. Detective Theroux and her drawl seemed very much a part of the New Orleans that had called out to him when he was away.

“A lot of people are afraid to come here these days,” he said. “They consider it a haven for all sorts of deviants and miscreants. And they're right. You'll see all kinds in the Quarter. But the past is here, too. You can smell it in the air. History lingers on every street corner, along with the hustlers and the hookers and the burnt-out dopers.”

“How poetic.”

He smiled. “For all its decadence, the enduring spirit of the Quarter is actually what gives me the most hope for this city.”

She was still looking at him strangely, not able to figure him out. “It's a nice thought,” she said. “But I'm not so sure I agree. Sometimes I think our inability to let go of the past is our biggest problem. It keeps us tethered to incompetence and corruption. Why do you think the same crooked politicians get elected year after year? We don't much cotton to change down here.”

“I don't know that New Orleans is so different from the rest of the country in that respect. I lived in Washington for a long time. I know firsthand about incompetence and corruption.”

“How long have you been back?”

“A couple of years. I was like a lot of people who felt the need to get back here after the flood. Do whatever I could to help rebuild the city. But I also wanted to be near my daughter. So when a spot opened up in the field office, I put in for a transfer.”

“Your daughter is here in New Orleans?”

“No, but she's close enough I can visit her on weekends.”

She looked as if she wanted to ask more questions about that, but Nash headed her off before she had the chance. “How about you?” he said. “Have you always lived here?”

“Born and raised.” She turned back to the square to watch the parade of tourists among the panhandlers and the street vendors. In spite of the breeze, he could see a thin sheen of sweat on her brow.

“Never thought about getting out?”

“It's funny you should ask that. My partner is considering a move to Houston to help run his uncle's security firm. He keeps telling me there'll be a place for me, too, if I want it. He thinks Houston would be a good place for me and my son to start over.”

“And what do you think?”

“My son is only five months old. He doesn't care where we live.”

“And you?”

She shrugged. “It's hotter than hell in Houston. If I move, it'll be to someplace where there's snow.”

“You say that now. Just wait until you've had to shovel your driveway a few times.”

“Some people might think shoveling your driveway pales in comparison to watching your house
float away.” The breeze loosened her ponytail and she reached up to tighten the band.

The sun came out from behind a cloud for a moment, and the square seemed to explode with color—pink and purple impatiens spilling over clay pots; orange flames of hibiscus licking at the narrow walkways; yellow roses tangling around the rusted pikes of an iron fence.

Behind the bench where they sat, palm fronds waved in the breeze, the sound like the rustle of an old silk skirt.

“Anyway, enough with the yammering,” she said. “I don't know what any of this has to do with Paul Courtland's murder or why you feel my clueless blundering is such a threat to your operation. Surely, it's occurred to you the investigation will move forward with or without me.”

“Not with—shall we say?—the same amount of zeal.”

She gave him a cool appraisal. “I think you seriously underestimate the NOPD. Particularly, Mitchell Hebert. He's a thorough investigator, too. If he finds a lead that points him in the direction of Sonny Betts, that's where he'll go.”

“We don't think that's where the leads will take him, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don't think Sonny Betts had anything to do with Paul Courtland's murder.”

“And you base this on…?”

“Simple logic. Courtland was his attorney. Why would Betts kill him?”