The Whispering Room (7 page)

“Yeah, that's what they say.”

Evangeline decided to let the matter drop, but she still had her own theory regarding Nathan Mallet. His behavior sounded to her like the manifestation of a guilty conscience. Why else would he go to such pains to avoid her?

“I wish you'd just let this go,” Mitchell grumbled.

“I will. Just as soon as I find some answers.”

“And if you don't find the kind of answers you want?” His worry for her seemed to settle in all the deep grooves and crevices of his careworn face. “You think Johnny would want you obsessing about his death like this?”

Evangeline didn't answer.

“Hell, no, he wouldn't. He'd want you to get right back out there and build a life without him.”

She drew a breath and said quietly, “If the situation were reversed, he'd be doing the same thing I am.”

“You sure about that? The Johnny Theroux I knew would make sure his kid was his main priority.”

“You think I'm neglecting J.D.?” Her voice sounded more hurt than she wanted it to.

“I never said that. But one of these days, that boy is going to need a daddy, Evie.”

She stared at him in outrage. “I can't believe you just said that.”

His shrug was anything but apologetic. “Call me old-fashioned, but I happen to think a boy needs a male role model. And no offense, but you're not—”

“Not what?” she demanded. “Getting any younger?”

He grinned. “I was going to say, you're not taking care of yourself. Look at you. You're as skinny as a fence rail.”

“So? I'm also as healthy as a horse.”

“Physically, maybe,” he muttered.

“I heard that.”

His grin broadened. “It'd do you good to get out more. Have some fun, is all I'm sayin'.” His tone turned sly. “A blind man could see that Tony Vincent's got a thing for you. Would it kill you to throw the man a bone? Maybe have dinner with him or something?”

“What are you, his pimp?”

Mitchell chuckled. “You could do a lot worse.”

“I don't even know why I'm having this conversation with you. It's ridiculous. We should be talking to Sonny Betts right now.”

“That's going to be tricky. The feds consider him their territory.”

Evangeline shrugged. “He's a person of interest in a homicide investigation. He's our territory now.”

“Okay, but if we're taking a ride out there today, I need some fortification first. How about lunch? I'm in the mood for catfish. Let's go to Dessie's.”

Mitchell let her out in front of the restaurant while he drove around the block to find a parking place.

As Evangeline stood in the shade of the colonnade, she spotted a dark gray sedan in the traffic on Decatur. She wondered for a moment if it was the same gray car they'd seen at the crime scene that morning, if they were being tailed by the feds.

But when Mitchell came whistling around the corner, she decided not to mention it to him. He'd probably think she was starting to obsess about that, too.

“Hey,” he said. “Give me a day or two and I'll see if I can find out where Nathan is staying. The old lady's pretty tight with his sister.”

Evangeline smiled gratefully, her previous irritation evaporating. “I owe you one.”

“Damn straight you do. Which is why I'm gonna let you buy me lunch today.”

“Gee, thanks.”

As they walked up to the restaurant, she turned and glanced at the street. The gray car was nowhere in sight.

T
he high brick wall that surrounded Sonny Betts's sprawling stucco mansion was all but hidden by twenty-foot-tall crepe myrtle trees that also concealed surveillance cameras. The wind was blowing off the lake, and as Mitchell pulled the car up to the scrolled iron gates, the scent of oleander drifted through the open window.

A guard with a clipboard came over to the car and leaned down so that he could see into the window. He was tall and swarthy with the forearms and neck of a former linebacker.

“Can I help you folks?”

Mitchell and Evangeline hauled out their IDs. “I'm Detective Hebert and this is my partner, Detective Theroux. We need to talk to Betts.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Just tell him we're here,” Mitchell said. “He'll
want to see us. Unless, of course, there's a reason he wouldn't want to cooperate with a homicide investigation.”

The man smirked. “Homicide, eh? Who died?”

“Open the gate, asshole. Or else the first call I make will be to the
Times-Picayune.
I've got a buddy over there who's just itching to put your boss back on the front page. Unless he likes the publicity, nosy reporters poking through his trash and all that, he'll talk to us.”

With an angry glare, the guard lifted the cell phone to his ear and walked away from the car. A moment later, the gates slid open and Mitchell drove through.

“Nice bluff,” Evangeline said as they pulled up to the house.

Mitchell shot her a glance. “What bluff? My buddy writes the obituaries at the
Times-Picayune.
Like I said, he's just itching to do a real nice write-up on Sonny Boy.”

Betts was out by the pool watching a blonde in a turquoise bikini swim laps. When he saw Mitchell and Evangeline, he walked over to the edge and waited for the young woman to hitch herself out of the water. Then he wrapped a fluffy white towel around her shoulders and gave her a pat on the ass.

As she sauntered toward the pool house, she gave Evangeline a sideways scrutiny, sizing her up with one disdainful glance.

Betts was dressed in white trousers, sandals and a dark blue shirt left unbuttoned to expose a smooth, muscular chest. He was just shy of middle age, with brown hair, brown eyes and a mouth that tilted at the corners in a perpetual sneer. A silver medallion hung from a chain around his neck and glistened in the sun as he turned and watched their approach.

“Miguel tells me you're homicide detectives. Hebert and Theroux, right?” His gaze moved from one to the other, his eyes narrowing in the sunlight. “Which is which?”

Evangeline could smell the cologne that emanated from his heated skin. It was something expensive and cloying.

His gaze vectored in on her. “Let me guess. Detective Theroux, right?” He held out his hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Evangeline ignored the proffered hand. “We need to ask you some questions about your relationship with Paul Courtland.”

He cocked his head, his insolent gaze raking over her.

Betts wasn't exactly what Evangeline expected. Since he'd slithered up from the New Orleans gutters after Katrina, he'd acquired a pseudosophistication that did little to disguise the puckered knife scar under his right cheekbone or the gleam of cruelty in his cold, dark eyes.

The way those eyes lingered on Evangeline's body made her skin crawl.

“Let's go talk in the shade, get out of this heat.” He walked over to a table covered by an umbrella and sat down. Evangeline and Mitchell followed him over, but neither took seats. “Let me get you something cold to drink,” he said. “Or maybe you'd like to take a swim. I'm sure Monique could rustle up a swimsuit that would fit.”

“I'll pass,” she said.

He shrugged and turned to Mitchell. “What about you, Detective Hebert?”

“I'm afraid of sharks,” Mitchell said and Betts laughed.

“So you want to ask me some questions about Paul Courtland. Once upon a time, he was my attorney. Was, as in the past tense. I haven't seen or talked to him in months. Why? Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“He's dead,” Mitchell said.

One brow rose slightly. “Is that so? I assume since you're here, someone must have whacked him.”

“Someone whacked him, all right. Someone whacked him good,” Mitchell said. “But you wouldn't know anything about that.”

“That's right, I wouldn't. I've got a dozen people right inside the house that will swear to my whereabouts.”

“On what day?”

“On whatever day he died.” He took out a pocketknife and ran the blade underneath his manicured fingernails.

An old habit, Evangeline thought. “Why did the two of you part ways?”

“After the trial I didn't need him anymore.”

“A guy like you is always in need of an attorney,” Mitchell said.

“I'm a law-abiding citizen. Why would I need to throw my money away on a high-priced lawyer like Courtland?” His gaze was still on Evangeline and she saw recognition kick in. “Now I know who you are. You're Johnny Theroux's widow.”

“Yes, I am,” Evangeline said, returning the man's stare. She suddenly had an urgent, unreasonable need to put her hands around the man's throat and squeeze. The notion that he might have been involved in Johnny's death filled her with rage, but despite his claim that he didn't employ lawyers, she knew better than to lay a finger on a guy like Sonny Betts.

“Damn shame what happened to him.” He leaned in. “I heard a hollow point messed up his face so bad, a DNA test was needed for a positive ID. Can't help wondering if there's any truth in that.”

Before Evangeline could answer, Mitchell planted his hands on the table and bent toward Betts. “You know what I'm wondering about? I've been noticing all the goons you got patrolling this place.
If you're such a law-abiding citizen these days, what's got you so worried?”

“It's a dangerous world out there,” Betts said. “Just ask Detective Theroux.”

“What are they, Guatemalan? Colombian? You ever hear of an outfit called the Zetas?” Mitchell asked.

“Sounds like a college fraternity,” Betts said as he continued to clean his nails with the knife. His hands were rock-steady.

“They're a fraternity of slime and cutthroats,” Mitchell said. “What you might call south-of-the-border enforcers. They do the dirty work for guys like you. I hear they like to get a little creative with their victims.”

“Maybe you've been watching too much TV. Sounds like an episode of
Law & Order.
”

Mitchell reached over and tapped the silver medallion around Betts's neck. “I've seen one of these before. A Haitian I once knew kept it tied around his ankle. He was the real superstitious type. 'Course, he had reason to be superstitious. He used to work for Aristide, so he had plenty of demons preying on his conscience. They caught up with him one night down on Canal Street. Doused him with a can of gasoline and lit him on fire. Now tell me something, Betts.” Mitchell jerked the necklace and the silver chain snapped. He dangled the medallion in front of Betts's face. “You wouldn't be worried about a little karma, would you? That why you wear this thing?”

Betts just laughed. “Leave it to a cop to get everything ass-backward. You shitheads seem to have a knack for asking the wrong questions. I've got a theory about that.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.” He reared back in his chair. “See, I don't think it's stupidity so much as self-preservation. You ask the
right
questions, you might have to deal with the answers,” he said, his dark gaze burning into Evangeline's. “Isn't that so, Detective Theroux?”

 

By the time Evangeline got home that night, she was worn-out. It had been a long and trying day.

After they left Betts, she and Mitchell had gone their separate ways. He'd headed off to track down some of Paul Courtland's neighbors while she'd dropped by the law firm in Canal Place to question his coworkers.

The interviews had not gone well. Courtland's assistant had become hysterical at the news of her boss's death. Evangeline had finally given up trying to question her.

And then the senior partner sent in to “handle” the situation had made it clear that under no circumstances would the police be allowed to go through Courtland's office. With or without a search warrant. And he had flat-out refused to answer any questions about the firm's relationship with Sonny Betts, neither confirming nor denying that Betts was still a client.

Evangeline had expected no less. She'd dealt with enough law firms to know how they closed ranks in times of crisis, all under the useful umbrella of attorney-client privilege. But she always suspected the defensive posturing had as much to do with CYOA—
covering your own ass
—as any high-minded code of ethics. She'd yet to meet the lawyer whose survival instinct didn't run pretty damn deep.

Wearily, she climbed the porch steps and let herself into the house. Despite the shower, clean clothes and the hours that had passed since she'd left the crime scene that morning, the smell of death still clung to her nostrils, and she wondered if J.D. could smell it, too.

He began to fret the moment she picked him up, which in and of itself wasn't so unusual. She and her son were still wary of each other, and after a day with the sitter or at his grandmother's, he often seemed uneasy around her.

But rarely did he use his little hands to push himself away from her as he was doing at the moment.

“Don't take it personally,” her sitter, Jessie Orillon, said with a shrug. “He's been kind of crabby all day.”

Jessie was only nineteen, but she was really great with J.D. and he adored her. If money were no object, Evangeline would have tried to get the girl to move in and be a full-time nanny to the baby, but apart from the financial issues, Jessie had her own ideas about her future. She only babysat to help put herself through school. On the days when she had
class—Tuesdays and Thursdays—Evangeline drove the baby to her mother's house in Metairie.

If J.D. adored Jessie, he absolutely worshipped his nana, and he demonstrated his devotion, much to his grandmother's delight, by protesting at the top of his lungs each and every afternoon when Evangeline came to pick him up. He sometimes fussed when Jessie left for the day, too, but not as loudly. The only time he didn't carry on was when Evangeline left for work in the mornings.

She tried not to take that personally, either.

“He's drooling like crazy,” Jessie told her. “I bet he's cutting a tooth.” She pulled back her blond hair and fastened it into a high ponytail. Even after a day with a cranky baby, she looked lovely and fresh. Her crisp white shorts made her tanned legs look about a mile long.

Evangeline couldn't remember the last time she'd put on a pair of shorts, or the last time she'd bought anything as cute and flattering as the apricot top Jessie had on. Since Johnny's death, she hadn't paid much attention to her appearance, but lately her dismal wardrobe was starting to depress even her.

Jessie reached for her backpack as she slipped her feet into a pair of white flip-flops. “My grandmother says you should make a clove paste and rub it on his little gums. She swears that'll do the trick.”

Evangeline shifted the baby to her other arm. “Good to know.”

Of course, the advice would have been even more helpful if she actually knew what a clove paste was, but for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to ask. Her ignorance in the teething department was yet another way she felt totally incompetent as a mother.

Absently, she ran her finger along the baby's smooth cheek. His little face always amazed her. He looked so sweet and innocent and yet somehow wizened, as if that tiny body harbored an old soul.

And those eyes. Like bottomless pools.

His eyes were so much like Johnny's that sometimes Evangeline had to look away from him.

It was at those times that her son would grow very quiet, almost pensive it seemed to Evangeline, and she wondered if he could sense her despair. She'd read somewhere that babies were very intuitive and their keen instincts made them hyperaware of even the most subtle change in emotions or their environment.

She also wondered if he would one day hold all of this against her.

“What did you guys do today?” she asked as Jessie gathered up her iPod.

“We went to the park this afternoon. We had a good time, didn't we, J.D.? There was a squirrel that kept trying to steal my sandwich. It was pretty hysterical. Oh…I almost forgot.” She pointed toward the dining room. “A package came while we were out. I put it on the table.”

“Thanks.”

Jessie swung her backpack over one shoulder. “So I'll see you guys on Wednesday, then.”

“How're you getting home?” Evangeline asked as she walked Jessie to the door. “I didn't see your car out front.”