The Whispering Room

Ten

Nash 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?”

“I can think of at least one good reason. Maybe Betts found out Courtland was working for you guys.”

Nash frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Something his wife told us. Sounds like you were leaning on the poor chump pretty hard, and he was afraid he’d end up like some dead cop.You wouldn’t know anything about that, either, I don’t suppose.”

“No, I don’t.”

He couldn’t tell if she believed him or not. She looked like she wanted to call him out on it, but instead she took another tack.

“How did Betts find out about Courtland? Someone talked?”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Detective. Betts had nothing to do with Courtland’s murder.”

“And I ask you again, how do you know this?”

He hesitated, wondering how much he would have to tell her to get her to back off. “A few days before he was last seen, Courtland was overheard expressing a concern that he was being followed. On several different occasions, he’d spotted a strange car parked outside his apartment and his office building, and a blond woman appeared to be tailing him once when he took his daughter to the movies. She later turned up at the same restaurant.”

“Could she have been working for Betts?”

“Highly unlikely.”

She turned to face him. “You say that so definitively. Like there’s not much room for error.”

“We don’t think there is.”

“Who overheard Courtland ‘express’ this concern of his? You?”

“Not me personally.”

“Who, then?” When he didn’t answer, she folded her arms. “You had him under electronic surveillance, didn’t you? His phone was tapped. You guys really are Big Brother.”

“The point is, there’s a very high probability the person or persons who were following Courtland know something about his murder. If you find this blonde, you may just find his killer.”

She remained silent for a moment, as if carefully digesting everything he’d told her. When her gaze finally met his, he could see the wheels turning and he knew, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that she was going to be trouble. And he was already wondering what more he would have to do to keep her in line.

“Why didn’t you just tell us about this woman yesterday? Why pull strings to get me removed from the case?”

“Would you have listened? Or would you have dug in your heels?”

She frowned. “Don’t presume you know me well enough to predict my behavior in any given situation. And don’t think this is over. You guys have gone and meddled in my life, and now I’m going to have to spend some time figuring out why.”

A few moments later, Nash watched her weave her way through the square, heading for Decatur. For a moment, he considered going after her, maybe even asking her out to dinner. A little damage control might be in order because he was certain they hadn’t heard the last of Detective Theroux.

Then common sense prevailed and he realized that was about the worst idea he’d had in years. The less time he spent with Johnny Theroux’s widow, the better.

If he wanted a woman’s company, all he had to do was make a phone call or two. Not that he had the proverbial black book full of numbers, but he’d never wanted for female companionship.

Since the breakup of his first marriage, Nash had crossed paths with any number of women who had sent interested signals. Sometimes he acted on those invitations; other times he ignored them. What he never did was mix business with pleasure. He was smarter than that, although he’d made his share of mistakes, especially in the months following the divorce.

Looking back now, his reckless behavior during that time puzzled him. It was out of character for him to take so many risks, and it sure as hell wasn’t like him to fall for a beautiful, soulless woman with whom he had so little in common and about whom he knew next to nothing. Rushing into marriage was something a love-struck kid would do, not a grown man with a troubled daughter to look after.

Nash’s second marriage had lasted all of six months. When he came home on that last night to find Sophia packing her bags, all he’d felt was relief.

All he could think was thank God it’s over.

A few months later, the marriage was nothing but a bad memory. A tear in the whole fabric of his stable, conservative life.

The one good thing to come from the brief union was the return of his common sense, and for that Nash was grateful. Ever since Sophia, he’d been a lot more careful. Temptations these days were few and far between, and that was the way he liked it. He was finally at a comfortable place in his life. He neither looked forward with anticipation nor back with regret. Instead he’d learned to take each moment as it came. He liked his job, he liked New Orleans and he liked living alone.

On the rare occasions when he allowed himself time to reflect, his thoughts more often turned to his daughter rather than to his two failed marriages.

Jamie was his real failure, but that was a door he couldn’t afford to open too often and never while on the job. The guilt and anger, even after all these years, still had the power to overwhelm him. To creep up and steal his composure if he wasn’t careful.

Luckily, Nash was an expert at keeping his professional life separate from his personal. That was one of the reasons his first wife had left him. That…and because she didn’t want to deal with her own guilt. Better just to run away. Start over. Find someone who could give her what she wanted and needed. A new life, a new husband, a new family.

Nash wondered if Deb ever even thought of Jamie these days. All that social climbing probably kept her pretty busy.

Not that he had any room to cast such bitter stones. How long had it been since he’d driven to St. Gabriel to see Jamie? Hadn’t that been his reason for transferring back to New Orleans? So he could spend more time with her?

He tore his thoughts from his beautiful, tormented daughter and concentrated instead on Evangeline Theroux. He told himself his preoccupation with the detective was necessary in order to determine the best way to handle what could still turn out to be a sticky situation.

Of course, he knew better.

The truth was, he liked thinking about her. He liked being with her, too. There was something sensual about the way she carried herself. Something earthy and elemental about his response to her.

Hidden underneath that tough veneer was a very appealing woman.

His phone rang and he hauled it out to check the caller ID. It was Tom Draiden.

“Yeah?”

“I just heard something that’s going to give you a real tingle. Nathan Mallet’s back in town.”

Nash swore. “How reliable is the intel?”

“I’d say about ninety-nine-point-nine percent. What do you think brought him back?”

“He still has family in town. Could be he just got homesick.”

“Should we pick him up?”

“Not yet. Let’s cut him a little slack and see what he does with it.”

Tom chuckled. “Careful, Nash. Your sadistic side is showing.”

Nash ended the call as he hurried out of the square. He’d hoped Nathan Mallet was out of their hair for good, but he should have known better. Mallet had too many ties to New Orleans. Like a bad penny, he was bound to keep turning up, but the former cop still had plenty of secrets. It was those secrets that made him so controllable.

Besides, even if he did decide to renew old acquaintances, it wasn’t too late to come up with a more permanent solution.

Evangeline Theroux was the real loose cannon here. If she began to put it all together, a two-year operation could easily explode in their faces because hell had no fury like a scorned woman.

But even now, Nash had a hard time reconciling the threat she constituted with her appearance. No doubt people underestimated her all the time, but that was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make.