The Whispering Room

“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?”