The Whispering Room

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.”