The Whispering Room

From his vantage, she looked tiny. So slight, in fact, he wondered if a strong puff of wind might give her a problem. He knew from her file that she was five feet four inches tall and weighed one hundred and twenty pounds, though he thought the latter was an exaggeration because she looked much smaller to him.

But in spite of her petite frame, there was an air of toughness about her—in the way she carried herself and in the way she interacted with her fellow cops.

And in the way she challenged him, Nash admitted. She exuded confidence and he admired that about her.

In fact, as he’d studied her file, he’d come to the conclusion that, under other circumstances, Detective Theroux was someone he would very much like to know.

Nash respected people who did their jobs well, and Theroux had one of the highest arrest records in the department. Her evaluations were stellar, her commendations glowing. From all accounts, she was a strong asset to the New Orleans Police Department.

But of her personal life, Nash knew very little, only that she was Johnny Theroux’s widow.

And that was all he needed to know.

That was why he was here, after all.

Beside him his partner, Tom Draiden, made a wisecrack, but Nash ignored him. He didn’t want to lose concentration or break eye contact because he suspected if he looked away first, Detective Theroux would view it as some sort of triumph on her end and a sign of weakness on his.

Considering her hostile stance, she seemed to labor under the misconception that she was in a position of power, and Nash didn’t think fostering that impression would be advantageous to either of them.

“That her?” Tom asked.

“Yeah.”

“Damn, that is one fine-ass Sarah Jane.”

“Very professional observation,” Nash said dryly.

“Well, yeah, but you might have at least warned me about the eye candy.”

“I guess I didn’t notice.”

“What the hell? Check her out, man.”

“Seems to me you’re doing enough checking for the both of us,” Nash said.

Tom smirked. “No harm in that, is there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Laura.”

“You’re a real buzz kill, Nash. You know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“So what’s our strategy?” Tom drawled.

He’d been born and raised in Macon, Georgia, and despite a stint in the navy and bureau assignments in Denver and Salt Lake City, he’d never lost his drawl. He had a knack for dealing with people, and he wasn’t above pouring on the Southern charm when it suited his purposes. His laid-back charisma often came in handy when dealing with the local good ol’ boys.

Tom’s approach to their assignments was instinctive and organic while Nash tended to be more textbook and detail-oriented. He knew he could sometimes come off as arrogant and impatient, but he was neither.

What he was, was focused.

“Who owes us a favor at NOPD?”

Tom grinned. “You want me to make you a list?”

“A name or two will do.”

“I take it you’re down for a little arm-twisting,” Tom said. “You want we should do it the nice way?”

Nash slipped on his sunglasses, turned and opened the car door. “I don’t care. So long as it gets done.”

He glanced over his shoulder one last time at Evangeline Theroux. He almost hated to do this to her. The murder of a prominent attorney would get a lot of media attention and a high-profile investigation could be a real feather in a young detective’s cap.

But he had a job to do and the last thing Nash needed was Johnny Theroux’s widow anywhere near Sonny Betts.

Four

With its lush gardens and gleaming white columns, Pinehurst Manor might have been a slightly careworn cousin of the grand old dames situated along River Road, that fabled seventy-mile corridor of Southern plantation homes stretching on either side of the Mississippi between Baton Rouge and New Orleans.

But to the discerning eye, it soon became apparent that the house was merely a poor replica of its far grander predecessors. Built in 1945 as a personal residence for Dr. Bernard DeWitt, a noted psychiatrist and philanthropist from Baton Rouge, the original home was later expanded and converted into a private sanatorium.

Under Dr. DeWitt’s stewardship, Pinehurst Manor became one of the most highly regarded psychiatric institutions in Louisiana. For over thirty years, the hospital treated patients from all over the state, suffering from all manner of mental disorders, but by the late eighties, the once pillared splendor of Pinehurst was but a distant memory.

Rocked by the twin scandals of misappropriation of funds and inappropriate behavior by some of the male orderlies, the hospital fell on hard times. By the end of the decade, only a handful of forgotten patients remained in treatment and those unfortunate few were eventually turned out when Pinehurst was forced to shut its doors for good.

The building remained boarded up for over a decade until the state bought the property and reopened it as a medium-security psychiatric facility, admitting only those patients who were not considered a serious threat to society.

But all that changed with Katrina.