Free The Whispering Room by Amanda Stevens Page B

“I’m Detective Hebert and this is my partner, Detective Theroux. We need to talk to Betts.”
    â€œIs he expecting you?”
    â€œJust tell him we’re here,” Mitchell said. “He’llwant 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?”
    â€œOpen 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.
    â€œNice 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.
    â€œMiguel 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.
    â€œLet’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.”
    â€œI’ll pass,” she said.
    He shrugged and turned to Mitchell. “What about you, Detective Hebert?”
    â€œI’m afraid of sharks,” Mitchell said and Betts laughed.
    â€œSo 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?”
    â€œHe’s dead,” Mitchell said.
    One brow rose slightly. “Is that so? I assume since you’re here, someone must have whacked him.”
    â€œSomeone whacked him, all right. Someone whacked him good,” Mitchell said. “But you wouldn’t know anything about