“Not too hard to figure why they’re gracing us with their presence,” Mitchell said. “The victim is Sonny Betts’s attorney. Looks to me like the Fibbies are still trying to nail his rusty hide.”
Evangeline made a face. “I don’t give a damn what they’re trying to do. Our jurisdiction, our case. They try to muscle their way in, I say we go womp-womp on their smug asses.”
“Mighty big words for such a little girl,” Mitchell teased.
But Evangeline barely heard him. Her gaze was still on the men across the street. They were both tall with broad shoulders, polished loafers and closely clipped dark hair. She might have found their similar appearance comical if she hadn’t been so annoyed by their presence.
One of them suddenly took off his sunglasses and his gaze locked with hers. He said something to the man at his side, but his gaze never left Evangeline and she decided real fast that she would sooner pass out dead from heat stroke than break eye contact. No way would she let that arrogant so-and-so think he’d intimidated her.
His suit coat was unbuttoned and the whiteness of his shirt was almost blinding in the bright sunlight. Evangeline guessed him at six-one or -two, maybe one hundred seventy pounds. A little taller than Johnny and probably at least ten years older.
As he continued to stare at her, she was tempted to walk across the street and suggest a little come-to-Jesus meeting with him.
Instead, she folded her arms and stared back at him.
If he took her openly hostile demeanor as a challenge, so be it.
Special Agent Declan Nash had recognized her straightaway when she came out of the house.
Detective Evangeline Theroux looked much the way she did in the candid shot he had in his office. The blond hair and the pretty face—those things he’d expected, along with the wide blue eyes, which, even from across the street, he could tell were intense.
What he found surprising was her size.
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.
Hospitals affected by the storm had to be evacuated quickly and even though every effort was made to relocate the more violent patients—those designated criminally insane—to maximum-security facilities in other parts of the state, the sheer number of beds lost to flooding forced low-to-medium-security hospitals like Pinehurst to take in the overflow.
One of the patients evacuated to Pinehurst was Mary Alice Lemay.