Crape myrtles lining Grant and Terri Coleman’s driveway seemed to wilt in sorrow.
Their dog Buster, soaked with blood, chased the coroner’s van down the dark wet street carrying his masters’ bullet riddled bodies past terrified neighbors, dressed in house robes and slippers. This was not supposed to happen in the Garden District of New Orleans where tourists walk the streets and take photographs of antebellum mansions and browse quaint little art galleries.
Homicide commander Captain Jack Fontenot, of the New Orleans Police Department, (NOPD) stared into the void of the Crescent City fog. He said nothing, and then gazed at his subordinate officers as if he were trying to wake up from a very bad nightmare. His greenish pale face, and glazed eyes baffled his fellow cops. They had never seen their captain rattled or emotional at a crime scene.
A few feet from where the bodies were found, (NOPD) Sgt. Marti Lance called to her boss, “Captain Fontenot…Captain Fontenot are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just been in this business too damn long,” he said running his hands through his thinning hair.
“Looks like Grant and Terri Coleman returned from the bar association awards around eleven o’clock and walked in on their killer. From the way the bodies were lying, I would suggest he was hit first. It looks like Grant threw himself between his wife and the shooter. Crime lab officer Phillip Landrieu said. “Double-O buckshot. No sign of robbery. White powder in her purse appears to be cocaine. Blood spattered their flesh and blood and brain matter on the wall. Worse damn mess I ever saw.”
“Can’t imagine Terry Coleman being so dumb as to have cocaine. Send me your lab report ASAP, Phillip,” Fontenot said. “And tell Kip Houser, he’s free to go, but not to leave town.”
Fighting back anger and tears, Lance said, “They were both dead they before they hit the floor.”
“We have to get to Leo Coleman before the reporters do. How did they get here so fast? Damn police scanners, ought to be against the law!” Fontenot said.
Fontenot and Lance worked their way through the crowd of onlookers and reporters, and then sped away with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring, clearing the way for veteran homicide detective Jack Fontenot’s most dreaded mission of his twenty-seven year career.
They say Leo Coleman was two men in one, wrapped in a three hundred and sixty pound package;
to his opponents on the football field, a bone crushing nightmare, but to his family and friends, a gentle giant. But standing among the tombstones and crypts at his son’s and daughter-in-law’s burial, Leo found himself fighting with himself, with the Lord, and with Satan to keep his giant heart from turning to stone, and his blood from turning to ice-water.
Leo cradled his six-year old granddaughter in the bend of his massive arm while Kip’s umbrella sheltered her from the cold rain. Leo wiped the tears from her eyes, and said, “Go with Grandma. Grandpa has something to do.”
“I’m scared Grandpa. You will come back won’t you? My mommy and daddy never came back from the banquet.”
Leo kissed his granddaughter. “Nothing can keep Grandpa from you sweetie. I’ll be home in time for dinner. Promise.” He told his wife, “I have to go to the airport. Kip will drive you and Little Robin home. The priest will be with you too.”
“But Leo why can’t you—?”
“Do as I say. I’ll be along soon,” Leo snapped.
When Leo spotted Yancey Turner at the Delta Terminal at New Orleans International Airport, he said, “Yancey, it’s been too long.”
The two old friends embraced. Leo’s hubcap-sized hands dwarfed those of his old quarterback teammate. Their handshake was long, but their small talk was short. Yancey Turner was ready to take care of the business he came to New Orleans to do.
Leo tossed his keys to Yancey and said, “you drive. I hate to drive in the rain.”
“Don’t like to drive in rain? I remember the way you drove at Ole Miss, the same way you played football. Full speed ahead, rain or shine.” Yancey said.
“You can stay with Louise and me, and you can use my car.”
“No. I have reservations at the Holiday Inn in Slidell. Best we keep our distance, but I’ll take you up on the car. I bought four Trac-Phones. Those are all we’ll be using. If you and Louise have smart phones keep them turned off. Same goes for Little Robin if she has one.” Yancey said.
“Tell me, how is it being a big city Washington D.C. private eye?”
“Not as glamorous as you might think. Nothing like the TV dicks, all work and no play.”
“Sounds like professional football,” Leo shot back.
Leo laughed for the first time in four days as they reminisced about their college days,
but his demeanor changed with his next breath. Tears cascaded from the eyes of a man who was big enough and powerful enough to squeeze the life out of any man. His hands trembled as he wiped his swollen eyes. His voice weak, his words slow but deliberate, he said, “You know why I called you, so let’s get to the point. I don’t care what it takes, or what it costs. I want you to bring me the head of the son-of-bitch who killed my son and his wife. Money is no object?”
Before turning onto Airline Highway toward Kenner, Yancey stopped Leo’s Lexus and said, “Let me get to my point too, Leo. Your money’s no good with me. I’m a private investigator, not some gun slinging bounty hunter. If you want their murderer brought to justice, I’ll find him, and I’ll turn him and the case over to the proper authorities, but if you want him assassinated, I’ll turn around and catch the first plane back to Washington.”
Leo’s voice became louder to be heard over the rain pounding on the roof of the car. “You think I’m some kinda dumbass? You know me well enough to know that nothing would make me any happier than killing the bastard with my bare hands, but I have a granddaughter to raise.”
“What does your gut tell you about the murders? Was it because your son married a white woman?” Yancey asked.
“I don’t think so. Interracial marriages are no big deal here in New Orleans.”
“The FBI says Grant knew too much and the New Orleans Police did it. Maybe a drug deal—hell I don’t know. But do I know neither Grant nor Terry was involved in dope? Hell they donated a million dollars to the rehab center last year.”
Yancey looked in his rear-view mirror, and spotted a plain-jane Ford Crown Vic on his bumper and asked Leo, “what do the NOPD detectives drive?
“The one I talked to drove a Chevy Tahoe,” Leo answered.
“Do you know of any reason anybody might want your son and his wife dead?” Yancey asked.
“All I know is what the FBI told me. They said they still don’t know who the killer was. I’m sending Louise and Little Robin to stay with my brother in Atlanta. They’ll be safe there”
“Good move, you need to go too.”
“No way, I’m not leaving ’til the killer is caught.”
“Very well Leo, but my first stop will be the NOPD in the morning, and you’re not coming with me. But first I’m raiding your liquor cabinet.”
In the homicide bureau of the New Orleans Police Department, Jack Fontenot and his team reconstructed the crime for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Each time, Kip Houser was the only person they could put at the scene.
“Captain Fontenot, the Times Picayune is on the phone,” Marti Lance said.
Fontenot gritted his teeth and said, “Tell them I’ll call them back. If those damn reporters don’t get out of my face, I might be facing a murder charge. They want a suspect, but we’re not giving them one till we know for sure who it was. Not one word about Houser outside this office,” Fontenot ordered.
“We have company, Captain,” Marti Lance said.
Raised eyebrows and suspicion greeted Yancey Turner as he strolled his six foot three inch frame into the precinct office, “My name is Yancey Turner,” he told the uniformed female at the desk.
Jack Fontenot, interrupted, “I know who you are, Mr. Turner. You’re the former Ole Miss All American quarter back, turned Secret Service agent, turned private investigator,” the detective said.
“Then you know why I’m here.”
The detective instructed the desk officer to make any and all public records available to Turner. Turning away from Turner, he made it obvious he had nothing else to say to Yancey.
“Got minute,” Yancey asked the homicide detective.
Jack Fontenot focused on the file folder in his hand, and said, “Mr. Turner, I’ve had maybe four hours sleep in as many days, and I still have a murderer to catch, and you can tell Leo Coleman, the NOPD had nothing to do with Grant’s and Terri’s murders. The officer has your copies ready. They’re fifty cents each. Good day Mr. Turner.”
“Detective, why the hostility toward Leo Coleman? I know he makes no secret that he thinks the NOPD was behind the murders of his son and daughter-in-law. The man’s grieving, he’s confused. Hell, he doesn’t know who, or what the hell to believe, but I have to tell you, you’re not making it any easier for him to believe otherwise,” Yancey said.
Fontenot lit a Viceroy and said, “I have nothing against Leo Coleman, except that he’s from Shreveport, Louisiana and chose to play football at Ole Miss instead of LSU. Go figure!”
“Well he did come home to play for the Saints. Doesn’t that mean something?
Fontenot paused and with a subdued chuckle said, “Okay step into my office, you have one minute,” he said.
The detective closed the door, and sat in a chair in front of his desk, close to Yancey. He spoke barely above a whisper. “Mr. Turner, I know what Leo Coleman told you, but this police department had nothing to do with those murders and I’m not going to say it again.”
Yancey fanned Fontenot’s cigarette smoke from his face and asked, “Then who did kill them?”
Fontenot exhaled a cloud of smoke, rolled his eyes and said, “If I knew that, you wouldn’t be here, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I can tell you this, there was no physical evidence at the crime scene that did us any good. There was cocaine in Terry’s purse. But according to the medical examiner, neither she, nor Grant had any in their blood. Strange! The shooter left the weapon lying on the floor beside the bodies. No prints, no nothing. Whoever it was, knew how cover their tracks.”
“Who reported this to the police?” Yancey asked.
“Kip Houser. A washed up football defensive lineman and family friend of the Colemans. Grant and Terry both liked the booze. His story is that he drove for them that night. After he dropped them off after the party, he said he found Terry’s cell phone on the car seat, and went back to give it to her. Dog was going crazy when he got there. Front door was open, that’s when he found the bodies.”
“I know Kip, and the timing doesn’t look too good for him. Is he a suspect?” Yancey asked.
“Every son-of-a-bitch in New Orleans is a suspect.”
Detective Fontenot handed Yancey his card and said, “Careful out there. My private cell phone number’s on the card if you need me.”
“Why the sudden change of heart, detective?” Yancey asked.
“No change, just a word of caution. I have enough to deal with, without a dead x-Secret Service agent on my hands. If you’re smart, you’ll forget this, and have a bowl of Louise Colman’s gumbo, then head your Ole Miss ass back to DC,” Fontenot answered.
Kip Houser mounted his Harley Davidson and headed east on the Chef Highway, when a purple crotch rocket pulled alongside him.
The two bikers showed off, popped wheelies, each trying to outdo the other on their showroom clean machines. When a red-light caught them, the rider of the purple bike sent a hollow-point from a 357 Magnum to Kip’s head.
The purple crotch rocket disappeared into the jungle of East New Orleans traffic, while helpless and horrified onlookers stared at Kip’s lifeless body lying beneath the overturned Harley. They could tell the police little about what appeared to be just another New Orleans drive-by shooting.
At the Bayou View Café, Yancey gazed at his watch. Kip should be here by now, he thought. After two beers, he ordered the red-beans and rice, hardly taking eyes off the police report, until Leo called his cell. “Kip’s dead. Shot while riding his motorcycle on the Chef Highway about fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’ll call you back Leo,” he said, and hit the end button on his iPhone when a man dressed in a business suit parked himself at his table as if on cue. Yancey knew the signs. The sunglasses, the cropped hair, and most of all the dead-pan expression on his face, spelled FBI.
“I’m Special Agent Roberto Garcia, FBI,” he said and shoved his credentials in Yancey’s face.
“I know the drill and I know the protocol. Why have you been following me since I stepped off the plane?” Yancey asked.
“Of course you do, former agent Turner, and you know I ask the ques–.”
“Don’t try to play the game with me. I knew the rules when you were still in diapers. Why have you been following me?” Yancey asked again.
With his chin raised and his jaws tight enough to bite a railroad spike in two, the FBI agent called the waitress over and ordered coffee and a beignet, and said, “I can save you a lot of trouble Turner. If you’re smart, you’ll be on the next flight back to D.C.”
“Sorry Agent, but the NOPD beat you to that line earlier today,” Yancey said.
“We know who killed Grant Coleman and his wife, as well as Kip Houser.”
“Want to share that info with me as a matter of professional courtesy?” Yancey asked.
“I’m surprised, Mr. Turner. You mean to tell me you don’t know the NOPD narcotics division was behind all this. They made it look like a drug deal gone bad. Planted cocaine on his wife.”
“Why? What the hell was their motive?” Yancey asked.
“Coleman was a damn good lawyer, and so was Terri Ann. They were getting too close to the narcotics division’s little game of setting up young boys for bogus drug deals,” Garcia said.
“Terri Ann? Funny thing! I never heard Leo or Louise call her Terri Ann,” Yancey said.
“An old habit, I always refer to murder victims by the first and middle names,” Garcia said.
“Sure you do. Now what about Kip Houser?” Yancey asked.
“He was their trigger man. They had to silence him when you got here.”
“By the way Agent Garcia—Kip Houser was shot less than an hour ago, how did you know about his murder so soon?” Yancey asked.
Garcia took a sip of his coffee and said, “it’s my business to know.” He stood up, adjusted his sunglasses and walked out, leaving Yancey with more questions than answers.
Yancey chuckled and called to Garcia, “Don’t worry about the coffee and the donut. I’ll take care of it.”
Yancey found Fontenot’s card and dialed, “Do you know FBI agent Roberto Garcia?”
“So you met Agent Garcia? How were the red-beans and rice at the Bayou View?” Fontenot asked.
Leo’s cell rang, Yancey calling.
“Everybody from the FBI to the NOPD knows our every move. They might even be listening to us now. Leave now. Drive to where Little Robin and Louise are staying. Don’t use a credit card for anything. Cash only for gas, food, whatever.” Yancey said.
“Can’t do it Yancey. Remember the time Arkansas had us down by three points with seventeen seconds left on the clock?”
“What the hell does that football game have to do with it?” Yancey asked.
“You think you could have run that touchdown if I hadn’t opened the damn hole for your ass?”
“Leo. Get to hell out of New Orleans! Sometimes you have to take the bench for the sake of the team,” Yancey said.
After a long silence Leo said, “I’ll call you when I get there.”
“I’ve been wondering how long it would take for you to show up in my office, Turner. How could the Bureau be of service to one of America’s finest, or should I say, former finest?” Garcia asked with a strong hint of disdain in his voice.
Yancey opened his notes from the NOPD and took more time than he needed in order to locate the report he was looking for. “Ah, here it is. According to the report, Grant Coleman and his wife were shot multiple times with double-O buckshot. Doesn’t look like a hired hit to me. More like a revenge, or a rage killing. We both know, professionals like to keep it clean, quick and quiet,” Yancey said.
“But Kip Houser was no pro,” Agent Garcia said.
“He was no psychopath either. What makes you think it was him? No history of violence—except when he got his hands on some poor quarterback. He was loyal to Leo Coleman. Leo took care of him after he got hurt and had to quit pro football.” Yancey said.
“He was kicked out of pro-football for using steroids,” Garcia shot back.
“The NOPD hired Kip Houser to kill the Colemans and I can prove it,” Garcia said.
“Of the all needle popping, cocaine snorting disposable pieces of shit in New Orleans they could have hired, you’re trying to tell me the New Orleans Police hired Leo Coleman’s best friend to kill his son and wife. Bull-shit, and you know it.” Yancey said.
“He had a gambling problem. The loser bastard was up to his ass in debt. It’s that simple.” Garcia said
“What federal laws were broken? “Nobody seems to think this was a hate crime, in spite of the racially mixed marriage.
“The NOPD was directly involved. We were about move in with a RICO charge.”
“This was no paid hit, and Kip Houser was not your man. Now I’d like to speak to Agent Pakowsky,” Yancey said.
“Agent Pakowsky is out. Sick with a cold, or something. Probably be back in a day or two,” Garcia said.
“Or something?” Yancey asked.
After his twenty hour day, Yancey returned to the Holiday Inn in Slidell and called Leo.
His tired eyes strained to find the numbers on his cell phone. “All I have is a stack of papers from the New Orleans Police, and bullshit from the FBI. But I can tell you this, the New Orleans police had nothing to do with it.”
“Then who did?” Leo asked.
“I don’t know yet, and it’s not going to be easy to solve. If I only had a motive.” Yancey said. “Is there anything more you can tell me?”
Yancey wanted to ask Leo more about the murders, but he could tell by the tone of Leo’s voice that he was getting irritated. “I’ll call you back tomorrow,” Yancey told him and then went to the restaurant for dinner.
The Wednesday night crowd was sparse, and the bandstand was empty in the Slidell restaurant. Yancey’s tip hungry server seemed more than happy to keep cold beer in front of him. She said, “your shrimp should be out shortly.”
He wasn’t expecting company for dinner when an attractive brunette, fiftyish looking woman and dressed in business attire found his table and introduced herself. “I’m Abigail Dunn, I am, or was, Terri Coleman’s secretary. Leo told me how to find you.”
“Now that you’ve found me?”
“The FBI agent, Roberto Garcia, he and Terri used to date when she was in law school in Dallas. He was stationed at the Dallas FBI office. When she broke of their relationship, it got ugly. After she married Grant and moved to New Orleans, he followed her here, and began stalking her—mostly in the form of phone calls to her office,” she said.
“FBI agents don’t have the privilege of moving around at their will and pleasure,” Yancey said.
“If their father is a buddy with the Attorney General, they do,” Abigail said.
“What did Grant think of all this?”
“She never told him. He would have hurt Garcia. She didn’t want that.”
“You’re taking a hell of a chance, being here and telling me this.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
“Would you like to order dinner or something to drink?” Yancey asked.
“I’ve had dinner, but I’ll take a Jack and Coke.”
“Lucky for you. Worse shrimp I ever had. Taste like some of the shit you get in D.C.” Yancey said.
“I’ll take you to Emeril’s for dinner tomorrow evening,” Abigail said.
The ten o’clock meeting in Jack Fontenot’s office was a little more cordial than the day before.
“I know you’re not here for coffee, Mr. Turner, but from the look of your roadmap eyes you could use a cup.” Fontenot said.
Yancey forced down the New Orleans coffee and chicory and asked Fontenot, “what did the witnesses at the Kip Houser murder scene tell you?”
“Not much. The shooter was riding a purple crotch rocket. Some guy said it was the same color as the crape myrtle trees in the Garden District. Shot one time, and hauled ass. Whoever did it knows the city. Three scenarios, A, the shooter grew up here, B, he studied the streets well and planned his getaway, which I doubt, or C, law enforcement. No prints, tape on the handle and barrel, just like the shotgun used in the Coleman murders. This guy knew what he was doing.” Fontenot said.
“All this sort of gives credence to the FBI’s theory, doesn’t it Detective?” Yancey asked.
“I didn’t say cop. I said law enforcement,” Fontenot said.
“Garcia?” Yancey asked.
“Maybe, but no record of Garcia owning a motorcycle. But one of my detectives, Sgt. Martie Lance, has learned that Agent Garcia used to date Terri Coleman when she was in law school. She broke up with him and started dating Grant. The breakup got nasty. According to her confidential informant Agent Garcia had been calling Terri at her office.”
“I had a visitor last night. Do you know an Abigail Dunn?” Yancey asked. “What she told me backs that up. I think we need to talk to Agent Garcia.”
“Before we start questioning an FBI agent for suspicion of murder, we better make damn sure we have our ducks in line,” Fontenot said.
Yancey took another sip of his coffee, laughed, and said, “don’t be intimidated by the Feds. They are an arrogant bunch of airhead bastards.”
“You ought to know. I’ll arrange a meeting with Garcia and make it look like we want to cooperate with their investigation. That should loosen him up a bit,” Fontenot said.
In the conference room of New Orleans Field Office of the FBI, file folders and laptops cluttered the table in front of the meeting between, Garcia, Fontenot and Turner. Their meeting started a few minutes early. Turner knew the early start was a sign of nervousness for Garcia. One of the FBI intimidation tactics is to keep others waiting, starting meetings late and dropping meaningless hints about what they know and what they don’t know. All this was a sign that Garcia was so ready to get it over with that he strayed from his training and protocol.
“I’m happy to see you’re finally willing get to the bottom of this case, Detective Fontenot,” Garcia sneered and rolled his eyes toward Yancey Turner.
Garcia pointed to the screen on the wall and said, “I have prepared a power-point presentation on the case for your convenience.”
“Before we get started, Agent Garcia, may I ask do you own a motorcycle?” Fontenot asked.
“A purple crotch-rocket to be exact,” Yancey said.
“What the hell are you two getting at?” Garcia asked.
“You know exactly what we’re getting at,” Fontenot said.
Garcia slammed his laptop shut and shouted,
“I don’t know what you two sons-of-bitches are implying, but this meeting’s over.”
Fontenot jumped to his feet and pointed his finger in the face of the FBI agent and said, “this meeting is over when I say it’s over Agent Garcia. Your FBI badge doesn’t mean a damn thing when it comes to murder in my town. You can cooperate with me here and now or surrender your weapon and we’ll finish this discussion downtown.”
Detective Fontenot handed Sgt. Lance a court order to back up the orders he was about to give her and said, “I want a twenty four hour surveillance on Agent Garcia. I want to know his every move, his every phone call, and his every breath, if that’s what it takes to nail that bastard. There’s a hole waiting for him at Angola and I want him in it. The sooner the better. But for now, I have a shooting. The victim asked for me.” Fontenot told his staff.
“A locksmith. He’s one lucky son-of-bitch. Not hit that bad. He’ll live. You can see him,” the doctor said.
In the emergency room, Fontenot asked the victim, Thomas Saucier, if he knew who shot him.
“I don’t know her name, but it was the same woman who hired me to get her into the Grant Coleman home the night they were murdered.”
“Why did you let her in the Coleman home? Yancey asked.
“Am I in trouble Capt. Fontenot?” Saucier asked.
“I ask the questions. Why did you let her into the Coleman home?”
“She paid me.”
“What did she look like?” Fontenot asked.
“Don’t know. She never took her helmet off.”
“Yeah. Motorcycle helmet. One of those blacked out face guards.”
“What kind of motorcycle was she riding?” Yancey asked.
“I don’t know that either. It was one of those little streamline jobs that goes real fast. Purple, like the crape myrtles in the Garden District.”
“Oh, One more thing Detective, the woman who hired me to open the Coleman house—she spoke with a husky voice. She sounded like she had a bad cold or something,” Saucier said.
“I’ll deal with you later.” Fontenot told him.
“How did your meeting go with Fontenot and Yancey Turner?” Mickey Pakowsky asked Garcia.”
You crazy bitch. Look at what you’ve gotten us into,” Garcia answered.
“What I got us into?” she shouted. “If you hadn’t been hung-up on that damn whore, this would not have happened. Terri Ann this, and Terri Ann that. She’s all you could talk about. I gave you everything, but no, you said we couldn’t be together. It would violate Bureau policy. Bullshit! Policy had nothing to do with your half-ass excuses.”
“Why the hell did you have to kill Kip Houser? He wasn’t a player in this game?” Garcia asked.
“The more people we get out of the way, the safer we are, darling.”
“You’re crazy, you need help. I’ve covered for your crazy ass for the last time,” Garcia said. ”and don’t call me darling.”
“If you’re smart, you’ll follow me toward Houma, and let’s ditch the bike in the bayou,” she said.
Sgt. Lance called her boss and told him the pair of rogue agents were headed west on Highway 90. Fontenot called the Louisiana State Police (LSP) and requested backup outside the city on the highway, and he and Yancey made a mad rush to beat them to the bridge at Des Almonds.
“Damn, you’re scaring the hell out me, Fontenot,” Yancey said as he blew past two cars with blue lights flashing.
“LSP didn’t have a unit close enough to assist. If we can get to the bridge before they do, we’ve got them. And I don’t know if they’re in front of us or behind us. They got away from Lance.”
Fontenot spotted the purple crotch rocket approaching in his rear-view mirror, and told Yancey, “that’s her, but she made us, and she’s about to turn around. Garcia’s right behind her.”
Spotting Fontenot’s unmarked Tahoe, Mickey Pakowsky slammed on her brakes. Her bike skidded out of control, and off the road unto the muddy shoulder.
“Oh, shit! She busted her ass,” said Fontenot.
Mickey rolled and tumbled on the soggy earth, but got up on one knee, shaking, blood flowing from her nose and with her weapon drawn. Garcia stopped his Ford just short of running over his partner with Lance on his bumper. She blocked his car from behind. The trap was closed as Fontenot brought his cruiser nose to nose with Garcia’s Ford. Garcia emerged with his hands up.
“Freeze, and drop the weapon,” Fontenot shouted at the female FBI agent.
Her insane eyes focused on Fontenot’s weapon. She dropped her shoulder, lowered her gun and said, “Don’t shoot, I surrender.”
“Drop the weapon now,” Fontenot shouted again.
Pakowsky nodded in the affirmative, but then in an insane rage, turned and fired. Garcia’s head exploded from the 357 Magnum. Before Fontenot could fire, Pakowsky put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.
“Damn.” Fontenot said. “I really wanted to personally deliver that bitch to Angola myself.”
At the gate of the New Orleans Airport, Leo Coleman’s giant hand again engulfed the hand of his former teammate.
Little Robin asked Yancey, “Are you a real private investigator?”
He answered, “I’m just an old friend of your grandpa’s.”
Louise Coleman hugged Yancey and said, “We can never thank you enough. Next time you come down, I’ll be at home and fix you a bowl of my gumbo.”
“No thanks due me, but I will accept the gumbo. Thank Jack Fontenot. Oh, and Louise, please drive Leo home. He hates to drive in New Orleans in the rain, and besides that, he drives the same way he played football at Ole Miss.”