Page 24 of 40-Yard Line

“I know, I know that. I’m just looking at this woman and how stupid she’s being. She’s going to lose an amazing man because she can’t forget the father of her daughter. A man, who, by the way, never publicly acknowledged her as anything except the mother of his child. Trevon is a good, sweet, wonderful man who loves her and would be an amazing father to Carigan.”

“Honey, he is all those things, and he would be an amazing husband and father, but if she doesn’t love him, then there’s no hope for any kind of relationship.”

“She wants me to tell him,” she frowned.

“No. No, you’re not going to do that. Let’s figure all this shit out, and then we’ll see how he’s doing. If you’re done with this for now, we can head into town and meet with the records clerk.”

“Can we stop for beignets on the way back?” she smirked.

“Any time, honey. Any time.”

Georgie bit into the deliciously hot, powdery beignet and moaned as Carl shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Smiling at him, she ran a hand up his thigh and grinned.

“Thank you for coming with me. This helped a great deal,” she said.

“Did you find what you needed at the courthouse?” he asked.

“No. There are no public filings of contracts between the players and the teams. It was a long shot.” He took a bite of his beignet and then sipped the hot, strong chicory coffee. New Orleans was decked out for the holidays, and Christmas music was playing everywhere, including a small jazz band playing a jazz version of White Christmas.

Carl set his mug down and then looked up, frowning.

“What’s wrong? Do I have something on my face?” asked Georgie.

“No. You’re perfect and beautiful. But isn’t that the owner of the Fire over there talking to that man?” asked Carl. Georgie turned slightly in her seat, seductively crossing her legs.

“That’s the assistant coroner,” whispered Georgie. “What the hell is he doing?”

“Looks to me like they’re exchanging information. I think we need to call Felix,” said Carl, reaching for his phone. He dialed Felix’s number and waited.

“This better be good, Robicheaux,” said the man.

“I promise it is, Felix. Can you tell me why your assistant coroner would be schmoozing with Glenda Pinken?”

“What the fuck?” he muttered. “He knows better than to speak to anyone with the team. This might explain a few things. I’ve had some reports slow in coming, and he keeps giving me excuses.”

“Well, she just handed him an envelope. A fat, thick envelope. I don’t like to guess, but I’m guessing it’s cash,” said Carl.

“He’s due back here in fifteen minutes,” said Felix.

“He’s leaving now. We’ll meet you at the office.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Roger, I hope you had a nice lunch,” said Felix.

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I did, thank you.”

“Roger, where are the toxicology and tissue samples reports for Butch Cavet?” he asked.

“I thought I gave you those. I’ll have to look for them again. I know they’re around here somewhere. If I don’t have them, I’ll redo all of them. It will take a few days.”

“That would be a shame,” said Carl, standing behind the man. Roger froze in his tracks. He knew that voice, and he stilled, waiting for a bullet. “How much did she pay you?”

He was awkwardly, painfully quiet for what seemed like hours. Neither Carl nor Felix were in any hurry to push him. They could wait all day. He could not. He was going to have to speak with them or die right where he’d lay. The morgue.

“Don’t lie, Roger. You’re already in deep shit,” said Felix.

“She gave me fifty thousand,” he frowned with an exhaustive sigh.

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