Fire Season (11 page)

 

Chapter 11

The house was on fire. Coffin ran to the stairs, but they were awash in flame—a storm of smoke and sparks roared up from the living room, hot little embers showered onto the rugs, Coffin's arms, his bare feet.

“Jamie!” he called, but she was gone. For a brief moment he wondered if
she'd
set the fire; and then he thought that he might have, just a small fire in the living room, never intending the whole house to burn down. Then he remembered the baby—the baby! He ran to the baby's room, which was filling with smoke. Huge stuffed animals leaned against the walls, baring their sharp teeth—a lion, a monkey, a dragon. He had to save the baby—he could hear it crying out in its crib, catlike, alarmed. Somewhere a phone was ringing—it sounded very far away.

“I've got you,” Coffin said, reaching for the baby, which had turned into a sleek and glistening harbor seal. “I've got you…”

*   *   *

Coffin sat up with a start. The phone was ringing. “Jesus fuck,” he said. His T-shirt was damp with sweat.

“Phone,” Jamie said, still asleep.

There was no smoke, no fire. Coffin answered the phone.

“Frank?” It was Lola. “Sorry to call so late.”

“What's up?”

“We've got a homicide. And you're really, really not going to like it.”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, Coffin was standing in front of the big glass lobster tank at the Fish Palace. “Son of a bitch,” he said, vision blurring. “It's Dr. Branstool.”

Branstool's hair floated like kelp. A lobster appeared to be nibbling his ear. Coffin put a hand out, steadied himself on the varnished oak countertop.

“You all right, Frank?” Lola said. “Maybe you'd better sit down.”

“Yeah,” said one of the EMT's, a stout, mustached man in his forties named Johnny Sousa. “You ain't lookin' so good, Frankie.” He turned to Lola. “Is this his dead body phobia? I heard about that—thought it was a joke. Funny thing, a cop with a fear of dead bodies.”

“They got a name for that,” said another EMT. He was Sousa's physical opposite—slim and clean-shaven—Coffin didn't know his name. “Necrophobia—fear of death and dead bodies. There's, like, hundreds of different phobias you could have. Know what homichlophobia is?”

Sousa shook his head. “No freakin' idea.”

“Fear of fog,” the slender EMT said. “How about bufonophobia?”

Coffin waved a hand to get their attention. “Guys?”

Sousa winced. “Sorry, Frankie.”

For a long minute no one said anything. They stood, gazing into the tank. A big two-pounder crouched on Branstool's head, delicately waggling its mandibles.

“You know,” Sousa said finally, “it puts a whole new spin on the idea of a lobster dinner.”

*   *   *

Coffin and Lola stuck around, along with the two EMTs, waiting for the coroner to arrive from Chatham. Jeff Skillings was there, too, and Pinsky—the former summer cop that Coffin had decided to hire permanently—looking pale but resolute. It was late, almost 3:00
A.M.
, but a small crowd of onlookers huddled in the cold across the street, in front of the Captain Alden.

While they waited, a couple of state police detectives Coffin didn't know pulled up in a red, unmarked Mustang. They were big, burly men with close-cropped hair, all business in nearly identical jeans and leather car coats. They flashed their badges for the local cops, then went about the task of documenting the crime scene, each with a silver Flip Cam.

“Where's Tony?” Lola said. “He usually comes out for these kinds of things.”

“Yeah,” Pinsky said. “I'm surprised he'd want to miss a deal like this.” Pinsky was small and skinny, with brick red hair. Coffin hadn't thought much of him at first. Pinsky had had trouble coming to terms with Provincetown's LGBT population—now the majority in Provincetown, even in the off-season—his first summer on the job, and Coffin had been certain that it wouldn't work out. But then Pinsky met LaWonda, a very tall and very beautiful African American transgendered woman, and his attitude had changed markedly for the better. He and LaWonda moved in together, and Pinsky quickly evolved into a kind of unofficial liaison between the PPD and the transgendered community. He didn't look like much, Coffin thought, but he was turning out to be a pretty good cop.

“Tony's in Boston,” Coffin said. “Or should be. I gave him some leave time. He's under some stress.”

“Is it about them flyin' saucers of his?” Pinsky said. “Seems kind of crazy to me.”

“Flying saucers?” Lola said. “The ones over Pilgrim Lake?”

Coffin's head was beginning to hurt. “Not you, too,” he said.

Lola shrugged. “I haven't seen them, but Kate has. She said the Cape Air pilots see stuff out here all the time. She thinks it's probably experimental military aircraft from the Air National Guard base.”

“That ain't what Tony thinks,” Pinsky said. “He thinks it's aliens, and they're coming for him.”

Lola laughed. “Poor Tony.”

Pinsky took a pack of Camel Lights out of his shirt pocket and lit one. “What do you think, Chief?” he said. “Ever seen a UFO?”

“Those things'll kill you,” Coffin said.

Pinsky grinned, offered the pack. “Want one?”

Coffin took a cigarette, puffing it to life while Pinsky lit it with a plastic Bic.

“I'm telling,” Lola said.

“You wouldn't.”

“I most certainly would.”

Coffin dropped the cigarette, crushed it out with the toe of his boot. “You women are relentless,” he said.

“Seriously,” Pinsky said. “Ever seen anything like that out here, Chief?”

“Just some lights in the sky over Herring Cove,” Coffin said. “They say it's jet traffic, backed up from Logan.”

“It's a funny business.” Pinsky took a meditative drag on his cigarette. “On the one hand, you got stuff that looks like flying saucers all the way back in prehistoric cave paintings. On the other hand, everybody you see that's a big UFO buff is either a scam artist or crazy as a shit-house mouse. Kinda hard to sort it all out.”

“If they're really here,” Sousa said, “it's the biggest government cover-up in history. By far.”

“If they're really here,” Lola said, “what's with the cat-and-mouse game? Show your little green selves already.”

The two state police detectives put their cameras back in their coat pockets and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“You're Coffin, right?” the taller one said.

The shorter one lit a cigarette. “You're like a freakin' living legend.”

“This is my partner, Sergeant Winters,” Coffin said. “And this is Officer Pinsky.”

“Bitters,” the tall one said. He stuck out a big, bony hand, and Coffin shook it.

“Hump,” said the short one.

“Hump?” Lola said.

“His real name's Humphrey,” Bitters said. “He goes by Hump.”

“Anybody know the guy in the tank?” Hump asked.

“His name's Branstool,” Coffin said. “He ran the nursing home.”

“Where's the rest of him?”

Coffin shrugged. “Hasn't turned up yet. Where's Mancini?”

“Home fuckin' his new missus.” Bitters snickered. “If he's got any sense.”

“Wouldn't count on him having any sense,” Hump said.

Coffin rubbed his chin. He needed sleep. Failing that: coffee, a cigarette. “He remarried?”

“Yeah. Trophy blonde. Maybe five years older than his daughter. He'll come out tomorrow, probably, along with the CSS boys.”

“I thought all the Crime Scene Services guys got laid off,” Pinsky said.

“There's still a couple of teams,” Bitters said. “Part-timers.” He made a gesture: a loose fist bobbing up and down over his groin. “Mancini'll probably put in a request, since it's high profile.” He turned to Hump. “We're done, right?”

Hump pursed his lips. “Yep,” he said. “Unless we're forgetting something.”

“I'm hungry,” Bitters said, climbing into the Mustang. “Let's put the flashers on and see how fast we can get to Denny's in Hyannis.”

“There's no Denny's in Hyannis,” Hump said, squeezing his broad bulk into the passenger seat. “You're thinking Friendly's. There's a Friendly's in Hyannis, but it ain't open now.”

“The hell there isn't a Denny's in Hyannis,” Bitters said.

“Bet you twenty bucks,” Hump said. They shut the doors. The Mustang's engine rumbled to life, and they disappeared around the corner on Standish Street.

The coroner pulled up in a gleaming white van with
SHERMAN FUNERAL HOME
painted on the side in gold script. The coroner, Sherman, was an undertaker in Chatham. He and his assistant climbed out of the van. Sherman was sixty or so, thin and saggy-faced. Coffin had never seen him without a Pall Mall stuck in the corner of his mouth.

Sherman whistled softly, peering at the head submerged in the lobster tank. The lobsters had nibbled away some of Branstool's lower lip. “My oh my,” he said. “Someone's had a
very
bad day.”

Coffin's vision swam, refocused. “This doesn't get to you?” he said. “Even a little?”

“Sure it gets to me.” Sherman lit a fresh cigarette from the smoldering butt of his old one, then flipped the butt out the door and into the gutter. “Just 'cause I'm a funeral director don't mean I'm not human.” He pulled on one long, black rubber glove, then the other. “Where's the giblets?”

“Haven't turned up yet,” Coffin said.

Sherman sent his assistant to the van for a large Ziploc bag and a folding stepstool. When the assistant returned Sherman climbed up onto the stepstool and reached into the tank with a gloved hand.

Lola winced. “Oh shit,” she said. “Here we go.”

“I ain't got nobody,” Sherman sang, slapping a couple of hungry lobsters aside. “Nobody, nobody cares for meeeee!” He grabbed a fistful of Branstool's hair and hauled the dripping head out of the tank. “Who does this remind you of?” he said, holding the head aloft, something like triumph on his baggy face.

Coffin and the assistant stared blankly. “Perseus, you ignoramuses,” Sherman said. “Brandishing the head of Medusa! Jesus Christ—don't you people read?”

*   *   *

As Sherman and his assistant climbed into their van and drove off, Roz O'Malley oozed up to the curb in her green Cadillac. She was small, olive-skinned, Coffin's age. She wore rubber duck boots, a fur coat thrown over a flannel nightgown. She was Coffin's distant cousin on his mother's side; they'd gone to school together, even dated briefly as high school juniors. Roz had gone on to marry Johnny O'Malley, owner of the Fish Palace. He handled the money and she worked the hostess podium—the last line of defense against the lowing herds of summer tourists, waiting in long lines for their early bird specials. Then Johnny died and left the place to her. She popped out of the Cadillac like a cork out of a bottle.

“What the fuck,” she said, looking up at the Fish Palace's peeling façade, the neon lobsters hanging dark in its front windows. “It's not on fire.”

“It's not quite as bad as that,” Coffin said.

Roz turned on him. The top of her head came up to his sternum. “
Bad
? You think a fire would be
bad
? Do you have any idea how much work it is, running this dump?”

“Well—”

“I've got a heart condition, Frankie—an arrhythmia. On account of the stress—that's what my cardiologist says. You ever had an arrhythmia?”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, it sucks. You think you're gonna freakin' die, but you don't—you just feel like crap. But do I get a day off from the work and the worry? No, I do not.”

“Why not sell the place?” Coffin said.

Roz laughed, a sharp little bark. “Don't think I haven't tried. Know what the profit margin is in the restaurant business?”

Coffin shook his head.

“Two percent, Frankie—two percent! And you make it all on liquor—you give the food away at break-even. You'd have to be a freaking masochist to get into it, especially now with all the taxes and regulation. No smoking! No trans fats!” She paused, shook her head. “Then you got your hepatitis outbreaks, your health inspectors with their hand in your pocket, your food poisoning lawsuits, holy shit! One bad clam could put me out of business, Frankie—one bad clam! The place is eating me alive with repairs—the roof leaks, the plumbing's shot—
and
I suddenly got freakin' immigration agents crawlin' up my ass, and now I gotta pay
them
off. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd burn the fucker down myself.” Roz spread her arms—an elaborate shrug. “So if it's not on fire, what the
fuck
am I doing here at three in the freakin'
A.M.
? I get a call says there's a situation. What's up?”

Coffin pointed at Pinsky. “The officer here was checking on a possible break-in. The front door was pried open.”

“That's right, ma'am,” Pinsky said, lightly pinching the brim of his hat. “When I entered the premises”—he hesitated, searching for words—“I found a … body part.”

“I'm sorry,” Roz said. “You found a
body part
? What the fuck does that mean?”

“A human body part, ma'am,” Pinsky said.

“He found a guy's head in the lobster tank,” Coffin said.

Roz's eyes widened. “Holy shit,” she said. “Who was it? Anybody I know?”

“Dr. Branstool—the guy that runs Valley View.”

“That little weasel? Why was his head in
my
lobster tank?”