Fire Season (21 page)

“How exciting!” Jamie said. “When's the housewarming?”

“Oh, God—not anytime soon, probably. We're still trying to figure out if we can afford it,” Lola said.

“We?” Coffin said. “
We?
”

Jamie gave Lola a hug. “Well, this
is
cause for celebration,” she said.

Coffin raised his glass. “Mazel tov,” he said.

*   *   *

“So,” Coffin said, when Lola had finished her drink and driven off. “Two questions.”

“Is this an enhanced interrogation, or just your basic?” Jamie said, opening her eyes very wide.

“Your basic.”

“Too bad. What's question number one?”

“What should we eat?”

“I was thinking popcorn.”

“Popcorn? That's it?”

“And Clamato.”

Coffin laughed.

“And question two?”

“What happened to our furniture?”

“Your mother's furniture. It's on a truck, heading to an auction house in Sandwich.”

“And will we be getting new furniture, eventually?”

“That's three questions. I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”

Coffin pulled her close, kissed her neck. “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Frank…”

“It's fine—we'll get lawn chairs. Do we still have a bed?”

“Frank.” Jamie pushed him away. She was suddenly pale. She fanned herself with the Pottery Barn catalog. It had a picture of white wicker deck furniture on the cover.

“Ah. The Frank aversion is back.”

“It's not me,” Jamie said. “It's the baby. He doesn't want us to fuck. Very Oedipal.”

“It starts early,” Coffin said, smoothing his mustache.

Jamie shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Let's go out for dinner,” Coffin said.

“Great,” Jamie said, color already coming back. “I'm starved.”

“How about the Oyster Shack? On me.”

“How about the Mews?” Jamie said. “On Grandpa Bill.”

*   *   *

A black Lincoln Town Car was parked in the official lot across from Town Hall on Ryder Street, next to the Center for Coastal Studies. Rudy Santos and his accountant, Loverboy, did their best to scrunch down in their seats—not an easy thing, especially for Loverboy—listening to the rain as it pattered on the roof.

“He's late,” Loverboy said, his voice rumbling inside the Town Car like a bass guitar through a subwoofer.

Rudy yawned enormously. “Patience, grasshopper,” he said. He took a drag from his cigarette, blew smoke out the half-open window. “Let's go get a bite after this.”

“Sure,” Loverboy said.

“I want a steak.”

“Terrible for you. All that cholesterol.”

“I've got the cholesterol of a six-year-old vegetarian,” Rudy said. “I could eat the whole cow, if I wanted to.”

“Bad karma,” Loverboy said. “What'd a cow ever do to you?”

“Cow farts contribute to global warming. It's our duty to rid the planet of them.”

Loverboy frowned. “I don't eat anything with a face.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rudy said. “Come on—not even fish?”

“Do fish have faces?”

“What about shrimp?”

Loverboy sighed. “Shrimp have eyes.” He held his fingers up in front of his mouth and waggled them at Rudy. “And mandibles. That's a face.”

“What about clams or oysters?”

“Too slimy.”

“But they don't have faces,” Rudy said. “So you can eat them, right?”

“Nothing with a face, and nothing slimy.”

“Don't you know that salad screams when you pull it out of the ground? That's a scientific fact all you leaf-eaters choose to ignore.”

“Check it out,” Loverboy said, pointing a bratwurst-sized finger. A red Mustang GT pulled into the far end of the lot and sat idling, slow plumes of exhaust rising from its dual tailpipes. “It's those two state cops. What do you think they're up to?”

“Same thing as us,” Rudy said. “More or less.”

*   *   *

Located on the water-side of Commercial Street, not far from the charred shell of St. Mary's, the Mews was one of a handful of Provincetown restaurants that stayed open year-round. The dining room was broad and inviting, with big windows that looked out on the harbor. The bar was handsome, if a bit claustrophobic—a clutch of small, two-person tables crowded close to the bar stools—it was hard to sit there without feeling surrounded, Coffin thought. Even though Yelena was working behind the bar (she waved, Coffin waved back), Coffin was glad when the host showed them to a table near the window.

“Just so you know,” the host said, “tonight's piano bar. Miss Dawn Vermilion will be performing, starting in about ten minutes.”

“Oh, good,” Jamie said. “I'm in the mood for Cole Porter.”

“Great,” Coffin said, opening the menu. “I'm in the mood for another scotch.”

“Grouch.”

“Tired grouch.”

Jamie reached across the table, ran her fingertips through the hair at his temple. “Poor man,” she said. “It's all so awful—the fires, now this business with Dr. Branstool.”

“Kotowski thinks we should move. Get out of P'town.”

Jamie's eyes widened. “Really? That's what Corinne said.”

“She's the one with the fake boobs, right?”

“Mine are bigger now. She's incredibly jealous.” Jamie stuck her chest out. She was wearing a low-cut, off-the-shoulder dress with an empire waist. Two women sitting at the table across from them looked up from their drinks.

“Who wouldn't be?” Coffin said.

“You'd really move?”

Coffin shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “You know how many babies were born in this town last year?”

Jamie sipped her water, shook her head.

“Nine. You know that little playground on Bradford Street, across from the Walker gallery?”

“I think so—sure.”

“Every time I drive by, it's empty. I've never seen a single kid there in the off-season. Not once. It's sad, those empty swings.”

“But it's beautiful here,” Jamie said. “That's worth something, right? And there's a good charter school in Orleans. I've been doing some research.”

The waiter came, a trim, forty-something man that Coffin recognized. He told them about the specials—swordfish, rack of lamb—and took their drink orders: a Shirley Temple for Jamie, Walker Red for Coffin.

“You're Detective Coffin, right?” the waiter said, pen poised above his order pad.

“That's me,” Coffin said, “and your name's Mel?”

“That's right!” Mel turned his face in profile, gazed up toward the ceiling. “Good memory—I'm flattered.” Then he bent down, touched Coffin's shoulder. “So come on, tell me—who's setting all these fires? It's got me so scared—I feel like I can't trust anybody!”

“I wish we knew,” Coffin said. “We need the public's help, so if you hear anything, you give me a call, okay?” Coffin gave Mel his card.

Mel clutched it to his chest. “Oh,
hell
yes,” he said. “I mean it's all so crazy, right? I can hardly sleep at night. I just keep thinking to myself, what's next?”

“Flirt,” Jamie said, when Mel was gone.

Coffin grinned. “Worried?”

“Not about Mel, no.”

“I don't know—he's pretty handsome.”

“What waiter in Provincetown isn't handsome?”

“Good point.”

“I'm worried about the bartender. She's the one you hired, right?”

“Right,” Coffin said. “We only get her when she's not working here.”

“You have a little crush on her.”

Coffin shook his head. “Yelena? No. I like her, though—is that the same thing?”

“Your face lit up when you saw her.” Jamie pursed her lips, which made Coffin want to kiss her.

“No worries. I'm not her type.”

“You'd better not be,” Jamie said, looking at the menu.

“If we moved,” Jamie said, after Mel had brought their drinks, “where would we go?”

“Someplace inland,” Coffin said, sipping his scotch. “No boats. Eau Claire, Wisconsin.”

Jamie's eyebrows went up. “Where?”

“Eau Claire, Wisconsin,” Coffin said. “Lola grew up there. She says it's very
Leave It to Beaver
—nice neighborhoods, not much crime. Hardly any homicides.”

“That's what you thought when you moved back here from Baltimore.”

“You're saying I'm a homicide magnet? They're following me?”

Jamie patted his hand. “I love you, but I'm not moving to Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Too cold. Plus, I'll bet there's no Trader Joe's.”

“There's no Trader Joe's here.”

“I know, but if I'm moving inland to someplace really cold, I want Trader Joe's.”

Coffin's cell phone buzzed in his pocket, then burst into “La Cucaracha.” He stood, dug it out. The caller ID showed an Eastham number. “Sorry,” Coffin said. “It's Doris.”

Coffin touched the
TALK
button and started walking toward the front door. “Coffin,” he said.

“Frankie? Thank God you picked up.”

“What's up, Doris?” Coffin said, looking up at the night sky—thick clouds, no moon.
Thanks a lot, God.

There was a brief fusillade of static. “… Tony again. He's escaped.”

“What? Escaped?”

“From the hospital. They had him on the second floor—you know, the psych ward. But sometime after they brought him his dinner he disappeared. They think he must've found a pair of scrubs to put on and just walked out.”

“Walked out of a locked ward? Has the hospital called the police?”

“Yeah—the Hyannis cops are lookin' for him. State cops, too. They think he'll try to get home somehow. Maybe hitchhiking, or he'll panhandle for a bus ticket. If he can get to a phone, he might call you, Frankie.”

“We'll put out a watch for him,” Coffin said. “I'll have Margie give the Dennis, Orleans, and Eastham PDs a call, too. We'll find him.”

“God, Frankie—I'm so scared. I never dealt with anything like this before. I mean, what do I tell the kids, for Christ's sake?”

“Tell them not to worry,” Coffin said. “Tell them their dad's going to be just fine.”

There was a pause. “Thanks, Frankie. You're a good guy.”

“Take care, Doris.”

It was starting to rain. Coffin shivered and walked back inside.

*   *   *

Bitters and Hump sat in their red Mustang GT in the lot across from Town Hall, the big engine idling, heater blowing warm air. Hump lit a cigarette. “What we need,” he said, “is a diversion.”

“Too many cops in there, for sure,” Bitters said.

“Yep.” Rain pattered on the Mustang's roof. The Pilgrim monument loomed above them.

“We could just walk in, wave our shields, and call jurisdiction,” Bitters said. “Tell them to hand it over 'cause it's our case. I mean, it
is
our fucking case, after all.”

Hump shook his head. “We'd have to sign for it. Does us no good at all.”

“We could start a fire. Just a small one, but way across town. All the cops would run over there, we'd let ourselves into Coffin's office…”

“He's not completely stupid. He's not gonna leave it in his office.”

“Okay, the evidence cage, then.”

“We could do both, maybe. You start a fire, and I'll do the evidence grab while everybody's running around, confused. Walk in, wave my shield, walk out with the shit before they even think about making me sign.”

Bitters frowned. “Fucking Coffin,” he said. “He could have cut us a deal, right? We'd have been amenable to that. But no—he's gotta go all fucking Serpico on us. Hell, I'd have settled for half of whatever's in that bag.”

“And I'd have settled for the other half,” Hump said.

A light went out on the second floor of Town Hall. A second later it flicked on again, then off.

“See that?” Bitters said. “Looks like some kind of signal.”

A minute later, a little man emerged from Town Hall through a side door. He wore a bowtie and round horn-rimmed glasses, and carried a black leather gym bag. When he crossed the street, Bitters and Hump nearly jumped from their car.

*   *   *

Coffin was glad they'd gotten there early: The Mews was filling up, tables and booths all busy, the bar packed, the sound of conversation swelling, boisterous. Jamie had ordered for him while he was on the phone: his favorite appetizer (ahi sushi tempura, sliced and well presented with wasabi, ginger, and soy sauce), and a lobster and scallop risotto, accompanied by a glass of pinot grigio. She'd ordered the rack of lamb for herself. “The baby wants meat,” she said. “I thought we'd share the appetizer.”

“Good,” Coffin said, glancing down at his belly. “It's huge.”

Dawn Vermillion was sitting at the piano—resplendent in a large crimson wig, turquoise-sequined gown and long white gloves. She waggled her ringed fingers over the keyboard, cracked her knuckles loudly, and then launched into a slow, bluesy version of “Love for Sale.” Her voice was smoky, a bit rough around the edges. The usual Absolut Citron on the rocks sat on the little ledge above the keyboard. Dawn's trademark cigarette—smoldering in its long, ebony holder—had been banished, a victim of the town's nonsmoking ordinance. Coffin felt a momentary surge of nostalgia for the old Provincetown, the way it was before the fishing economy had collapsed, before the town had sold its soul entirely to the tourist economy, before, as Kotowski said, it had been upscaled and cutesified to death.

He looked up. Miles Kendrick, the ATF agent, was standing just inside the door while the host checked his seating chart.