Fire Season (27 page)

“Well, then, that would imply arson. First one in an occupied structure, right?”

“I think so.” Coffin yawned, smoothed his mustache. “Sorry,” he said. “Haven't been getting much sleep.”

“You and me both, my friend,” Macy said.

The trio of firefighters were aiming a fat stream of water directly into the trophy house's open front door—the lead man, holding the nozzle, was down on one knee like a football player in pregame prayer. Gouts of steam poured from the windows, and a loud, continuous hissing complicated the roar of the flames with its sibilant overtone.

“Listen,” Coffin said. “I don't mean to tell you your business—but are you sure you want to send those boys inside? Is it safe?”

“You worried about structure collapse?”

“I'm worried about all kinds of things.”

“Collapse is probably not an issue here. I talked to the owners 'cause I thought I remembered when this thing was under construction. It's got a steel frame—it'd have to, or it'd never support the rooftop pool. They had some firm come in from off-Cape and weld it together.”

The World Trade Center had a steel frame,
Coffin thought. “Okay,” he said. “If you're not worried, I'm not worried.”

“Plus, hell—I'd like to win one. So far we're oh for three.”

“So if it's not just a charred shell at the end of the night, that's a win?”

Macy pursed his lips, nodded. “That's about right,” he said.

The clutch of firefighters had advanced as far as the front porch when Coffin noticed a strange, misty aura above the trophy house's flat roof, which appeared to be crimped and sagging. He was about to point it out to Macy when the house produced a rending shriek, like a torpedoed battleship breaking up as it sank beneath the waves. The firefighters dropped their hose and ran for the street.

“Holy shit,” Macy said. “There she goes.”

The roof crumpled slowly. The right side, where the pool was, inclined gradually toward the center of the house, while the left side drifted outward, steel screaming, welds and bolts popping in clusters, their rattling clangs as they failed like bursts of heavy machine-gun fire. The crowd whooped, ecstatic. Coffin could see the harborside edge of the pool as the roof slowly twisted and sank beneath its impossible weight—pool water escaping into the house, a little at first, then all at once a great tsunami roaring through the upper rooms and rushing down the broad interior staircase, the fire protesting with much hissing and steam (
fire is a cat,
thought Coffin), pool water inundating the second floor—Coffin could see a baby grand piano floating past the windows—water exploding down the stairs into the main entryway and out the front door, driving the onlookers cheering and screaming with fear and joy to the higher ground of Commercial Street. When the two-foot wall of water lost its momentum, it reversed itself and ran down the hill again, much of it streaming back into the smoking wreck of the house. The fire seemed to have gone out.

Macy took his hat off, scratched his bald head, put the hat back on. “Did that really happen,” he said, “or am I having some kind of episode?”

“I'm not sure,” Coffin said. “It's been a long day.”

*   *   *

As the firefighters packed up their gear, Coffin leaned on the rear fender of the unmarked Crown Vic, smoking a cigarette he'd bummed from Pinsky. It tasted terrible. He felt guilty, but he didn't put it out.

“Well,” Lola said, standing beside him. “That was exciting.” She reached out, plucked the cigarette from Coffin's mouth, tossed it onto the pavement, and ground it out with the toe of her boot.

Coffin looked at her, looked at the crushed remains of his cigarette.

“Bad for you,” Lola said. “Dad.”

Coffin sighed. “What a night.” He told her about Tony, and the Fiesta going over the cliff.

“Poor Tony,” Lola said.

“Poor Tony? What about my car?”

“You hated that car.”

“Then there was the ride home with Rudy and his accountant.”

“Uh-oh. What happened?”

“I have a prediction for you.”

“Do I want to hear it?”

“Tomorrow morning, someone will open the safe in the clerk's office and an item will be missing.”

“A black leather gym bag containing a whole lot of smack?”

“Bingo.”

“Some family you've got there.”

Coffin laughed. “The Coffin jinx,” he said. “It's not just about boats anymore.”

“Should we turn him in?”

“To whom? I can guarantee you there's no evidence and no witnesses—if there were, no one would talk. That gym bag is long gone—he's buried it out in the beech forest or God knows where. He's been at this for years—he's good at it now.” Coffin paused, scratched a mosquito bite on his bald spot. “Any sign of sweatshirt guy tonight?”

Lola shook her head. “Nope. He didn't turn up for this one. I looked and looked.”

“He may have changed clothes,” Coffin said. “The owner said he saw a guy in drag in the alley just before the fire started.”

“Huh. What kind of drag? I mean, there's drag and then there's drag.”

“Bad drag. Not really trying, he said.” Coffin yawned, covered his mouth. “Jesus. I'm exhausted. Too many subplots.”

Lola grinned. “I've been around so many fires, all of my clothes are full of smoke. My apartment smells like a freaking campfire.” She held out her sleeve—she wore jeans and a leather jacket, her hair pulled back in the usual ponytail. “Here,” she said. “Smell that.”

Coffin sniffed. “I must smell like smoke, too,” he said. “I've just been too tired to notice.” He met Lola's eyes for a second, felt the tug of something like desire, though it wasn't desire, exactly. Lola was conventionally pretty—good jaw, straight nose, blue eyes—but what really got to you, he thought, was the way she carried herself, her complete physical confidence. He'd gone to the Thoroughbred races in upstate New York once; an old friend lived in Saratoga Springs. They'd had breakfast at the track, watched the horses work out. He'd been struck by their power, their dignity, and grace—there was something regal about them. Lola was like that, in a way—self-possessed, completely at home in her own skin.

“What are you grinning at?”

“I was marveling at your self-possession.”

Lola laughed. “Because I wanted you to smell my sleeve?”

“Maybe so.”

“Well, don't be fooled. It's just an act. Inside I'm all atwitter.”

“Who isn't?” Coffin said. He opened the Crown Vic's passenger door, lowered himself into the seat. “Okay,” he said. “I'm done. Take me home.”

*   *   *

Coffin pulled the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. The swing was moving slightly in the breeze. He half expected to find Rudy and Loverboy camped out in his living room with lawn chairs and a cooler, but when he unlocked the door and stepped inside the house was empty and quiet. “Thank you, God,” he said. The stuffed goat leered down at him from its place above the mantel. “What are
you
looking at?” Coffin said.

He climbed the stairs slowly—his back hurt a little; there was a faint ringing in his ears. He was dirty, he realized, and he smelled like sweat and wood smoke. He took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed beside Jamie, trying not to wake her.

“Frank?” she said, still half asleep. “That you?”

“Yep. It's me.”

“Okay. Good.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“Sleep.”

Coffin lay still, watching the purple darkness deepen and swirl. The bedroom sounded different now that most of the furniture was gone. Even the silence had changed—it was larger, more resonant.

He closed his eyes, and had just drifted off when Jamie said, “Frank?”

“Hmm?”

“You bring my malted?”

“No—sorry. Stuff happened.”

Jamie reached out in the darkness, patted Coffin's arm. “'Sokay. Sleep time.”

“Yeah,” Coffin said. “Sleep time.”

 

Chapter 19

The house was full of smoke. Alarms shrieked from the ceilings, the walls. Down the hall the baby was crying, a harsh, mechanical wail. Coffin ran to the baby's room—smoke filling the hallway, his throat burning—and reached into the crib. The seal baby was gone. Someone had taken the baby.

“Jamie?” he called. “I can't find the baby!” Panicked, he looked under the crib, under the rocking chair. The huge toy animals stared at him, baring their fangs. He waved at the smoke. His arms were so heavy, they could have been made of stone. He fell, crawled to the stairs on his hands and knees.

“Jamie! What did we do with the baby?”

The smoke alarms howled, the hallway tilted and swam. The seal baby lay at the top of the stairs, the fur on its round head wet and sleek, black eyes beseeching. He called out to Jamie again, but she was gone. He tried to pick up the baby, but it wriggled away. “Come back!” he called. “I'll save you! It's okay!”

The seal baby looked up at him, expression stoic and sad. It looked familiar, Coffin thought, flames licking his bare feet. It looked like someone he knew.

“Frank? Frank?” Jamie was shaking his arm.

“Huh?” Coffin said.

“You were yelling in your sleep.”

Coffin ran a hand over his face, opened one eye. “Jesus,” he said, sitting up, his voice a raspy croak. “My throat is killing me. What was I yelling?”

“Something about Morris, or Maurice,” Jamie said. “You sound terrible. Are you coming down with something?”

“Maurice?” Coffin thought for a minute. “The seal baby,” he said. He put a hand to his throat—it felt like he'd swallowed broken glass. “Weird. The seal baby turned into Maurice.”

“You had your dream again? About the house being on fire?”

Coffin shook his head, trying to clear it. It felt heavy, solid, stupid. “Yeah, the baby keeps turning into a seal. Only this time, the seal baby was Maurice.”

“Who's Maurice?”

Coffin rubbed his temples. “He's this kid—he worked at Yaya's, taking care of the seals. Remember? This summer?”

Jamie nodded. “The seals that somebody shot,” she said. “So awful. You never found out who did it, right?”

Coffin shook his head. “Nope. There wasn't much to go on. Nobody even reported gunshots. It may have happened during the fireworks.”

“Maybe we
should
leave,” Jamie said. “Sometimes I think it's going bad here, you know? All these fires. Dead seals. Heads in lobster tanks.”

“Sure,” Coffin said. “I could be one of those old guys at Wal-mart who asks you if you need a cart. You know—a greeter.” Coffin looked at the clock—it was 7:43
A.M.
“Oh, shit—got to go.”

Jamie put a hand on his chest. “Hold on there, wild man. You're not going anywhere. You're taking a day off.”

Coffin shook his head. “I'd love to,” he said. “Really, I would
so
love to take a day off. But there's kind of a lot going on. You know—fires. Heads.”

“Call in. We have an appointment with my OB-GYN in Hyannis.”

“Another ultrasound?”

“Yep. This is the one where they can probably tell the gender.”

Coffin felt a small flicker in his chest. “Okay,” he said. He swallowed, his throat on fire. “I'll try. I'm supposed to give a briefing this morning, but Lola can handle it.”

Jamie clapped her hands. “Yay! I'll have you back before dark, I promise. It'll be great—we can go car shopping after the appointment.”

“How about a Toyota Four Runner? Very masculine.”

“The minivans have power sliding doors, Frank. Power sliding doors! Come on—get up. I made coffee.”

Coffin closed his eyes—his head was throbbing. “I may be drinking tea for a few days. And I hate tea.” The phone bleeped from its plastic stand on the floor.

“You should definitely not answer that,” Jamie said.

Coffin gave her a look, picked up the phone, pressed
TALK
. “Coffin.”

Jamie kissed his cheek. “I'll be in the shower.”

“Frank?” It was Jeff Skillings. “Look, sorry to bother you at home but a couple of things have come up. You're not going to like either of them.”

“Great.”

“You sound terrible. You just wake up?”

“Yeah. I may be coming down with something.”

“You should suck on those zinc things.”

“I hate the zinc things. They're like sucking on a doorknob.”

“Ha,” Skillings said. “I guess they are kind of metallic tasting. So do you want the bad news, or the other bad news?”

Coffin coughed, then sneezed. “For fuck's sake,” he said, reaching for a Kleenex.

“Seriously—zinc is what you need. And chicken soup.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay—first thing: the Truro police responded to a call about a car on fire out by Highland light last night. Ford Fiesta, mid-eighties, at the bottom of the cliff. They ran the VIN number this morning and it came back registered to you. They're treating it as a stolen vehicle. State police are involved.”

Coffin closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Long story. What's thing number two?”

“The town manager and the town attorney put a briefcase containing a large quantity of heroin in the Town Hall safe last night, and now it's gone.”

“Gym bag.”

“Sorry?”

“It was a gym bag, not a briefcase.”

“If you say so. There's a special agent from the DEA here to pick it up—guy named Felcher. He drove down from Boston this
A.M.
, and he's not happy.”