Fire Season (28 page)

“That's three things,” Coffin said, blowing his nose.

“What? Oh, right. Three things.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” Coffin said. He sneezed again and hung up.

*   *   *

The bathroom was warm, rich with steam. It was the only part of the house that had been refurbished since the 1950s—Coffin's father had done the work himself, in the long, cold winter of '76, just a few months before he'd disappeared from his fishing boat twenty miles offshore. There was a lot of avocado-green tile, and a big, green tub with a glass shower enclosure that was hard to keep clean. On the upside, Coffin thought, it was plenty big enough for two.

He dropped his boxer shorts, slid the door open, and climbed in. Jamie was shaving her left leg, her back to him, hair in a loose bun. She still didn't look pregnant from behind, Coffin thought; her ass was perfect. He put his hands on her hips.

“Careful,” she said, straightening, leaning into him a bit. “I've got a razor.”

He cupped her breasts. They were heavy, taut. “I know,” he said. “It's mine.”

Jamie turned her head, nuzzling into his cheek. “That's nice.”

He pinched her nipples lightly, nibbled the rim of her ear, the base of his half-firm penis nestled against her tailbone. She dropped his razor; it clattered against the tub. She groaned, bent forward a little, pushing her backside against him. “Your turn, Frank,” she said, reaching back with one hand to stroke him, cheek and shoulder on the tile wall. “Your turn.”

Coffin sneezed, then sneezed again. “Ah, God,” he said, eyes watering. “Sorry. Nothing says ‘sexy' like a head cold.”

Jamie turned, patted his chest, hugged him. “Poor baby,” she said. She put a warm, wet palm on his forehead. “You're hot.”

“Finally,” Coffin said, trying not to cough. “She notices.”

*   *   *

Special Agent Martin Felcher of the Drug Enforcement Agency was a little over six feet tall. He looked, Coffin thought, like a guy who enjoyed going to the gym. He was square-jawed, not quite thirty, unwrinkled except for a pair of deep grooves between his blond eyebrows. His eyes were stone gray, his hair close-cropped. Coffin had met a hundred guys just like him—he was pretty much your standard-issue fed.

“I have to tell you,” Felcher said, “I'm finding this whole conversation a little surreal.” He was sitting behind Coffin's desk, staring at Coffin over the tops of his steepled fingers.

Mancini was there, and Monica Gault, who sat in one of the leather guest chairs next to Coffin. The town attorney, Kirby Flint, stood near the wall, nervously fiddling with his tie.

“You shouldn't frown like that,” Mancini said. He was half-sitting on the edge of Coffin's desk. He touched the bridge of his nose. “You're getting some lines right here.”

Felcher frowned more deeply. “What you're telling me, in effect, is that you had a bag full of heroin in your safe, now it's gone, and you don't care. Would you say that was an accurate characterization?”

Coffin sneezed, took a Kleenex from his pocket and wiped his nose. “Look, Agent Felcher—”

“Special Agent Felcher.”

“
Special
Agent Fe-fe—” Coffin paused, trying mightily not to sneeze. “
Helcher!
”

“Gesundheit,” Mancini said.

“Thanks,” Coffin said, blowing his nose. “We've had three major arson fires in the past five days. Two days ago, one of our officers found a human head in a tank full of lobsters. So yes, if we're going to be entirely accurate, it's fair to say I don't care very much. And it's not my safe.”

“You don't care
very much
. I see. Would you care very much if I dropped trou right here and took a crap right in the middle of your desk? Because that's pretty much what you're doing to my investigation. We've had Dr. Branstool in our sights for months now.”

“It's not my desk.”

Felcher's face turned red. “Are you not the acting chief of police here in Provincetown?”

“I am.”

“Are you not sworn to uphold the law?”

“I am.”

“Then maybe you can explain to me how it is that
you don't care very much
that two million dollars' worth of heroin, by your own estimation, is missing from your safe.”

“It's not his safe,” Gault said. “It's the town's. Technically the heroin was in my custody.”

“And mine,” said Flint. “He has a receipt, if you'd like to see it.”

“He has a receipt,” Felcher said, leaning back in Coffin's desk chair. “He has a receipt. Isn't that special. I'm just wondering how that's going to go over in federal court when a judge orders the three of you into asset forfeiture as drug-trafficking suspects.”

Coffin laughed, the image of the Fiesta bouncing over the cliff still fresh in his mind. “While you're at it,” he said, “you can tell the judge why we went to the trouble of establishing a chain of custody and then stealing the heroin from ourselves, with a half-dozen police officers working down the hall.”

Felcher scowled.

“He makes a good point,” Mancini said, stroking his chin.

“Okay,” Felcher said. “Fine. I'm operating on the assumption that this is an inside job. Let's assume the three of you are not suspects. Somebody knew it was in the safe, and somebody had the combination. How many people would have access to that combination, would you say?”

Gault shrugged. “I don't know,” she said. “Dozens?”

Felcher's blond eyebrows went up. “Dozens? Are you serious?”

“The town has owned that safe since 1915,” Gault said. “There's no record that the combination has ever been changed.”

Felcher swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. “The combination has never been changed,” he said. “Since 1915.”

“Correct.”

“I'm not sure anyone knows how to change it,” Flint said. “We've never had a situation quite like this come up before, have we?”

“Not that I can think of,” said Coffin.

Felcher swallowed again. A vein in his neck had begun to throb visibly. “If that many people had access to the safe, why not put it in your evidence cage?”

“Evidence box, you mean,” Coffin said.

Felcher's eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“It's not really a cage,” Coffin said, blowing his nose. “It's more like a box.”

“A box.”

“A cardboard box.”

Felcher tilted his head. “You keep evidence in a cardboard box.”

“Exactamundo,” Mancini said.

“As far as I know,” Flint said, “this is the first time since Provincetown was incorporated that any evidence of any significance has gone missing.”

Mancini grinned. “He's right—you should've put it in the box.”

Felcher rubbed his eyelids with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. “I can't believe you fucking people,” he said. “I've never seen anything like this.”

“It's good for you,” Mancini said. “How the other half lives.”

Felcher leveled a gray-eyed stare at Coffin. “I'm going to conduct a full investigation,” he said.

“Of course you are,” Coffin said.

“I expect your cooperation.”

“Gladly—in exchange for everything you know about Branstool's heroin operation.”

“That's not information I'm authorized to share.”

“Of course it's not.” Coffin stood. “This meeting's over. You've got your troubles, we've got ours.”

“Your fires are all over the news in Boston,” Felcher said, smiling with one side of his mouth. “Heckuva job you-all are doing here.”

“Arson isn't my best thing,” Coffin said.

“Jesus,” Mancini said. “I hope not.”

*   *   *

After Felcher, Gault, and Flint were gone, Coffin called Lola at her desk on the second floor and asked her to join them.

Mancini stayed put. He sat slouched in the leather guest chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He wore pressed jeans with gray socks, tassel loafers, and a black polo shirt, purple horsie logo over the right breast.

“You must really hate that Felcher guy,” Coffin said, settling into his desk chair. It was still warm from Felcher's toned and muscular ass.

“It's not personal. Mostly I hate the DEA.”

Coffin shrugged. “Feds are feds, pretty much.”

“That's where you're wrong, Coffin. DEA has way too much power and no respect for jurisdiction. In the last thirty years they've made the drug situation in this country worse instead of better, and we have the highest incarceration rate in the world to show for it. It's like that headline in
The Onion
—‘Drugs Win War on Drugs.' If it was up to me I'd disband the DEA and legalize pot, like, tomorrow. And I'm a freaking Republican.”

“You sound like my Uncle Rudy.”

Mancini scratched his head with a manicured finger. “Seen him lately?”

“Who's asking?”

“Call it idle curiosity.”

“No. Not lately.”

Mancini uncrossed his ankles, then crossed them again the other way. “Apparently there was some kind of incident in Truro last night.”

“Oh?”

“Your car was involved. I'm surprised the state police haven't been by to see you.”

Coffin shrugged. “Maybe they've got other things to do.”

“That's it? That's all you've got to say?”

Coffin looked at Mancini from under his eyebrows. “You've met my cousin Tony.”

Mancini nodded slowly. “He's the guy who walked out of the psych ward last night, right?”

“Yep.”

“Where is he now?”

“At home, last I heard. But in the meantime…”

“Ah.” Mancini brushed a speck of lint from his pants leg. “Nobody's hurt, then?”

“Nope.”

Lola knocked—a light knuckle tap on the office door's frosted glass panel. Mancini stood, walked to the door, opened it. “That's some family you've got there, Coffin. You sure reproduction was such a good idea?”

Coffin grinned, then sneezed. “I tried to tell her,” he said.

“Got some lab reports you might be interested in,” Mancini said, when Lola had stepped into the office.

She was in uniform. She looked unnervingly fit and well rested.

“That was quick,” Coffin said.

“The blood and tissue in the wood shop are Branstool's. Also, no hits for heroin in any of Branstool's hollow ducks.”

“No surprises, then.”

“Not for you, maybe. I figured he was bringing it into the country in those things.”

“Then the whole wood shop would be a front?”

“Right.”

Coffin shrugged. “Seems like a lot of trouble, when you're surrounded on three sides by water.”

“So you're saying they just brought it in by boat.”

“Probably. Boats are big. Lots of places to hide stuff on a boat.”

“Then what's up with the ducks?”

“Distribution,” Coffin said. “Outgoing. Put the smack in the ducks, glue them shut, FedEx them anywhere in the country. It's a pretty good cover.”

“It's goofy,” Mancini said, “but I guess it beats driving around with it in the trunk of your car.”

“He wouldn't have been working alone,” Coffin said. “Whoever his partners were wouldn't trust him that much.”

“The big heroin distribution centers in New York in the seventies only hired women,” Mancini said. “And they had to work naked. Kept employee theft to a minimum.”

“Didn't look like street-level distribution was going on there,” Coffin said. “You've been in Branstool's house, right?”

Mancini nodded. “The wood shop workbench produced hits for heroin, but there was no measuring equipment and no baggies.”

“Whoever killed him could have taken that stuff,” Lola said.

“True,” Coffin said. “Let's you and I go see Dogfish this morning, see if he knows anything.” He turned to Mancini. “Can you have your boys go through Branstool's credit card records? I'm looking for FedEx or UPS transactions. If I'm right, there'll be a lot of them.”

Lola twirled her uniform hat on her finger. “Any toxicology reports for Branstool yet?”

“They're not ready,” Mancini said. “Later today, according to the ME. Maybe you could call her, Coffin, and move things along.”

Coffin smiled, then sneezed. “That was a long time ago,” Coffin said.

Mancini turned to Lola. “Chief Coffin and the medical examiner used to be an item.”

“I heard,” Lola said.

“Ms. Block and I went out three or four times,” Coffin said. “Years ago. I wasn't really her type.”

“He had a pulse.” Mancini smirked. “What are the odds Branstool was a junkie?”

“What are the odds of a massive overdose as the cause of death?” Coffin said.

“You think he was dead before they put him on the table saw?”

“Wishful thinking, maybe.”

“If he wasn't, it would've taken a couple of guys, probably.” Mancini stood up, straightened a pants leg. “I bid you adieu. I don't suppose there's anything new on your arsonist?”

“More escalation,” Coffin said, “and a change in method.”

“He set fire to the house from the outside, I get that. Not sure how that worked, but it's different.”

Coffin smoothed his mustache. “He may have switched accelerants, too. He might be using lighter fluid now.”

“I don't get how this is escalation. The church was a much bigger structure, right?”

“Yeah, but the church was unoccupied. The trophy house had lights on and people inside.”

“Person,” Lola said, “and a cat.”

Mancini sucked his teeth. “That's problematic, all right. I'd be worried if I was you.” He strode to the door, turned the knob. “Wish there was something I could do to help, but I'm running out of detectives. One's in the hospital—took a fall, apparently. The other one's taking a few personal days. You can have Pilchard if you want him.”