Fire Season (36 page)

“That's the deal,” Mancini said. He was wearing a charcoal gray, pin-striped suit that made him look like an investment banker.

Maurice was shaking his head. “Not the condo fire,” he said, through his bandages. “I told you, I didn't do that one.” It was hard to understand him. His lips had been badly burned, and according to the nurse it hurt him to talk.

“Did you try to kill Detective Coffin?” Mancini said.

Maurice stared out of the holes in his bandages, but said nothing.

“Then shut the fuck up,” Mancini said. “If we go to trial I'll do everything I can to see you do the max on every charge—that's ninety years even without the attempted homicides.”

“Let's say forty-five,” the lawyer said. “Up for parole in thirty.”

“Thirty years,” Maurice said. “Fucking hell.”

Mancini glowered. “You're lucky. I should throw away the fucking key.”

“Can I ask a question?” Coffin said. His neck and right forearm were bandaged. A big patch of hair on the back of his head had been singed down to the scalp; half of his mustache was gone.

Mancini shrugged. “I think you're entitled.”

“I still don't get why you did it, Maurice. The church, the Crown, my house. I don't get it.”

“The seals,” Maurice said. “Because they killed the seals.”

“The
seals?
” Coffin sat for a minute, smoothing what was left of his mustache. “I don't understand.”

“Nobody
did
anything,” Maurice said. “Nobody was
punished.
You didn't
do
anything.”

“So you took it on yourself?”

Maurice nodded. “The seals never hurt anybody. They were innocent creatures, and those fucking drag queens killed them. That's why I burned the Crown.”

“And the church?”

“I wanted people to be scared. I wanted to punish them.”

“Your father killed the seals, Maurice.”

Maurice stared at him, dark eyes glittering through the holes in his bandages. “My father?” he said, after a long silence. “
Donny
killed the seals?”

“That's right,” Coffin said. “Donny. He confessed a few hours before you set my house on fire. He said they were ruining the business.”

There was another long silence. “Jesus Christ,” Maurice said at last. “You're fucking
kidding
me.”

*   *   *

Provincetown's jail was a primitive, two-cell affair that mostly housed drunks and perpetrators of domestic violence. Like most jails, it smelled of Lysol with lingering undertones of mold, vomit, body odor, and shit. Ygor had a cell to himself, but that would change later in the day when he was transported down to the county correctional facility in Buzzard's Bay. Ygor sat on his bunk in an orange prison jumpsuit and slippers. He had a large and very colorful black eye. Coffin sat on a plastic visitor's chair outside the cell. Lola stood nearby, back to the wall.

Coffin leaned forward. “So a
Wookiee
attacked you and your friends? That's your story?”

“He was huge person, like Wookiee only clean-shaven,” Ygor said. “Huge and very fast. There was old man with him, too.”

“And this happened why?”

Ygor shrugged. “There was dispute over musical composer. Some people have no sense of humor.”

“And then they brought you here, the Wookiee and the old man? And next thing you remember is waking up in this jail cell?”

Ygor nodded. “That's right. I don't know why I am here. I'm completely innocent.”

“What about the six grams of heroin in your pocket at the time Officer Pinsky found you unconscious on the front steps?”

“They must have put it in my pocket. I don't use heroin.”

“What about the stolen Escalade out at Herring Cove, where we found your friends?”

“I didn't steal it. That was Dmitri.”

“Tell me about Branstool, Ygor. Who cut off his head?”

Ygor's unswollen eye was cool and gray, his face deadpan. “My friend Vladi confessed to me that he did it. I wasn't there.”

“Vladi's the one that died out at Herring Cove?”

“That's right. Vladi had very hot temper. I tell him, Vladi, it's going to get you in trouble, but he doesn't listen.”

“Where's the rest of Branstool, Ygor?”

Ygor shrugged again. “Like I said, I wasn't there. If I would guess, is probably in ocean. Food for crabs. Food for fishes.”

*   *   *

Billy's was packed—Coffin had never seen it so crowded, though he realized that his perception was colored a bit by the fact that Rudy and Loverboy were sitting at the bar, taking up as much physical and psychic space as four or five normal-sized people. Gemma was there, too, standing at Rudy's elbow, wearing black leather pants that appeared to have been applied with a spray-gun, and a black ruffled blouse open almost down to her navel. It was the quiet week between Fantasia Fair and Halloween, so most of the police force were there, too, except for the two on-duty officers. Lola and Kate were picking out songs on the jukebox: Amy Winehouse's “Me and Mr. Jones” followed by the Stones' “Wild Horses.” Pinsky and the impossibly glamorous LaWonda, resplendent in an electric blue, sequined minidress and five-inch platform heels, stood near the bar, sipping cosmopolitans. Skillings and his partner Don, who was a vice president at Fishermen's Bank, stood with them, drinking the good eighteen-year-old Talisker, a rousing single malt from the Island of Skye. Doris and Tony sat in a booth—Tony seemed to have returned mostly to his old self: his uniform was sloppy, his left shoe untied. He guzzled a tall draft beer against his doctor's orders, while stealing occasional glances up at the wavering picture on the TV screen. Walt Macy was there, too, and five or six of the fire and rescue crew, big men and women bellied up to the bar. Ernie from the Portuguese bakery was drinking a gin and tonic, and chatting up Roz from the Fish Palace. A brace of old people in wheelchairs had gotten a ride over from Valley View in the nursing home van; they sat looking flushed and happy, drinking short draft beers and shots of Jagermeister. Six or seven of Yelena's incredibly good-looking friends had also come—Captain Nickerson swung on his little swing, head cocked, one bright eye staring at the cluster of Eastern European girls, who were drinking shots of pepper vodka and slamming their empty glasses down on the bar. “Show us your tits!” Captain Nickerson shrieked, but this time, out of respect, they didn't. Yelena and Squid were both hustling to keep up: Even Kotowski was pretending to work, pouring the occasional shot, opening a beer here and there, lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip. Coffin's mother was there, too—or some part of her, Coffin thought: The part that hadn't turned into a crow—her ashes inside an ornate brass urn that sat squarely in the middle of the bar.

There had been many toasts: to Coffin's mother, mostly, but also to the men and women of the Provincetown Fire Department, who had performed heroically given their fraught relationship with their equipment, and despite not actually having put out any of the fires.

The Crown fire had been enormous: an eight-alarmer, with fire trucks and crews coming from as far away as Sandwich, lined up half the narrow length of Commercial Street, unable to get close enough to help. The crowd of spectators had grown large and boisterous: The startled Tall Ships and the weeping drag queens had been joined by a contingent of drunks from the Old Colony Tap, and another group of drinkers from the Captain Alden. People from all over town and then Truro and the rest of the outer Cape had showed up to watch the old hotel burn: sparks and embers swirled and stormed overhead. Sheets of burning roofing had drifted up to High Pole Hill and started small brush fires there, which had mostly been put out by residents. The entire Crown and Anchor complex had ultimately burned to the ground, as had a small indoor shopping mall next door that contained three gift shops, a tattoo parlor, a taco stand, and a spiritual reader's practice. It had looked for a time as though the rest of the waterfront might go, too—the wind was stiff and burning embers were sailing everywhere. But then the rain had begun: a hard, drenching rain that fell through the night and late into the morning, finally putting the fire out.

Coffin's house had been a total loss, too. Only the chimney had been left standing. The stuffed goat's head that hung above the mantel was scorched, but otherwise more or less intact. Coffin and Jamie were staying in Lola's condo until the insurance check for the house came through; Lola and Kate were living together in Kate's little rental house on Allerton Street.

There were toasts to Coffin and Lola, too, for finally catching the arsonist—the burn on Coffin's neck was still bandaged, though not quite as ostentatiously as it had been a couple of days before.

Coffin sat at the bar, Jamie beside him, a long arm draped around his shoulders. “Well, Frank,” she said, “Satisfaction” thumping from the jukebox, the buzz of conversation all around them, “you're a hero. Again.”

Coffin shook his head. “I'm not a hero. I never would've figured out that it was Maurice if it wasn't for the Seal Baby. And he burned down half the town before we got him. Not our best work.”

“I'm not talking about
that,
” Jamie said. “I'm talking about the way you saved me and your unborn daughter from a burning building. That's some mighty sexy stuff right there, Detective.”

“Chief.”

“Acting chief.”

Coffin grinned. “You're a lot more athletic than I am—you could have climbed out of that window without any help from me.”

“But I didn't have to, Frank—that's the point.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You saved me.”

Kotowski slouched down to their end of the bar, Newcastle Ale in hand. “So what's this I hear about a dream?” he said.

“Here we go,” Coffin said.

“Frank was having a recurring dream about a fire in our house, and a baby that turned into a seal, and then the last time he had the dream the Seal Baby looked like Maurice.”

“So then we went looking for Maurice, and it turned out he was the arsonist,” Coffin said.

“Whoa,” Kotowski said. He looked at Coffin with something like respect. “You are a fucking freak of nature, Coffin,” he said. “I'm impressed. Too bad you didn't catch him before he burned down half the town.”

“Quibbler,” Coffin said, sipping his scotch.

Kotowski belched softly, thumped his chest with a loose fist. “We've got firemen who can't put out a fire and cops who can't catch a criminal. What's next—garbage men who take your trash and throw it all over your lawn? What are we paying you public employees for, anyway?”

“The firefighters are volunteers,” Coffin said. “We're not paying them anything. And they
were
pretty damned heroic—you should have seen them at the church fire—completely fearless. And don't forget Ginky the cat.”

“So what's your excuse?”

“I blame the police artist,” he said. “Strangely, his cubist sketch of the suspect failed to produce any leads.”

Kotowski laughed, drained his beer, opened another. “I'm going to miss your ma,” he said. “She was a real pistol.”

“That she was,” Coffin said. “I'll miss her, too.”

“She's in the next life now,” Jamie said. “I wonder what
that's
like.”

“Feathers,” Coffin said. “Wind. Roadkill.”

“Frank thinks she came back as a crow,” Jamie said.

Kotowski frowned. “Jesus, Coffin—if I didn't know better I'd think you'd gotten all spiritual on us. Next you'll be telling us about your freaking yoga practice.”

Jamie cleared her throat, raised a hand. “Ahem! Yoga instructor.”

“I know
that,
” Kotowski said. “I'm talking about
him
. If he goes all New Age yoga-crunchy on me—no offense—I won't be able to tolerate him anymore. Who the hell am I going to
drink
with?”

“Don't worry,” Coffin said. “It'll pass.”

“It'd better,” Kotowski said. He took a long slug from his beer.

“I'm going to let you two gentlemen hash this out,” Jamie said, patting Coffin on his unburned shoulder. She stood, round and radiant, golden late-afternoon light slanting in through the big front windows, illuminating her hair. She kissed Coffin on the cheek again, then navigated slowly through the crowded bar toward Lola and Kate, who were leaning on the jukebox, heads together.

“Christ on a cracker,” Kotowski said, watching her. “She's like some freaking fertility goddess. How'd a toad like you ever land such a gorgeous female?”

Coffin shook his head. “Life is full of mysteries.”

“So when's the baby due?” Kotowski said.

“February fifteenth. Give or take.”

“What are you going to do about a house? You can't move in with me, you know—no squalling brats at Chez Kotowski, thank you very much.”

Coffin shrugged. “I don't know. We'll buy something, I guess. We'll get some money from the insurance company, and Jamie's got some family money. I haven't had time to really think about it.”

“So you're staying here? I
knew
it. Your kid's going to grow up to be some moody, ironic hipster, you know. And that's best-case scenario.”

“If it was up to me, I'd probably buy a place in Wellfleet, or maybe Eastham. But Jamie likes it here.” Coffin shrugged. “What can I say? I'm not in charge.”

“Oh my God,” Kotowski said. “You are
such
a pussy.”

 

Acknowledgments

My sincerest thanks to the many readers who've gotten in touch, one way or another, to tell me they enjoy these books. Thanks also to Marty Wood and Karen Havholm (an URCA grant is a wonderful thing), to Peggy Govan and John Pollitz at McIntyre Library, to Brent Halverson for the great simile, and to all of my friends and colleagues who've said supportive things about these books. Thanks to Brady Foust for asking me every Friday for two years if the book was done yet. Yes, Brady—it's done. Much gratitude to Maria and Kelley, as always. Thanks to Polly Burnell, Stephen Desroches, Jimmy McNulty, Jen Rumpza, and all the other wonderful P'town folks who took the time to talk fire and/or UFOs with me. Enduring affection and thanks to Roger Skillings, simply one of the best people on the planet. As always, big-time love and devotion to my wife, Allyson, who lets me take time away from the life of our busy household to write things (next year, it's your turn).