Fire Season Page 3

  Coffin sat up and sniffed. “I don’t think so.” He got out of bed, walked to the top of the stairs. He smelled nothing. The smoke alarm in the hall ceiling displayed its little “ready” light. Coffin padded back into the bedroom. “There’s no fire. You must have dreamed it,” he said, but Jamie was sound asleep. Coffin climbed into bed, stretched out, and closed his eyes. He could feel his mother’s stuffed owl staring at him from the top of the wardrobe, outrage in its glass eyes, ear tufts awry. Then, coming from the east, he heard the sound of sirens.

  Chapter 5

  The fire seemed larger than it was, but in Coffin’s experience that was the way of fire. Leave the frying pan on the burner while you answer the phone, Coffin thought, come back to foot-high flames and feel the adrenaline rush that skydivers and mountain climbers risked their goofy necks for. Clap a lid down on the skillet and the fire’s out, nothing to it—but still your heart’s pounding and the hair on your arms is standing up like you’ve just been chased by a bear. And this was no skillet fire: the flames would have been visible from Truro, most likely, roaring twenty or thirty feet into the night sky, completely engulfing a garage-sized shed by the time Coffin got there. The shed was down a dirt track—just a path, really—on the east end, up the hill from Bradford Street, jumbled in among a clutter of summer cottages and artist’s studios built back in the 1950s, where the western fork of Atkins Mayo Road petered out, maybe thirty yards from the nearest house. The fire crackled and popped like a small-caliber gun battle. Burning shingles and sheets of flaming tar paper rose in the column of flame and smoke, then wheeled off on the breeze, sailing toward town center like demonic kites. Lucky it’s raining, Coffin thought, or the whole town could go up.

  Walt Macy was there, and the fire and rescue boys with their shiny new truck. They were struggling with the big hose; the Italian pumper was acting up, revving and slowing, and every time the engine raced the hose bucked out of control—the fat stream of water firing over the shed and into the neighbor’s garden, knocking over bird feeders and Adirondack chairs. The grass had been torn up by tires and boots, and the path was turning into a shallow river of cold, soupy mud. The rain fell, a morose drizzle.

  Lola was there, too, and Coffin’s cousin Tony—trying to keep a small knot of onlookers out of the way. Tony had surprised Coffin by staying on the force, despite all the money he’d made during the real estate boom, despite having inherited another small fortune—almost two million dollars—from his mother-in-law back in July.

  “Not ’til my twenty years,” he’d said, when Coffin had asked him whether he planned to retire. “I’ve earned the full pension—I want every cent that’s coming to me. Besides, what would I do all day?”

  “What do you do all day now?” Coffin had said.

  Tony had laughed. “Always the kidder, Frankie,” he’d said. “Just like your old man.”

  Coffin stood beside Lola, who was watching the fire with arms crossed, uniform hat planted squarely on her head. “This isn’t good,” she said. “Two in one day.”

  Coffin nodded. “I don’t think it’s a prank anymore. Kids or not.”

  “Whoever it is,” Lola said, “they’re getting more ambitious.” She was 5' 10", 155 pounds or so of solid muscle, slim and fit beneath the bulky Kevlar vest she always wore under her uniform shirt. She could outlift, outrun, outfight and outshoot any man in the department, Coffin knew. She could also kill a man, if it came to that. Her blond ponytail was beaded with raindrops. Coffin made himself look at the fire.

  “Got a camcorder in your squad?”

  “Of course,” Lola said. “It’s on the checklist, isn’t it? Charged and ready to go.”

  “I want film of any onlookers, just in case.”

  Lola walked back to the road to fetch her camcorder. The fire and rescue boys had sorted out their fancy Italian pumper, and were having better luck putting water on the fire. There was a long, loud hiss, and steam rose with the flames and smoke. What was left of the shed’s roof collapsed in a shower of sparks.

  A tall, thin man walked up to Coffin and shook his hand. “You’re with the police, yes?” the man said.

  “Yes,” Coffin said. “Detective Coffin.”

  “My name’s Hallowell—Mark Hallowell. I’m the owner.”

  Hallowell had a beak of a nose and small, quizzical eyes surrounded by wrinkled lids. He looked like a friendly ostrich. He was around seventy years old, Coffin guessed.

  “Any idea how it caught fire?” Coffin said.

  Hallowell pointed to a house just up the hill. “We live right there, me and my wife Khaki.”

  “Khaki?” Coffin said. “Like the pants?”

  “Right,” Hallowell said, pointing a long, curved finger at Coffin’s chest. “Like the pants. Her family’s from Connecticut—they gave all the kids funny names. Her brother’s named Skipper, if you can believe that.”

  “About the fire,” Coffin said.

  “Right. When I saw the fire out the window I said, ‘Khaki, call 911,’ and I ran down here. First thing I noticed was it smelled like gas.”

  “Gasoline? That kind of gas?”

  “Yep, real strong smell of gasoline. You know that smell—there’s no mistaking it for anything else.”

  “Did you keep a gas can in the shed? A lawn mower, maybe, or a chain saw? Anything that might have gas inside it?”

  Hallowell looked at Coffin with his bright little eyes. “Well, no,” he said. “That’s the funny part, isn’t it? We keep all that stuff up at the house, in the garage. This is Khaki’s studio. Was, I should say.”

  “Studio?” Coffin said. “What kind of studio?”

  “Wood sculpture. Khaki makes erotic wood sculpture—driftwood, mostly. It’s pretty hot stuff, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “So what’s inside there is mostly driftwood, tools, that kind of stuff?”

  “Yup, that’s about right. Tools, driftwood. She had a nice lathe and some power saws and that.”

  “So, Mr. Hallowell,” Coffin said, scratching his neck. “Can you think of any reason someone would want to burn down your shed? Any feuds with the neighbors? Any ex-wives mad at you?”

  Hallowell snorted through his long nose. “Ha,” he said. “Nope. We get along with everybody, far as I can tell. We’re Unitarians, you know—live and let live.”

  Tony sidled up, shirttail sticking out on one side, big gut hanging over his belt. “What’s Lola doing?”

  “She’s filming the onlookers,” Coffin said, pulling him out of Hallowell’s earshot. “Tuck in your shirt, for God’s sake.”

  “What, those rubbernecks?” Tony said, tucking in his shirt with one hand, scratching his belly with the other. “How come?”

  “SOP in arson cases,” Coffin said. “Firebugs like to watch it burn—it’s part of the thrill. There’ve been a few famous cases where they’ve come back and mingled with the spectators, and been caught on camera. I’ll bring it up in tomorrow’s squad meeting.”

  “So, what?” Tony said. “You get two or three more fires, you keep seeing the same guy, he’s your guy?”

  “Maybe,” Coffin said. “It’s a lead, anyway.”

  “Know what I wish I had right now?” Tony said, gazing at the dwindling fire.

  “No idea.”

  “Some beers and a pack of hot dogs. Those coals are gonna be awesome.”

  * * *

  The man in the gray hoodie stayed as far back in the shadows as he could, up the hill a bit, next to an empty rental cottage, half-hidden in the deep shadows cast by a couple of good-sized scrub pines. It had been an ugly surprise when the lady cop had started filming—he hadn’t expected that—but he was pretty sure the camera wouldn’t pick him up from that distance in such low light. He wore his usual outfit: jeans, hooded sweatshirt, ball cap. A guy in a guy suit. He could see at least three other men in the crowd down by the fire dressed almost exactly the same way.

  He thought about leaving—walking casually away, staying in the sha
dows as much as he could without being obvious about it—but decided instead to stay put. No need to draw unnecessary attention to himself, he thought. If you wear what everybody else is wearing, stay in the shadows and keep still, you’re practically invisible.

  Chapter 6

  Coffin sat at Boyle’s desk, drumming his fingers on the polished mahogany. He was wearing his uniform, even though the pants were a bit tight in the hips, and the shirt felt snug across his chest. He was not a fan of the Provincetown Police Department uniform—the pants were navy blue with a red stripe down the leg, and the shirt was pale blue with navy epaulets. Coffin did not like epaulets, and he did not like pale blue. He did not like neckties, but he wore the standard navy tie with his uniform shirt, the collar of which seemed to have shrunk in the six or seven months since he’d last worn it.

  Lola sat across from him in one of the leather guest chairs. The new town manager, Monica Gault, stood by the window, fiddling with Boyle’s Venetian blinds. “This is rather worrisome,” she said, flipping the blinds open, then closed, as if she were sending a coded signal to someone across the street. “I don’t like it at all.”

  She was a tall, pale woman who’d been hired away from the town of Washington, Connecticut, where she was held in high regard as an honest and effective public servant—exactly the opposite of the previous town manager, Coffin’s cousin Louie. After nearly a year, Coffin was still having trouble getting past her vaguely British accent, tweed skirts, and short strands of freshwater pearls—she looked a bit like a young Margaret Thatcher.

  “Well,” she said. “What is there to do, exactly?”

  “Unfortunately, at the moment, not a whole lot,” Coffin said. “We know that the two Dumpster fires were arson, and probably the shed, but we don’t know who set them, or if they were set by the same person. We’ve contacted the state police and the state fire marshal—the fire marshal’s sending an investigator later today, but the state police can’t spare any detectives right now—apparently they’re working on some big meth factory in Fall River. And we have a witness that Sergeant Winters spoke to.”

  “Oh, really?” Gault said. “That sounds promising, no?”

  “Not so much,” Lola said. “One of the call-ins on the Dumpster at Rossi’s said she saw a white male, age uncertain, wearing jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and a ball cap fleeing the scene—or at least walking very quickly toward a car parked along the road. She wasn’t sure what kind of car it was, but thinks it was black. Or blue. And it might have been an SUV. She was distracted by the fire.”

  “That’s not very useful, is it?”

  It was a clear, sunny day, with a brisk wind blowing off the harbor. Bands of sunlight appeared on Boyle’s desk, vanished, then reappeared as Gault fiddled with the blinds.

  “It corresponds roughly with the store clerk’s description of the guy who first noticed the fire—a customer. He could be our firebug, or he could just be a guy who was in the store to pick up a couple of forties.”

  “Then there’s nothing else to be done at the moment,” said Gault. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Right,” Coffin said. “Except to add on extra patrols, if you’ll okay the overtime. We could also request help from the public—ask people to keep their eyes open, and to secure their homes, sheds, garages and so forth. I’ll call the Banner this afternoon, if you’ll okay it.”

  “Call away,” Gault said. “The overtime might be a problem, but I’ll see what I can do. We’re strapped for cash, you know. Strapped!”

  * * *

  Later, Coffin and Lola stood outside the charred remains of the shed with Pete Wells, the state fire marshal’s lead investigator for the Cape and Islands. Wells had a mop of dark curls and wore a down vest, a flannel cowboy shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps, jeans with a pair of old work gloves stuffed into the back pocket, and tall rubber boots.

  “Sure looks like arson,” Wells said, sipping coffee from a tall paperboard cup. The rain had started again, a slow, raw drizzle. It was cold, just above freezing, and everything smelled like smoke. “You break in, slosh some gas around, light it, and run. If you’re not a complete moron, you try real hard not to get it on your clothes—your really dumb arsonists have a tendency to set themselves on fire by mistake.” Wells pointed to a scorched line in the grass leading up to where the shed’s door used to be—the back wall was the only part of the shed that was still standing. “Pour a little trail out the door, hit it with a lighter, and you’re off to the races. Easy—just like you’d imagine doing it yourself, probably.”

  Coffin nodded. The rain dripped from the trees onto on his uniform hat. A few dispirited sparrows flickered back and forth in the bushes. “How much gas would it take, do you think?”

  “A shed this size, full of dry wood, sawdust, and such, you could probably torch with less than a pint. But if the owner said he smelled gas real strong, probably your guy used more than that. An amateur would go heavy, just to be on the safe side.”

  “And this is definitely amateur stuff?” Lola asked. She wore a big, black rain slicker over her uniform; her hat was pulled down a bit to keep the drizzle out of her eyes, which were gray in the muted light.

  “Sure. No professional arsonist is going to mess with Dumpsters and sheds. Your working torch man is in it for the cash: they do commercial and industrial work.”

  “Like what—warehouses? Factories?” Lola said.

  “Yep,” Wells said. “Smaller stuff, too. We get called in on lots of bars and restaurants.”

  “So maybe you’ve got a business that’s failing,” Lola said. “You’re in debt up to your ears, the bank’s coming for your house, your car—you’ve got no cash, but the business is fully insured.”

  Wells nodded. “You call your cousin’s wife’s brother Vinnie out in Providence, who calls a buddy of his, and a few nights later the place is destroyed by fire. Nobody’s hurt, thank God. Local police and fire authorities determine the burn’s electrical in origin—maybe it spread from the grease fan; probably a short. Insurance pays up, Vinnie and his buddy get their cut, you’re good to go.”

  “We had a couple of big arson fires when I was working homicide in Baltimore,” Coffin said. “One time, this guy comes home from work unexpectedly, finds his wife in the sack with the UPS man, shoots them both with a shotgun—boom, boom. Decides he’s going to try to make it look like a burglary homicide gone wrong and sets the place on fire to destroy the evidence. It’s a freaking row house—he burns down most of the block. An old lady two houses down dies in the fire, and he barely gets out alive himself—he’s spotted by several witnesses running out the door with his pants literally on fire. Tries to do a getaway in the UPS truck, but crashes head-on into an ambulance arriving at the scene, injuring both EMTs.” Coffin shook his head. “Ronnie James,” he said. “Real polite guy—confessed right away. Middle school teacher. Killed in a riot at Jessup about a year before they closed it.”

  Wells raised an eyebrow, took a pack of Camel nonfilters from the pocket of his cowboy shirt and lit one. Coffin tried not to watch. He was still chewing Nicorette from time to time. He patted his pockets, but found none.

  “That’s the other category,” Wells said. “The nonserial amateur. Sometimes motivated by revenge, or trying to conceal evidence of a crime. You said one of the Dumpsters was lit in daylight, right?”

  “Twilight,” Coffin said. “In a very visible spot.”

  Wells shook his curly head. “Very dumb or very bold. And obviously escalating.”

  “But this fire wasn’t completely dumb—it’s in an isolated spot, at least,” Lola said. “This dark little street.”

  “So maybe he’s learning,” Wells said. He waggled his empty coffee cup. “Mocha,” he said. “Five bucks for coffee, milk, and a squirt of chocolate syrup. Stupid, but I’m hooked.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, blew twin streams of smoke from his nose. “What can I do? I have an addictive personality.”

  “If he’s lear
ning,” Lola said, “does that mean he’s going to keep lighting fires—keep escalating?”

  Wells shrugged. “Maybe this one was enough for him. That’s best case—he’s a kid who’s dicking around a little bit with trash cans and Dumpsters, then he sets a real fire, something burns down, and it scares him enough that he gets it out of his system.”

  “What’s worst case?” Coffin said.

  “Worst case is bad. Worst case, you’ve got a real live pyromaniac. This is a guy—and they’re almost one hundred percent men—who may be a tad smarter than the average bear, and who’s got a fire fetish that escalates as he negotiates the learning curve.”

  “So the better he gets at burning stuff,” Lola said, “the more he gets off on it?”

  “Bingo. And the bigger the fires have to be. That’s obviously not what you want in a place where most of the structures are frame and cedar shingles, and, like, two feet apart. You guys get a major fire in town center, it could all go up—no joke.”

  “So what’s the good news?” Coffin said.

  Wells gestured with his cigarette. Coffin watched. “The good news,” Wells said, “is that real-deal pyros are rare, so probably what you’ve got here is just some jerk-off kid who’s setting fires because he’s mad at his father and bored with playing shooter games on Xbox. The bad news—”

  “The other bad news,” Coffin said.

  “Do you want a cigarette, Frank?” Wells said, offering the pack from his shirt pocket. “Or are you happy just staring at mine?”

  Coffin waved the cigarettes away. “No thanks. Finally quit. Jamie’s pregnant, so I’m trying to get healthy.”

  “‘Healthy,’” Lola said, making finger quotes.

  Wells smiled. “Good luck with that,” he said. “And congratulations, you old dog, you.”

  “With any luck the kid will look like Jamie,” Coffin said.

  Lola cleared her throat. “You were giving us the other bad news.”