Mating Season Page 3

  “You didn’t fucking look, you fucking moron,” the voice said through the static.

  “There wasn’t much time,” Cavalo said. “I wasn’t thinking. She was lying there dead, for God’s sake, and the place was a mess. Maybe whoever killed her beat me to it.”

  “Well,” the voice said, the connection suddenly clear, “if they did, they’d better lock their doors at night. That thing’s worth a fortune.”

  “More than the computer?”

  “You got pretty much everything that was on the computer, right? A half-dozen clips.”

  “Right. That’s all I could find, anyway.”

  “A good DVR can store hundreds of hours of video,” the voice said. “It’s the freaking mother lode.”

  “You think he’s on it?”

  “If he was in her bedroom, he’s on it.”

  “Maybe I can go back in,” Cavalo said, “when all these cops pack up their shit and go home.”

  “Lotsa luck,” said the voice. “They’ll bring in a locksmith and rekey all the doors. They’ll probably wire the place with an alarm system, too, if it doesn’t already have one. You had your shot, unless you’re planning to climb down the chimney like freaking Santa Claus.”

  “Fuck,” Cavalo said. “I’d bet a million dollars it’s still in there somewhere. It’s like it’s calling out to me. I can feel it.”

  Coffin sat in the new leather wing chair opposite Boyle’s desk, watching the spot of glare on Boyle’s scalp shift from side to side as the police chief shook his head.

  “Absolutely not, Coffin,” Boyle said. “Your goddamn panic attacks almost got you and Winters killed last time. No more homicide investigations for you.”

  “Fine with me,” Coffin said. “What did you tell Mancini?”

  Boyle steepled his fingers. “That he’ll have to find his way around P’town without you, because you’re not up to it.”

  “Fine,” Coffin said. He started to get up.

  “Wait a second, Coffin,” Boyle said, holding up a hand. “Am I getting the impression that you want to participate in this investigation?”

  “I hope not,” Coffin said.

  “You’re trying to prove something, is that it? That you’ve still got the old mojo?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I’m not going to put other officers at risk just so you can repair your ego.” Boyle’s phone buzzed. He punched the intercom button. “What is it, Arlene?”

  “The attorney general,” Arlene said through the phone’s plastic speaker. “On line one.”

  “The attorney general?” Boyle said. “Of Massachusetts?”

  “Yes, sir. Attorney General Poblano,” Arlene said. “On line one.”

  Boyle pushed the blinking button. “Yes, sir,” he said. “This is Chief Boyle. Yes, sir. That’s right, sir.”

  A gull floated past Boyle’s window, staring in at Coffin with one hard yellow eye.

  “Both of them, yes, sir. No, sir—it’s no inconvenience to me,” Boyle said into the phone. “Absolutely. Happy to do it, sir. I’m sorry, what? Of course. Yes, he’s right here.” He held the phone out to Coffin. “It’s the attorney general,” Boyle said.

  “Of Massachusetts?” Coffin asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Nobody likes a smart-ass, Coffin,” Boyle said. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Fine.” Coffin stood up and took the receiver. “Coffin,” he said.

  “Detective Coffin? It’s Art Poblano. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve requested your help in this investigation.”

  As attorney general, Poblano was the chief law enforcement officer of the commonwealth. He was also a rising star in Massachusetts state politics; it was generally assumed that he would run for governor in the next election cycle or two.

  “Happy to do what I can, sir,” Coffin said. “On one condition.”

  “I’ve asked Chief Boyle if he can free up Sergeant Winters, too,” Poblano said.

  “You read my mind, sir.”

  “There’s just one thing,” Poblano said. “A favor I need to ask.”

  Coffin frowned a bit. “Shoot,” he said.

  Boyle glared at Coffin and tapped his watch crystal. Coffin turned away, letting the phone cord drape over his shoulder.

  Poblano cleared his throat softly. “I need your discretion, Detective.” He paused. “Kenji Sole and I were friends. It’s possible that people in Provincetown may have seen us together. Now, our relationship was never intimate, but you know how people talk. Am I right, Detective?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Coffin said.

  “I feel a bit awkward asking this,” Poblano said.

  There was another pause; Coffin said nothing.

  “Detective?”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought you’d hung up for a second.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I feel a bit awkward asking this, but I’d appreciate it very much if you’d let me know if my name comes up in the course of the investigation. Just a heads-up, is all I’m asking.”

  Coffin thought for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “We’ll do what we can.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  “All right, then,” Coffin said.

  “If I can ever return the favor, Detective,” Poblano said.

  “You never know, sir,” Coffin said.

  “That’s right,” Poblano said. “You never know, do you?” Poblano paused, cleared his throat again. “Excellent work on that situation you all had out there a couple of years ago, by the way. Excellent work.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sergeant Winters deserves all the credit.”

  “Of course you’d say that. And how’s your lovely wife?”

  Coffin could hear Poblano leafing through what was probably his dossier. “Jamie, sir,” he said. “We’re not married.”

  “Excellent plan, Detective. I shouldn’t have married mine, either.” Poblano laughed at his own joke. “Don’t forget now,” he said, after a last moment of silence. “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do,” Coffin said.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Boyle said when Coffin had hung up.

  “He wanted to know if I was sure I was up to the job,” Coffin said.

  “Well, are you?”

  “We’ll see,” Coffin said.

  “I’m not happy about this, Coffin,” Boyle said, leaning forward in his chair and scowling. “Not one goddamn bit.”

  Coffin shrugged. “Me neither. What can I do?”

  “One fuckup and you’re done,” said Boyle. “You faint, pass out, throw up, or so much as feel woozy and I’ll yank you off this case so fast it’ll make your head spin. Is that understood, Coffin?”

  “I felt a little woozy this morning,” Coffin said, “but it passed.”

  Boyle took a sip from the coffee mug on his desk, made a face, then took another sip. “I want daily progress reports. Understand? Daily.”

  “Yes, sir, chief,” said Coffin. “Since it’s a matter of interest to Attorney General Poblano, I assume you’ll be letting us drive one of the unmarked Crown Vics.”

  Boyle pursed his lips and nodded. The spot of glare on his fore-head bobbed up and down. “Why not?” he said. “Maybe the freaking attorney general would like to come out here and take a crap on my desk while he’s at it.” Boyle dug in his desk drawer and tossed a set of keys at Coffin, who caught them in his cupped hands.

  “Anything else you need, Coffin? A SWAT team, maybe? How about the K-9 unit?”

  “We don’t have a K-9 unit, sir,” Coffin said. “Or a SWAT team.”

  “I expect a report from you in exactly eight hours, Coffin,” Boyle said. “Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  Downstairs, in his basement office, Coffin doodled on a new legal pad.

  “How are we supposed to coordinate with Mancini?” Lola said, propping her hip on Coffin’s desk. “Boyle give you any direction?”

  “Nope,” Coffin said, drawing a cartoonish
picture of a boat sinking in a calm sea. “It’ll take Mancini a day or two to figure out what to do with us. Mostly we’re just window dressing.”

  “To make it look like he’s doing everything in his power—”

  “To catch the ruthless killer of Kenji Sole.” Coffin drew a survivor, swimming away from the wreck, and the dorsal fins of two sharks circling nearby. “I think we go back and talk to Cavalo again,” he said.

  “As a suspect?” Lola said, taking a sip from a can of Diet Coke.

  Coffin thought for a moment. “No. I don’t think so—but he is lying about something.”

  “How long he was in the house.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Which means he was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing in there,” Lola said.

  “Right,” Coffin said. “Otherwise, why lie?”

  Lola scratched her head with the end of her pen. “The house is full of expensive stuff. Maybe he was looking for a souvenir.”

  “Some little keepsake,” Coffin said.

  “A nice Rolex,” Lola said. “A diamond ring or two. To remember Kenji by.”

  “Such a sentimental boy.” The fat sewer pipe that ran the width of Coffin’s ceiling rumbled and swooshed; somebody had flushed a toilet upstairs. “There’s a lot more going on with that guy than he’s letting on,” he said. “Either that or he’s a pathological liar.”

  “Why not both?”

  Coffin tapped Lola’s soda can with his pen. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff. It tastes like formaldehyde.”

  “Soft drink of the pharaohs,” Lola said. “It may kill you, but your body will be perfectly preserved for thousands of years.” She stood up and picked a speck of lint from her uniform pants. “Think he’ll give up the names of Kenji’s other boyfriends?”

  “In a heartbeat,” Coffin said.

  “Should we call Mancini or anything? Just to let him know we’re going out to interview a witness?”

  Coffin looked at her.

  Lola smiled and punched Coffin in the shoulder. “Ha! Had you going for a second, right?”

  Coffin rubbed his arm, which tingled. “Ow,” he said.

  The phone rang. It was a big putty-colored phone with a rotary dial. Coffin reached for the receiver and punched line one. “Coffin,” he said.

  “Mr. Coffin? It’s Dr. Branstool from Valley View Nursing Home. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about your mother.”

  Coffin’s heart flopped in his chest like a mackerel. He took a deep breath. “Is she dead?”

  “No, sir—nothing like that. It’s not a medical emergency at all.”

  “What, did she bite Mr. Hastings again?” Coffin said.

  “No, there haven’t been any more biting incidents, thank goodness.” Dr. Branstool paused. Coffin heard him taking a deep breath. “I’m afraid, Mr. Coffin, that your mother is missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “She wasn’t in her room this morning when Natalie went to deliver her breakfast tray. We’ve just completed a thorough search of the facility, and she appears not to be on the premises.”

  “You lost my mother?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Coffin. Nothing like this has ever happened here at Valley View—certainly not since I’ve been director. I don’t blame you at all for being upset.”

  “Good for her,” Coffin said.

  “I’m sorry?” said Dr. Branstool.

  “I’ll ask my colleagues to keep an eye out for her,” Coffin said. “I doubt she’s gone far.” He pictured his mother climbing onto the Plymouth & Brockton bus to Hyannis, or thumbing a ride on the shoulder of Route 6.

  “I certainly hope not, Mr. Coffin. She’s quite a remarkable woman, your mother. Even in her condition.”

  Coffin held the phone at arm’s length for a moment, then placed it back in the cradle.

  “Problem?” Lola said.

  “Mom’s staged a jailbreak,” Coffin said.

  “Really? She busted out, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Your buddy Kotowski still visit her over at Valley View?” Lola said as they climbed the basement stairs.

  “You think maybe she had some help?” Coffin said.

  Lola pushed open the big front door. “You never know, right?”

  “Right,” said Coffin, squinting in the sunlight. “You never know.”

  Chapter 2

  Coffin’s friend Kotowski lived in a big, dilapidated house at the far west end of Commercial Street, only fifty yards or so from the long stone breakwater that divided the salt marsh from Provincetown Harbor. There were two hand-painted signs in Kotowski’s scraggly front yard: one that read ELECTMEN FOR ALE and another that was a picture of a Jet Ski in a red circle with a diagonal line through it.

  The sun was very bright. The incoming tide made low gurgling sounds between the breakwater’s enormous stones. A couple of early tourists stood with their rented bikes in the middle of the traffic circle that marked the juncture of Commercial Street and Route 6, reading the bronze plaque that commemorated the Pilgrims’ first New World landing in 1620.

  “Kotowski?” Coffin called, knocking on the door. When there was no answer, he tried the latch (it was unlocked, as usual) and pushed the door open. Then he turned and held up one finger, giving Lola the “I’ll just be a minute” sign before going in.

  Kotowski was sitting in one of the ramshackle armchairs in his living room, wearing headphones, and wreathed in blue hashish smoke. He was long-boned and lanky, in his late fifties. He hadn’t shaved in several days; his beard was grizzled and coarse. He held a long, small-bowled pipe in his right hand. A half-finished canvas sat on the easel: It was a painting of a man who looked a lot like Dick Cheney, sharp-toothed and demented, gnawing on the bloodied head of a man who very much resembled George W. Bush. Both men were immersed almost up to their necks in glowing green ice. Two other figures stood in the hellish background, their faces deep in shadow.

  “Police!” Coffin yelled, knocking again.

  Kotowski’s eyes flicked open. His gaze was intense, sardonic. “I thought you said it was the police,” he said.

  “Funny,” Coffin said. “I’ve got a question for you.”

  Kotowski took off the headphones. “Bach cello suites,” he said. “Rostropovich. Transcendent stuff, Coffin. The humanity! The wheezing! You can almost see his ear hair! Smell the dandruff on his shoulders!”

  “I was going to ask about my mother,” Coffin said. “She’s gone AWOL.”

  “Good for her.”

  “I was wondering if you had any idea where she might be.”

  Kotowski frowned. “She can’t have gotten very far, I don’t think. I doubt she has any money.”

  “She didn’t say anything to you about wanting to run off?”

  “Only every time I’ve talked to her in the past four years,” Kotowski said.

  “Nothing new in the past week or so?”

  “No. Are you worried?”

  “A little. She’s pretty loopy.”

  Kotowski waved a dismissive hand and started to put the headphones back on. “It’s P’town,” he said. “She fits right in.”

  “Kotowski.”

  “Oh my God,” Kotowski said. “What’s next? The bright light? The rubber hose? She made me promise not to tell.”

  “She has Alzheimer’s,” Coffin said. “She can’t remember what day it is, most of the time.”

  “Okay, copper,” Kotowski said, sighing theatrically. “You beat it out of me. She has a boyfriend.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me. Sam Taveres, retired fisherman. Widower. Very nice guy—still in possession of several of his faculties. About eighty, I think. Lives down the hall from your mother. You should visit more—maybe you’d know this stuff.”

  “She doesn’t tell me anything,” Coffin said. “Mr. Taveres have any family in town?”

  “Beats me,” Kotowski said. “You’re the detective. Am I supposed to know everything?”<
br />
  May was Coffin’s favorite month in Provincetown. Winter and the damp chill of April were finally over; the beach rose and Scotch broom were in bloom. The good summer restaurants were opening, and the town was coming back to life: Guesthouse owners were painting trim and fixing roofs; a few pleasure boats puttered back and forth in the harbor. There were people around—unlike in the dark and lonely depths of winter when Coffin saw the same few faces on the street day after day—but the full onslaught of tourists had not yet arrived. They would not show up in any quantity until after Memorial Day, and even then not in earnest until the Fourth of July, when they’d appear in their bovine throngs, appetites raging, wallets fat with credit cards.

  In late May, the drive from Town Hall to Mayflower Heights took five minutes. At the point where Bradford and Commercial streets merged, the houses on the harbor side of the road petered out—the bank above the beach being too narrow at that point for building—and the view of the water opened up gloriously: the small boats tugging at their anchor lines, the breakwater, MacMillan Pier and its mobile of gulls. The sun was just beginning to set, infusing the sky with pinks and lavenders; wisteria bloom and the salt tang of the rising tide scented the air. It was one of Coffin’s favorite places in Provincetown. He wanted to park the big Crown Vic beside the road for a few minutes and sit companionably with Lola, watching the sky change color, breathing the perfumed air. He slowed a bit but didn’t stop.

  “Listen,” Coffin said, standing at the bottom of Bobby Cavalo’s front stairs. Faint music was coming from Cavalo’s apartment.

  Lola made a sour face. “What is that?” she said. “Justin Timberlake?”

  “Who?” Coffin said, climbing the stairs.

  “Justin Timberlake,” Lola said. “He was in one of those boy bands.”

  “Boy bands?” Coffin said.

  “Yeah, you know—Backstreet Boys, New Kids on the Block, ’N Sync? They were big in the nineties.”

  “I stopped listening to pop music when the Eagles broke up,” Coffin said.

  “The Eagles?” Lola said. “Really?”

  “What do you want from me?” Coffin said. “I was in high school.” When they reached the landing, Coffin nodded at Lola. She pushed the door open, and they stepped silently into the living room.