High Season Read online

  “If Melinda Merkin wanted to avoid scandal,” Lola said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Dot was gone, “would she kill her husband in a gay resort town and dump him on a public beach in drag? And you can stop playing devil’s advocate now. I’m not an idiot.”

  Coffin smirked, pushed a slice of bacon into his mouth. “Sorry,” he said. “Anyway, it’s all academic. It’s not our case.”

  “State police.”

  “And the Cape and Islands DA. Standard procedure. We hand out the parking tickets, they investigate the homicides.”

  Lola picked a speck of fuzz from her hat, which sat beside her in the booth. “Doesn’t that piss you off, a little?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Of the last five murders on the outer Cape, how many have they actually solved?”

  Coffin thought for a minute, pursing his lips and squinting a little. “One, maybe. The woman out in Truro. Hasn’t gone to trial yet.”

  “That’s what I thought. Not exactly an inspiring track record.”

  “Well, no. I guess not.”

  Lola fiddled with the salt shaker, sliding it back and forth in a small pool of water. A bright rectangle of sunshine lay across the table, backlighting the fine hairs on her forearm. “Do you ever miss it, Frank? Being a homicide cop in a big town like Baltimore? The excitement?”

  Coffin shivered, suddenly cold. “Excitement’s overrated.”

  Lola raised her orange juice in a mock toast. “To the quiet life.”

  “Besides,” Coffin said, “somebody’s got to handle the drunks, speeders, and bicycle thieves.” He stuffed another strip of bacon into his mouth and took a slurp of coffee.

  Lola squinted at Coffin’s plate. “Should you be eating that? How’s your cholesterol?”

  “You sound like Jamie,” Coffin said.

  For a while they didn’t talk. Lola piled scrambled eggs onto a slice of toast and ate them. “So how is the yoga lady these days?” she said finally.

  “She wants to have a baby.”

  “Wow.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Lola leaned back in the booth, giving her plate a little backhand wave good-bye. “That’s pretty serious, Frank. Marriage. Spawning.”

  “She doesn’t want to get married. She just wants to have a baby.”

  “Very progressive.” Lola raised her eyebrows. “So?”

  Coffin frowned into his coffee cup. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “She give you a deadline?”

  “A week.”

  Lola grinned. “The lady doesn’t mess around. What if you say no?”

  “We didn’t talk about that.” Coffin wiped a hand across his eyes. He was tired. His head had begun to throb. He wanted to lie down in the booth and take a short nap. “God. Why do relationships have to be so complicated?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. I haven’t had a date in months.”

  Coffin’s brows went up. Too bad she only likes girls, he thought, and then felt instantly stupid for thinking it, as he always did—it sounded like something Tony would say. If Lola were straight, after all, she probably wouldn’t be in Provincetown. If she were straight, she’d still be just as far out of his league—practically a different species. “Really?” he said. “That’s kind of hard to believe.”

  “Mostly I get asked out by girls who miss their daddies,” Lola said. “Or who want to get revenge on their daddies. Or both. There’s also the occasional cop groupie. A guy with your experience would know all about that.”

  “Yeah,” Coffin said. He’d heard about cop groupies but had never met one. “Right.”

  Outside, a steady stream of traffic was heading out to the beaches: BMWs, Porsches, big SUVs. Men on bicycles wavered past in twos and threes.

  “What was Merkin doing at Herring Cove, do you think?” Lola said.

  Coffin buttered his last wedge of toast. “What does anyone do at Herring Cove, besides go swimming?”

  “Watch the sunset?”

  Coffin raised an eyebrow. “Besides that,” he said.

  Lola put a hand to her mouth, as if she were shocked. “But he was a Baptist.”

  “Even a Baptist likes to get a blow job,” Coffin said.

  “Some even like to give them. But the wife said he didn’t fool around.”

  “My shrink used to say that everybody’s got three lives. A public life, which is how you present yourself to the world; a private life, which is what your family knows about you; and a secret life—the stuff only you know about you.”

  “So if you’re a homophobic TV preacher in your public life,”

  Lola said, “and wear support hose and a muumuu in your private life . . .”

  “God only knows what goes on in your secret life.” Coffin stood and put a ten-dollar bill and two quarters on the table. “But like I said—”

  “I know.” Lola straightened her hat. “It’s not our case.”

  Coffin pushed open the door. It was almost hot in the sunlight. One gleaming SUV after another whooshed past. A small squadron of gulls was hang-gliding serenely overhead.

  “Frank?” Lola said. Her eyes were very blue. “What about you? Do you have a secret life?”

  “I wish,” Coffin said. “I’d be a lot more interesting if I did.”

  Chapter 5

  Coffin sat in the small, rickety chair in Chief Boyle’s office, watching Boyle sip coffee at his desk. The town manager, Louie Silva—Coffin’s second cousin—slumped in a leather armchair next to Coffin, short legs stretched out. Just behind him hovered Brandon Phipps, the newly hired destination marketing consultant.

  Louie was plump, sleek, and fretful. He wore a big pinky ring and a gold chain around his neck. He looked like a nervous, affluent duck.

  “A murder is one thing,” Louie said, passing a hand through his glossy black hair, “but a high profile deal like this? Could be very, very bad for business.”

  “That’s what would keep me up at night,” Coffin said.

  Phipps raised his right eyebrow a quarter of an inch. “What Mr. Silva means to say is that we must consider the effects of an incident such as this on the town’s media image, on both the regional and national levels—and its impacting of long- and short-term visitorship trends. It’s most urgent that this matter be resolved as expeditiously as possible. For all concerned.”

  Phipps was handsome in the uncomplicated, dimple-chinned way that television actors are often handsome. He had subtle blond highlights in his hair, and the muscles under his tailored shirt were the kind you get from working out in a well-appointed gym, with a well-appointed personal trainer.

  “Thanks for the clarification,” Coffin said.

  “You’re quite welcome,” Phipps said, his enunciation as crisp as the creases in his gabardine trousers.

  Boyle was even more red-faced than usual. He shot Coffin a warning look. “We’re all on the same team here, Coffin.”

  Louie mopped his face with a handkerchief. “Brandon’s right,” he said. “A killing like this could make people extremely nervous. It’s bigger than just tourism.”

  “Investors hate uncertainty, Detective,” Phipps said. “Certain investment-driven opportunity dynamics can only be optimized in a safe and predictable business environment.”

  “Naturally,” Coffin said.

  “So,” Boyle said, “we want you to conduct a parallel investigation. Quietly. Just in case the state police miss anything.”

  Coffin frowned. “That would be a serious breach of protocol. Definitely an ethics violation—maybe enough to bring me up on criminal charges, depending. You’d be putting me in an extremely vulnerable position.”

  “Let’s just say we don’t have a lot of confidence in the state police,” Boyle said, propping his chin on his fist. “Their track record stinks.”

  “What are you talking about?” Coffin said. “They just got the guy who murdered the heiress out in Truro.”

>   “It took four years!” Louie said. “Four fucking years! They DNA tested the entire goddamn town. The guy was so fucking dumb, he voluntarily gave up his DNA and then waited around for a year for the results to come in! That’s the only reason they got him. This Merkin thing is like a suicide bombing at Disneyland. We can’t wait four years for the state police to figure it out.”

  Boyle scowled. He swiveled his chair around and looked out the window. “The whole setup irks my gonads. What can they do that we can’t?”

  “Basic crime scene investigation. Interrogation. Polygraphing. Forensics. They’ve got the big new crime lab down in Sudbury.”

  “Ha!” Boyle said, over his shoulder. “They’re underfunded, understaffed, and unfamiliar with the territory.” He swiveled around and pointed a stubby finger at Coffin’s heart. “You know damn well the crime lab’s budget has been slashed; they’re backlogged like you wouldn’t believe. That’s why it took so long to get the Truro DNA results.”

  “Sure, but they’re still better trained and more experienced than we are.”

  Louie gazed at Coffin, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Who the hell is we exactly, Frankie?”

  “Look, Louie—”

  “You’re experienced in homicide investigation, Frank. You’re a regular Dick fucking Tracy. Commendations from the governor of Maryland, no less.”

  “That’s over,” Coffin said. “I don’t do homicide anymore. Dead people freak me out.”

  “Dead people freak everybody out, Coffin.” Boyle rolled his eyes back in his head and stuck his tongue out. “I mean, they’re dead, right?”

  Coffin said nothing.

  “It would just be an informal investigation,” Louie said. “A couple of days at the most. No big deal. As a favor to me.”

  “If I wanted to investigate homicides, I’d go back to Baltimore. They pay better.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Coffin,” Boyle said. “Are you refusing a direct order?”

  “A second ago, it was a favor.”

  Louie squinted. “A second ago I thought you’d say yes.”

  “You’ll get your unmarked car back,” Boyle said. “And if you get results, we’ll talk about your office.”

  “Forget it,” Coffin said.

  “Look, Frankie,” Louie said, “we’re family, right? I don’t want to play hardball with you. I’m a big fan of yours, you know that.”

  “If you say no, you’re fired,” Boyle said.

  Coffin took a breath, let it out. His eyes felt gritty; he had a slight tickle in his throat. “I’ll need Officer Winters pretty much full-time. I’ll need office support. I’ll need relief from the rest of my caseload. And you can stick the car up your asses.”

  “You’re doing the right thing, Frankie,” Louie said. “This protocol deal with the state is all bullshit, anyway.”

  “You can mention that to Mancini,” Coffin said. “When he indicts me.”

  The phone buzzed. It was Arlene, Boyle’s secretary. “Chief?” she said through the intercom. “Channel Five News is on line one.”

  Boyle’s eyebrows shot up. Then he sighed. “Tell them we can’t comment at this time. Tell them to refer all questions to the state police or the Cape and Islands district attorney’s office.”

  “Okeydokey,” Arlene said.

  “Funny thing,” Boyle said after he’d switched off the intercom. “The raid last night on the dick dock? No one was there. Like they knew we were coming.”

  “Funny thing,” Coffin said, opening the door.

  _______

  Coffin found Lola on the ground floor, talking on the pay phone outside the squad room. He waited just out of earshot until she hung up. She was frowning.

  “Everything okay?” Coffin said.

  “Struck out again,” Lola said. “What am I, radioactive or something?”

  “Sorry,” Coffin said.

  Lola waved a hand. “Same old same old,” she said. “No big deal.”

  “You got your wish,” Coffin said. “Boyle wants us to investigate the Merkin homicide. Off the books.”

  “Wow. Why?”

  “Boyle owes his job to the powers that be, and the powers that be are very nervous.”

  “About Merkin? How come?”

  “Good question. I asked our fine town manager the same thing. Apparently it’s bad for the business climate.”

  “I’m moved,” she said, “by the depth of their concern for the deceased. When do we get started?”

  “Tonight,” Coffin said. “We’re going to a drag show at the Crown.”

  Chapter 6

  Coffin trotted down the wide, stone steps in front of Town Hall and stepped out into the slanting light of a Cape Cod afternoon in August. The air was cooling after the noontime heat; the breeze had turned and was blowing off the bay, rich with the smell of the incoming tide.

  Beautiful as it was, summer was still Coffin’s least favorite season in Provincetown, August his least favorite month. From a midwinter population of around three thousand, the town swelled to as many as sixty thousand shopping, whale-watching, partying, cruising, beach-going souls in the high season. All of them had to eat, drink, sleep, and park; all of them were determined to have fun, the meaning of which varied wildly from one out-of-towner to the next. True, the tourists brought a huge influx of cash, the town’s economic lifeblood, a necessary evil now that the fishery was all but dead. But like most year-rounders, Coffin resented the sweating press of them—their pink skin and bovine progress down Commercial Street, camcorders whirring. Every summer, by mid-July, he found himself longing for winter, wishing the tourists would all go away and never come back, wishing they would just send the money without bringing their dogs and strollers and RVs and most especially their dumb-ass tourist selves.

  On the sidewalk, Coffin shouldered through a knot of stout retirees in matching T-shirts. They had gathered to watch a Boston television news crew setting up in front of Town Hall. The sound man, cameraman, and producer all huddled near a serpentine tangle of cable. The hair-sprayed reporter straightened his tie, which he wore with a sport coat, sky blue shirt, and khaki shorts. The TV remote van was parked illegally along Commercial Street, big antenna unfurled from its roof like an alien sunflower.

  A black Lexus sedan sat idling in the narrow parking lot, blocking Coffin’s Dodge. The driver’s side window slid silently down. Mancini and the brown-suited state police detective were inside. A younger detective in a gray suit sat in the back.

  “Got a minute, Coffin?” Mancini said from behind his blue mirrored lenses.

  The Lexus’s rear door swung open. Coffin climbed in next to the younger detective; he had high cheekbones and surprisingly long eyelashes. The interior of the car was cold, the air conditioner blasting a small nor’easter.

  “Let’s take a ride,” said Mancini, “and have a little chat. Have you met Detectives Pilchard and Treadway? Treadway’s just started with us. Shut the door, Treadway.”

  The young detective—Treadway—reached across and pulled the door shut. The Lexus slid into traffic on Bradford Street.

  “I’ve been telling the boys here about your credentials,” Mancini said. “Top of your class in the Baltimore Police Academy. Perfect score on the detective exam. Star of the homicide division. Commendations from the governor. Blah, blah, blah. Very impressive.”

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

  “Still, the old instincts don’t just disappear.”

  “Like riding a bicycle,” Pilchard said over his shoulder.

  Mancini turned on Alden, which was blocked by a UPS truck making deliveries. He looked at Coffin in the rearview mirror. “I’m curious about your take on the Merkin killing.”

  “I don’t know enough yet to have a take.”

  The older detective turned around in his seat and smirked at Coffin. “I figure the wife did it,” he said. “Got some help from a boyfriend, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” Coffin said. “Maybe it’s
a hate crime. Maybe it’s a robbery, or a drug thing. Could even be accidental.”

  Pilchard snorted. “An accident? You saw the body, right? Didn’t look to me like he got caught in a piece of freaking farm equipment.”

  “Erotic asphyxiation,” Mancini said. “That what you’re thinking? Whoever was doing the scarf work got carried away?”

  Coffin shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Interesting theory,” Mancini said, glancing at Coffin in the mirror with his blue sunglasses.

  “It’s not a theory,” Coffin said, “but it’s possible, given what we know.”

  “The wife’s got motive,” Pilchard said.

  “Have you talked to her?” Coffin said.

  “Tried to take her statement an hour ago,” Pilchard said. “Couldn’t get much out of her.”

  “She was crying a lot,” said the younger detective.

  “Could have been play-acting,” Pilchard said. “Putting on a big blubber-fest.”

  “Maybe,” Coffin said.

  The UPS driver climbed back into his truck and turned onto Commercial Street. Mancini followed him. The line of traffic was dense and moving very slowly.

  “So tell me something, Detective,” Pilchard said after a few moments of silence. “How’d a stud homicide guy like you get stuck here in Outer Queeristan?”

  “I grew up here. I’ve still got family in the area.”

  “The detective’s mother is in the local nursing home,” Mancini said.

  “You do your homework,” Coffin said.

  “I try.”

  “Okay,” Pilchard said. “Grew up here. So you moved to Baltimore and became a cop? How come? Why not be a fisherman, or sell cheap crap to tourists like everybody else?”

  “I never liked boats,” Coffin said, the thought of them making him feel slightly queasy. “My ex-wife got accepted into Johns Hopkins, pre med—so off we went.”