Fire Season Page 5

  “Well,” Lola said, yawning. “This is exciting.” She was in her off-duty clothes—jeans, boots, leather jacket. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders—Coffin couldn’t remember ever having seen it down before—dark blond and a bit tousled.

  “Wonder who owns it,” Coffin said. “Seems like it’s been under construction off and on for months and months. Mostly off, lately.”

  Lola yawned again, rubbed her eyes. “God,” she said. “I’d just gotten to sleep when I heard the sirens.”

  “Total hot date,” Coffin said.

  “Is there any other kind?”

  Coffin grinned, said nothing. The rain had stopped, finally. The breeze was picking up, though the sky showed no sign of clearing.

  “Wait a minute,” Lola said, peering at Coffin. “I know your ‘what if’ tone when I hear it.”

  “It’s just a thought,” Coffin said.

  “You have a dark view of human nature, Frank Coffin,” Lola said.

  Coffin shrugged. “It’s possible, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “So, okay: What if you’ve got a building under construction but you’ve burned through your loan and it’s still unfinished.”

  “The market’s tanking, even prime, waterfront condos aren’t turning over…”

  Lola held up a finger. “But your building’s fully insured!”

  “Coincidentally, somebody’s been setting things on fire.”

  “That somebody might even be the owner of a half-finished building.”

  “Might be, or maybe it’s a different somebody,” Coffin said. “Either way, the other smaller fires appear to be the work of a serial arsonist.”

  “Which could represent an opportunity,” Lola said, thumbing a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you happened to own a building you wanted to get rid of.”

  “That happened to be fully insured,” Coffin said.

  Lola took a deep breath, let it out. The fire was growing more intense. The pumper was working, finally, and the firefighters were aiming a heavy stream of water into one of the downstairs windows. “I don’t know how you look at yourself in the mirror,” she said. “Thinking the way you do.”

  “It’s not easy, living on the dark side.”

  * * *

  A crowd of forty or fifty sleepy-looking spectators had gathered in a loose, L-shaped cluster at the corner of Brewster and Bradford streets, well below the muddy rise on which the burning building stood. Lola held up a camcorder and started to film them.

  “It’s not going to be easy making an ID with this,” Lola said. “Lots of hats and hoods.”

  “Chilly out,” Coffin said, and it was—the damp October wind was picking up, and Coffin felt himself gritting his teeth. He’d worn only an old suede jacket over his jeans and flannel shirt: time to get out the winter coat. “Nothing you can do.”

  Lola nodded, peering into the camcorder’s view screen. “It also occurs to me that we’re likely to keep seeing the same people over and over, it being the off-season and all.”

  She had a point—even in October, Coffin began to feel that he was seeing the same faces over and over, day in and day out: Jamie, Lola, Tony, and the rest of his co-workers, the new town manager Monica Gault, the beautiful Haitian girl behind the counter at the Yankee Mart, where Coffin usually stopped for coffee on the way to work. Kotowski, maybe. Squid. Captain Nickerson. The stuffed goat in his mother’s house. By the time the winter nor’easters began to blow, half the town seemed to be in hibernation: it was as though the locals—year-rounders, they called themselves—stayed in their burrows as much as possible, emerging only to forage now and then at the Stop & Shop.

  “Maybe we’re looking for the guy who only shows up once,” Coffin said. “The guy who looks uncomfortable being filmed.”

  “So don’t be subtle about it,” Lola said.

  “Right.”

  Lola paused the camcorder, walked up to within ten feet of the crowd of onlookers, pushed the record button again and slowly panned the camera across their faces.

  Coffin watched. No one walked away. No one pulled their hat brim over their eyes. A pair of Tall Ships in faux mink primped their wigs for the camera.

  “Okay,” Coffin said when Lola was done. “It was worth a shot.”

  “I hate this,” Lola said. “I want some freaking evidence to think about.”

  Coffin’s cousin Tony came bounding toward them from behind the burning building, struggling a bit in the mud. He’d probably been taking a leak, Coffin thought.

  “Yo, Frankie,” Tony said. He was in uniform, holding a big policeman’s Maglite. “I think I got something.” He pointed to the backyard. “Looks like fresh boot prints back there.”

  Coffin had scheduled him for the graveyard shift at Tony’s own request. Things hadn’t been going so well at home, Tony had said. Doris, his small, frowning wife, wanted to leave the Cape, move closer to Boston, send the kids to private school. Tony would only leave the Cape in a box, Coffin thought—he was local to the core. What would big, sloppy Tony do with himself in some upscale Boston suburb? What would Tony’s kids—five little versions of Tony in graduating sizes, like Russian matryoshka dolls—do in a private school?

  “Tony?” Coffin said.

  “Dude.”

  “Are you sure they’re not your footprints?” Coffin was looking down at Tony’s muddy boots.

  “Frankie—for fuck’s sake,” Tony said. “Do you really think I’m that dumb?”

  Coffin raised his eyebrows, said nothing.

  “Okay,” Tony said, waving his hands. “I admit it—I fuck up sometimes. But here’s how I know: I got kind of small feet for my size—just an eleven. This guy’s feet are bigger. Plus, his boots have a different tread.”

  Coffin and Lola exchanged glances. Coffin inclined his head a bit and Lola nodded. “Okay,” Coffin said. “Let’s see the boot prints.”

  * * *

  Incredibly, Tony seemed to be right. A trail of boot prints led from the back of the burning building, through the hedge and out to Brewster Street, which was a narrow one-way for most of the block. Coffin also wore a size eleven—not that big for a man his height (you know what they say, he thought)—the boot prints leading out to the hedge appeared to be at least a size or two larger than his own.

  “What would you guess?” he said. “Thirteen?”

  “Sounds about right,” Lola said. “You’re a what? Ten?”

  “Eleven,” Coffin said, trying not to sound defensive.

  “Eleven?” Tony said. “That’s it? What are you, six-two?”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Coffin said.

  “So we’re looking for a fairly big guy,” Lola said, kneeling down, pointing Tony’s flashlight at the scorched trail across the patio. The fire leaped from the second-storey windows into the night sky. It was much too hot to get close, but the scorch marks were unmistakable. “Long stride, too—not a small guy with big feet, or a small guy wearing big boots.”

  “Definitely not a woman,” Coffin said. The prints were reasonably clear, and bore a distinctive tread design—the interlocking chain that, as far as Coffin knew, was unique to L.L. Bean duck boots.

  “A really big woman, maybe,” Lola said. “But yeah, probably not.”

  “Well, there you go,” Coffin said. He patted Tony on the back. “Good find. You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.” The fire seemed to be gathering strength, burning hotter and faster—the flames shooting from the windows maybe thirty feet into the night sky. If you watch a fire long enough, Coffin thought, it becomes beautiful: malevolent but lovely, a dancing, many-armed Shiva, bent on destruction.

  “I always hated that guy,” Tony said. “You know, as a kid? What a freakin’ know-it-all. I kept hoping Dr. Watson would get fed up and punch him out.”

  Coffin said nothing. A section of the roof collapsed, throwing a shower of bright cinders into the air. Big sheets of burning tar paper rose on a column of smoke and sparks, and wheeled toward town center on th
e breeze. Like something out of Dante, Coffin thought. Like the souls of the damned.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning all of Provincetown smelled like a doused campfire, smoky and damp. Kotowski sat with Coffin’s mother in her room at Valley View Nursing Home, watching the big, flat-screen TV Coffin had bought for her at Best Buy in Hyannis. Kotowski often stopped in to see her before the “art for seniors” class he’d been teaching at Valley View for the past eight years.

  Film of the condo fire played over and over on the Boston FOX affiliate. A banner scrolled across the screen that said, P ’TOWN FIREBUG STRIKES AGAIN. A blond news model was interviewing a TV minister from South Carolina, who seemed to think that God’s judgment was finally being visited on Provincetown.

  “Look at that fat dickwad,” Coffin’s mother said, black eyes glittering, bright and empty as a doll’s. “What’s he grinning about?”

  “He sure seems happy,” Kotowski said. “What’s up with his hair? It looks like molded fiberglass.”

  “Somebody ought to set fire to this place,” Coffin’s mother said. “Put the drooling idiots out of their fucking misery.”

  She looked at Kotowski. She wore a blue housecoat. Her hair was brushed and her teeth were in. She smiled with them, her face a bit lopsided. Kotowski wondered if she’d had a small stroke.

  “It’s nice of you to come visit. You’re a good son.”

  “We’ve been through this, Sarah. I’m not your son. Frank’s your son.”

  Coffin’s mother scowled. “Frank? Who the hell is Frank?”

  * * *

  “Jesus,” Jamie said, sitting up in bed, scowling at her copy of What to Eat When You’re Expecting. “These people are Nazis. Brown rice and broccoli, my ass. Do you know what I want right now?”

  Coffin shook his head, retying his tie for the third time. “No idea. Banana split? Fried calamari?”

  “Fried calamari at”—Jamie glanced at the clock on the bedside table—“seven twenty-three in the morning? Don’t be a goofball. I was thinking pork chops with onion rings. That banana split sounds pretty good, though.” She Frisbeed the fat book across the room; it flapped into the corner like a dying grouse.

  “Excellent choice,” Coffin said, frowning into the mirror as he untied the tie again. “Crap.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Can’t get the knot right. Too loose, too tight, too crooked.” Coffin slid a finger into his shirt collar and tugged. “Plus, this fucking collar is strangling me. Must’ve shrunk in the wash.”

  Jamie was sitting cross-legged in bed, chin resting on her elbows. “You know, Frank,” she said.

  “You know, Frank,” Coffin said, after a long beat.

  “Never mind.”

  Coffin turned for a moment. She seemed stunningly beautiful—hazel eyes set wide, bed-tousled hair. Her face a bit rounder now, the cheekbones less pronounced. “No fair with the never minds,” he said. “Say what you think.”

  “Well…” Jamie paused.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’m a little worried about your health. You’re going to be a dad, you know.”

  Coffin grimaced into the mirror. “You’re saying I’m getting fat.”

  “Not fat. Stout, maybe. Husky. It’s cute.”

  “Husky,” Coffin said, finally getting the knot right. He looked down: The inside end of the tie was three inches longer than the outside end. “Great.”

  Jamie stood, put her arms around him from behind. “See, now your feelings are hurt.”

  “No,” Coffin said. “You’re right. I’m a little out of shape. I need more exercise.”

  “And a checkup,” Jamie said. “Cholesterol, the works. I’ll even make the appointment for you.”

  “Have you and Lola been conspiring?”

  Jamie kissed his ear, and Coffin felt goose bumps rise on the back of his neck.

  “I want you around for the long haul,” Jamie said. “You have to live to be eighty, at least.”

  Coffin caught one of her wrists, tasted the fine, pale skin where her pulse beat. “Good luck with that,” he said. “No Coffin man has ever lived past seventy, as far as I know. We have a genetic disposition to drowning.”

  “Be the first.” Jamie slid a hand down to Coffin’s groin, gave his stiffening penis a squeeze through his uniform pants, then another. Then she stopped. “Uh-oh,” she said.

  Coffin caught her reflection in the mirror. She was wide-eyed, pale. “Uh-oh,” he said. “You okay?”

  Jamie bolted for the bathroom, slammed the door. Coffin could hear her retching, spitting. The toilet flushed. Water ran. She emerged a minute later, wiping her mouth on a hand towel. “It’s not you,” she said, meeting Coffin’s eyes. “You know that, right?”

  * * *

  The property tax assessor’s office was on the first floor of Town Hall; it had two narrow windows looking out toward Bradford Street and the Pilgrim Monument. The assessor was a tall, heavy black man named Marvin Jones. He wore a maroon sweater vest, pale blue Oxford shirt, khaki pants, and bifocals with tortoiseshell rims. He looked much too big for the small task chair parked in front of his desk.

  “It’s 376 Bradford Street?” he said.

  “That’s what it says on the mailbox,” Coffin said.

  “Which unit?”

  “How many are there?”

  “Two.”

  “Different owners?”

  “No.”

  “Both, then.”

  “Ha,” Jones said, clicking with his mouse. “You’re going to like this.”

  “Whenever you say I’m going to like something,” Coffin said, “I don’t.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re so hard to please.”

  “Marv?”

  “Marvin.” Marvin’s pale blue eyes flickered up from the screen, met Coffin’s. “Not Marv.”

  “Marvin. What am I going to like?”

  “Maybe ‘like’ is too strong a word.”

  “Marvin!”

  “The building belongs to a company—R. S. Investments. Title transferred two years ago from another company, Outer Cape Properties, which I happen to know is now defunct.” Marvin looked up from his screen and smiled brightly. “R. S. Investments is owned outright by an individual whose initials also happen to be—so original—R. S. Care to take a guess?”

  Coffin closed his eyes. “Oh, Christ. Uncle Rudy.”

  “Ding, ding, ding!” Marvin grinned. “Former chief of police and man of mystery, Rodolfo Santos. Give the detective a Kewpie doll.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Coffin sat in one of Monica Gault’s leather guest chairs. Somehow a spot of grease had appeared on his tie. Christ, he thought. I’m turning into Tony. Vincent Mancini, the Cape and Islands district attorney, sat with one haunch propped on Gault’s broad desk. A pair of state police detectives lurked near the door—Pilchard in his brown suit, and a new one whose name Coffin hadn’t caught. Pete Wells sat in the other guest chair, and Monica Gault, the new town manager, stood by the window, gazing out at the harbor.

  “Well, it’s very bad news,” Gault said. “Very bad news.”

  “Which part?” Mancini asked. “The escalation, or the possibility there’s a copycat?”

  Gault frowned. “I just don’t believe there’s a copycat,” she said. “Not in Provincetown. Two psychopaths setting fires? Here?”

  “You haven’t lived here very long,” Coffin said.

  “Probably just one psychopath,” Wells said, “and an outside chance there’s also an opportunist trying to get out from under some debt.”

  “You need to talk to your uncle, Coffin,” Mancini said. “Stat.”

  “I’m not sure he’s in town. He doesn’t keep a residence here, I don’t think. I haven’t seen him since May.”

  “What about his son? He’s one of your patrol officers, right?”

  “Tony, yeah. He might know. Rudy has a girlfriend in town, too. Or had. I think I can probably locate her
.”

  “This uncle of yours,” Gault said, still peering out at the harbor. The clouds had lifted, finally, and the day was bright. A herring gull sailed past the window, a small green crab in its beak. “He used to be police chief, right? Left under a bit of a cloud?”

  “Right,” Coffin said.

  “A bit of a cloud?” Mancini said. “Ha. You could call it that. The guy had a finger in every drug deal and rent-boy operation in town. And that was just for starters.”

  Mancini had his trying-not-to-look-too-out-of-place-in-Provincetown outfit on: pressed jeans, tassel loafers, pastel polo shirt. His hair gelled into an artful rumple. A pair of blue-mirrored sunglasses parked on top of his head.

  “You could have prosecuted,” Coffin said, “but you passed.”

  Mancini narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying, Coffin?”

  “Gentlemen,” Gault said. “If you must mark your territory, you must. But please don’t do it in my office.”

  Pete Wells snapped his fingers. “You just reminded me.”

  Everyone turned to look at Wells.

  “In forensic terms, most serial arsonists have signatures—a very specific way of going about things. Sometimes even down to the pour patterns for accelerants, or the ways they try to disguise—or not disguise—the fact that it’s a set fire, even down to using specific kinds of batteries in electronic timing devices. Darker stuff, too, speaking of marking your territory. Thrill arsonists sometimes leave DNA at fire scenes—”

  “DNA?” Gault said. “I don’t understand.”

  “They masturbate,” Mancini said. “Or they take a crap.”

  “Or both,” Wells said. “If they’re having a really good time. The point is that if you know what to look for, you can read an arsonist’s signature, even if his methods evolve somewhat over time.”

  Gault ran a bony finger under her nose. “And?” she said.