by Jon Loomis
“A black leather gym bag containing a whole lot of smack?”
“Bingo.”
“Some family you’ve got there.”
Coffin laughed. “The Coffin jinx,” he said. “It’s not just about boats anymore.”
“Should we turn him in?”
“To whom? I can guarantee you there’s no evidence and no witnesses—if there were, no one would talk. That gym bag is long gone—he’s buried it out in the beech forest or God knows where. He’s been at this for years—he’s good at it now.” Coffin paused, scratched a mosquito bite on his bald spot. “Any sign of sweatshirt guy tonight?”
Lola shook her head. “Nope. He didn’t turn up for this one. I looked and looked.”
“He may have changed clothes,” Coffin said. “The owner said he saw a guy in drag in the alley just before the fire started.”
“Huh. What kind of drag? I mean, there’s drag and then there’s drag.”
“Bad drag. Not really trying, he said.” Coffin yawned, covered his mouth. “Jesus. I’m exhausted. Too many subplots.”
Lola grinned. “I’ve been around so many fires, all of my clothes are full of smoke. My apartment smells like a freaking campfire.” She held out her sleeve—she wore jeans and a leather jacket, her hair pulled back in the usual ponytail. “Here,” she said. “Smell that.”
Coffin sniffed. “I must smell like smoke, too,” he said. “I’ve just been too tired to notice.” He met Lola’s eyes for a second, felt the tug of something like desire, though it wasn’t desire, exactly. Lola was conventionally pretty—good jaw, straight nose, blue eyes—but what really got to you, he thought, was the way she carried herself, her complete physical confidence. He’d gone to the Thoroughbred races in upstate New York once; an old friend lived in Saratoga Springs. They’d had breakfast at the track, watched the horses work out. He’d been struck by their power, their dignity, and grace—there was something regal about them. Lola was like that, in a way—self-possessed, completely at home in her own skin.
“What are you grinning at?”
“I was marveling at your self-possession.”
Lola laughed. “Because I wanted you to smell my sleeve?”
“Maybe so.”
“Well, don’t be fooled. It’s just an act. Inside I’m all atwitter.”
“Who isn’t?” Coffin said. He opened the Crown Vic’s passenger door, lowered himself into the seat. “Okay,” he said. “I’m done. Take me home.”
* * *
Coffin pulled the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. The swing was moving slightly in the breeze. He half expected to find Rudy and Loverboy camped out in his living room with lawn chairs and a cooler, but when he unlocked the door and stepped inside the house was empty and quiet. “Thank you, God,” he said. The stuffed goat leered down at him from its place above the mantel. “What are you looking at?” Coffin said.
He climbed the stairs slowly—his back hurt a little; there was a faint ringing in his ears. He was dirty, he realized, and he smelled like sweat and wood smoke. He took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed beside Jamie, trying not to wake her.
“Frank?” she said, still half asleep. “That you?”
“Yep. It’s me.”
“Okay. Good.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Go back to sleep.”
“Sleep.”
Coffin lay still, watching the purple darkness deepen and swirl. The bedroom sounded different now that most of the furniture was gone. Even the silence had changed—it was larger, more resonant.
He closed his eyes, and had just drifted off when Jamie said, “Frank?”
“Hmm?”
“You bring my malted?”
“No—sorry. Stuff happened.”
Jamie reached out in the darkness, patted Coffin’s arm. “’Sokay. Sleep time.”
“Yeah,” Coffin said. “Sleep time.”
Chapter 19
The house was full of smoke. Alarms shrieked from the ceilings, the walls. Down the hall the baby was crying, a harsh, mechanical wail. Coffin ran to the baby’s room—smoke filling the hallway, his throat burning—and reached into the crib. The seal baby was gone. Someone had taken the baby.
“Jamie?” he called. “I can’t find the baby!” Panicked, he looked under the crib, under the rocking chair. The huge toy animals stared at him, baring their fangs. He waved at the smoke. His arms were so heavy, they could have been made of stone. He fell, crawled to the stairs on his hands and knees.
“Jamie! What did we do with the baby?”
The smoke alarms howled, the hallway tilted and swam. The seal baby lay at the top of the stairs, the fur on its round head wet and sleek, black eyes beseeching. He called out to Jamie again, but she was gone. He tried to pick up the baby, but it wriggled away. “Come back!” he called. “I’ll save you! It’s okay!”
The seal baby looked up at him, expression stoic and sad. It looked familiar, Coffin thought, flames licking his bare feet. It looked like someone he knew.
“Frank? Frank?” Jamie was shaking his arm.
“Huh?” Coffin said.
“You were yelling in your sleep.”
Coffin ran a hand over his face, opened one eye. “Jesus,” he said, sitting up, his voice a raspy croak. “My throat is killing me. What was I yelling?”
“Something about Morris, or Maurice,” Jamie said. “You sound terrible. Are you coming down with something?”
“Maurice?” Coffin thought for a minute. “The seal baby,” he said. He put a hand to his throat—it felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. “Weird. The seal baby turned into Maurice.”
“You had your dream again? About the house being on fire?”
Coffin shook his head, trying to clear it. It felt heavy, solid, stupid. “Yeah, the baby keeps turning into a seal. Only this time, the seal baby was Maurice.”
“Who’s Maurice?”
Coffin rubbed his temples. “He’s this kid—he worked at Yaya’s, taking care of the seals. Remember? This summer?”
Jamie nodded. “The seals that somebody shot,” she said. “So awful. You never found out who did it, right?”
Coffin shook his head. “Nope. There wasn’t much to go on. Nobody even reported gunshots. It may have happened during the fireworks.”
“Maybe we should leave,” Jamie said. “Sometimes I think it’s going bad here, you know? All these fires. Dead seals. Heads in lobster tanks.”
“Sure,” Coffin said. “I could be one of those old guys at Wal-mart who asks you if you need a cart. You know—a greeter.” Coffin looked at the clock—it was 7:43 A.M. “Oh, shit—got to go.”
Jamie put a hand on his chest. “Hold on there, wild man. You’re not going anywhere. You’re taking a day off.”
Coffin shook his head. “I’d love to,” he said. “Really, I would so love to take a day off. But there’s kind of a lot going on. You know—fires. Heads.”
“Call in. We have an appointment with my OB-GYN in Hyannis.”
“Another ultrasound?”
“Yep. This is the one where they can probably tell the gender.”
Coffin felt a small flicker in his chest. “Okay,” he said. He swallowed, his throat on fire. “I’ll try. I’m supposed to give a briefing this morning, but Lola can handle it.”
Jamie clapped her hands. “Yay! I’ll have you back before dark, I promise. It’ll be great—we can go car shopping after the appointment.”
“How about a Toyota Four Runner? Very masculine.”
“The minivans have power sliding doors, Frank. Power sliding doors! Come on—get up. I made coffee.”
Coffin closed his eyes—his head was throbbing. “I may be drinking tea for a few days. And I hate tea.” The phone bleeped from its plastic stand on the floor.
“You should definitely not answer that,” Jamie said.
Coffin gave her a look, picked up the phone, pressed TALK. “Coffin.”
Jamie kissed his cheek. “I’ll be in the s
hower.”
“Frank?” It was Jeff Skillings. “Look, sorry to bother you at home but a couple of things have come up. You’re not going to like either of them.”
“Great.”
“You sound terrible. You just wake up?”
“Yeah. I may be coming down with something.”
“You should suck on those zinc things.”
“I hate the zinc things. They’re like sucking on a doorknob.”
“Ha,” Skillings said. “I guess they are kind of metallic tasting. So do you want the bad news, or the other bad news?”
Coffin coughed, then sneezed. “For fuck’s sake,” he said, reaching for a Kleenex.
“Seriously—zinc is what you need. And chicken soup.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay—first thing: the Truro police responded to a call about a car on fire out by Highland light last night. Ford Fiesta, mid-eighties, at the bottom of the cliff. They ran the VIN number this morning and it came back registered to you. They’re treating it as a stolen vehicle. State police are involved.”
Coffin closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Long story. What’s thing number two?”
“The town manager and the town attorney put a briefcase containing a large quantity of heroin in the Town Hall safe last night, and now it’s gone.”
“Gym bag.”
“Sorry?”
“It was a gym bag, not a briefcase.”
“If you say so. There’s a special agent from the DEA here to pick it up—guy named Felcher. He drove down from Boston this A.M., and he’s not happy.”
“That’s three things,” Coffin said, blowing his nose.
“What? Oh, right. Three things.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Coffin said. He sneezed again and hung up.
* * *
The bathroom was warm, rich with steam. It was the only part of the house that had been refurbished since the 1950s—Coffin’s father had done the work himself, in the long, cold winter of ’76, just a few months before he’d disappeared from his fishing boat twenty miles offshore. There was a lot of avocado-green tile, and a big, green tub with a glass shower enclosure that was hard to keep clean. On the upside, Coffin thought, it was plenty big enough for two.
He dropped his boxer shorts, slid the door open, and climbed in. Jamie was shaving her left leg, her back to him, hair in a loose bun. She still didn’t look pregnant from behind, Coffin thought; her ass was perfect. He put his hands on her hips.
“Careful,” she said, straightening, leaning into him a bit. “I’ve got a razor.”
He cupped her breasts. They were heavy, taut. “I know,” he said. “It’s mine.”
Jamie turned her head, nuzzling into his cheek. “That’s nice.”
He pinched her nipples lightly, nibbled the rim of her ear, the base of his half-firm penis nestled against her tailbone. She dropped his razor; it clattered against the tub. She groaned, bent forward a little, pushing her backside against him. “Your turn, Frank,” she said, reaching back with one hand to stroke him, cheek and shoulder on the tile wall. “Your turn.”
Coffin sneezed, then sneezed again. “Ah, God,” he said, eyes watering. “Sorry. Nothing says ‘sexy’ like a head cold.”
Jamie turned, patted his chest, hugged him. “Poor baby,” she said. She put a warm, wet palm on his forehead. “You’re hot.”
“Finally,” Coffin said, trying not to cough. “She notices.”
* * *
Special Agent Martin Felcher of the Drug Enforcement Agency was a little over six feet tall. He looked, Coffin thought, like a guy who enjoyed going to the gym. He was square-jawed, not quite thirty, unwrinkled except for a pair of deep grooves between his blond eyebrows. His eyes were stone gray, his hair close-cropped. Coffin had met a hundred guys just like him—he was pretty much your standard-issue fed.
“I have to tell you,” Felcher said, “I’m finding this whole conversation a little surreal.” He was sitting behind Coffin’s desk, staring at Coffin over the tops of his steepled fingers.
Mancini was there, and Monica Gault, who sat in one of the leather guest chairs next to Coffin. The town attorney, Kirby Flint, stood near the wall, nervously fiddling with his tie.
“You shouldn’t frown like that,” Mancini said. He was half-sitting on the edge of Coffin’s desk. He touched the bridge of his nose. “You’re getting some lines right here.”
Felcher frowned more deeply. “What you’re telling me, in effect, is that you had a bag full of heroin in your safe, now it’s gone, and you don’t care. Would you say that was an accurate characterization?”
Coffin sneezed, took a Kleenex from his pocket and wiped his nose. “Look, Agent Felcher—”
“Special Agent Felcher.”
“Special Agent Fe-fe—” Coffin paused, trying mightily not to sneeze. “Helcher!”
“Gesundheit,” Mancini said.
“Thanks,” Coffin said, blowing his nose. “We’ve had three major arson fires in the past five days. Two days ago, one of our officers found a human head in a tank full of lobsters. So yes, if we’re going to be entirely accurate, it’s fair to say I don’t care very much. And it’s not my safe.”
“You don’t care very much. I see. Would you care very much if I dropped trou right here and took a crap right in the middle of your desk? Because that’s pretty much what you’re doing to my investigation. We’ve had Dr. Branstool in our sights for months now.”
“It’s not my desk.”
Felcher’s face turned red. “Are you not the acting chief of police here in Provincetown?”
“I am.”
“Are you not sworn to uphold the law?”
“I am.”
“Then maybe you can explain to me how it is that you don’t care very much that two million dollars’ worth of heroin, by your own estimation, is missing from your safe.”
“It’s not his safe,” Gault said. “It’s the town’s. Technically the heroin was in my custody.”
“And mine,” said Flint. “He has a receipt, if you’d like to see it.”
“He has a receipt,” Felcher said, leaning back in Coffin’s desk chair. “He has a receipt. Isn’t that special. I’m just wondering how that’s going to go over in federal court when a judge orders the three of you into asset forfeiture as drug-trafficking suspects.”
Coffin laughed, the image of the Fiesta bouncing over the cliff still fresh in his mind. “While you’re at it,” he said, “you can tell the judge why we went to the trouble of establishing a chain of custody and then stealing the heroin from ourselves, with a half-dozen police officers working down the hall.”
Felcher scowled.
“He makes a good point,” Mancini said, stroking his chin.
“Okay,” Felcher said. “Fine. I’m operating on the assumption that this is an inside job. Let’s assume the three of you are not suspects. Somebody knew it was in the safe, and somebody had the combination. How many people would have access to that combination, would you say?”
Gault shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Dozens?”
Felcher’s blond eyebrows went up. “Dozens? Are you serious?”
“The town has owned that safe since 1915,” Gault said. “There’s no record that the combination has ever been changed.”
Felcher swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The combination has never been changed,” he said. “Since 1915.”
“Correct.”
“I’m not sure anyone knows how to change it,” Flint said. “We’ve never had a situation quite like this come up before, have we?”
“Not that I can think of,” said Coffin.
Felcher swallowed again. A vein in his neck had begun to throb visibly. “If that many people had access to the safe, why not put it in your evidence cage?”
“Evidence box, you mean,” Coffin said.
Felcher’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not really a cage,” Coffin said, blowing his
nose. “It’s more like a box.”
“A box.”
“A cardboard box.”
Felcher tilted his head. “You keep evidence in a cardboard box.”
“Exactamundo,” Mancini said.
“As far as I know,” Flint said, “this is the first time since Provincetown was incorporated that any evidence of any significance has gone missing.”
Mancini grinned. “He’s right—you should’ve put it in the box.”
Felcher rubbed his eyelids with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. “I can’t believe you fucking people,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“It’s good for you,” Mancini said. “How the other half lives.”
Felcher leveled a gray-eyed stare at Coffin. “I’m going to conduct a full investigation,” he said.
“Of course you are,” Coffin said.
“I expect your cooperation.”
“Gladly—in exchange for everything you know about Branstool’s heroin operation.”
“That’s not information I’m authorized to share.”
“Of course it’s not.” Coffin stood. “This meeting’s over. You’ve got your troubles, we’ve got ours.”
“Your fires are all over the news in Boston,” Felcher said, smiling with one side of his mouth. “Heckuva job you-all are doing here.”
“Arson isn’t my best thing,” Coffin said.
“Jesus,” Mancini said. “I hope not.”
* * *
After Felcher, Gault, and Flint were gone, Coffin called Lola at her desk on the second floor and asked her to join them.
Mancini stayed put. He sat slouched in the leather guest chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He wore pressed jeans with gray socks, tassel loafers, and a black polo shirt, purple horsie logo over the right breast.
“You must really hate that Felcher guy,” Coffin said, settling into his desk chair. It was still warm from Felcher’s toned and muscular ass.
“It’s not personal. Mostly I hate the DEA.”
Coffin shrugged. “Feds are feds, pretty much.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Coffin. DEA has way too much power and no respect for jurisdiction. In the last thirty years they’ve made the drug situation in this country worse instead of better, and we have the highest incarceration rate in the world to show for it. It’s like that headline in The Onion—‘Drugs Win War on Drugs.’ If it was up to me I’d disband the DEA and legalize pot, like, tomorrow. And I’m a freaking Republican.”