by Jon Loomis
The woman took a long drag from her cigarette, blew it out. “Ms. Duval. What’s this about?” Her voice was gravelly. It made Coffin want to clear his throat.
“We’d like to talk to your son, ma’am. I understand he lives with you?”
“He’s not here.” There was a rustling commotion inside the house—just out of Coffin’s line of sight.
“It’s getting a little chilly out here, ma’am,” Coffin said. The wind had picked up, and a light rain had begun to fall. “Could we come in for just a minute, please?”
“I don’t have to let you in without a warrant,” the woman said. “You got a warrant?”
Coffin held up his hands. “We’re not here to search your house. We’re not here to arrest anybody. I’ve just got a couple of questions to ask your son, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“I told you. He’s not here. He don’t live here anymore. I told him he had to help with rent and groceries or get out. I can’t feed us both on what I make.”
Lola took out a notebook and a pen. “Do you have his current address, ma’am?”
“He’s stayin’ with friends in Hyannis. I don’t know the address. It’s near the bus station.”
“How about a phone number?”
“He’s got a cell phone, but I think it got cut off.”
Coffin heard a door close somewhere inside the house. “Who else is in the house with you right now, ma’am?” He resisted a powerful impulse to push Ms. Duval out of the way and chase down whoever was crouching in the dim interior rooms. He glanced at Lola: Her hands hung loose at her sides, but her jaw muscles were tensed.
“That’s none of your business,” the woman said, taking another drag from her cigarette. “Is there anything else? I’m in the middle of something important right now.”
“That’s your son’s truck, isn’t it?” Lola said, pointing at the listing hulk in the driveway. They’d run a records check on Maurice Duval before leaving the office, looking for outstanding warrants, arrest records, history of mental illness, firearms registration. The vehicle check was part of the routine. There hadn’t been much: an outstanding speeding ticket, an old DUI. An ’82 Ford pickup, formerly green but now a patchy, uneven brown.
“That piece of shit?” the woman said. “It ain’t running. I told him to get it outta here, but he’s too busy partying with his boys.” She raised her eyebrows. They appeared to be tattooed on. “Is there anything else?”
“Does Maurice have a job? Maybe we can catch him at work.”
“Yeah, he’s got a part-time gig at Petzapawlooza in town. It’s across the street from the CVS.”
A man’s voice called from inside the house. “Connie? Where the fuck didja go? I’m getting lonely in here.”
Connie rolled her eyes, shook her head. “Look,” she said to Coffin. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a bad time. You want to leave me a card, I’ll make sure to tell Maurice you’re lookin’ for him.”
A man waddled down the hall in a sleeveless T-shirt and sagging boxer shorts. He was tall, with a big paunch and skinny, hairy legs. He had a black mustache, and was trying to ignite the butt of a green cigar with a Bic lighter. “Hey,” he said. “It’s that cop from Provincetown. Coffin.”
Coffin nodded. “Mr. Stecopoulos. Nice seeing you again. We were just on our way over to Petzapawlooza to talk to your son.”
Stecopoulos scowled at Connie. “You told him?”
Connie heaved an exasperated sigh. “No, dumb-ass—he guessed. You told him.”
Stecopoulos puffed at the cigar, held it at arm’s length, glared at it, tried to light it again with the sputtering Bic. “Well,” he said, after a minute, “I guess the freaking cat’s out of the bag.”
* * *
The inside of Connie Duval’s house was more orderly than the outside. The dishes were washed, the kitchen linoleum dingy but clean. The living-room carpet, the color of bread mold, had been recently vacuumed—the little parallel lines from the vacuum cleaner’s wheels were still visible.
Coffin and Lola sat at the kitchen table, across from Connie and Stecopoulos. Bangs stood near the back door, warming his tiny hands on a cup of instant coffee. A pair of goldfish swam in a large bowl on the blue Formica counter.
“What can I tell you?” Stecopoulos said, looking down at the floor. “I lead a double life. My wife, if she found out? This would kill her.”
“It’s true,” Connie said, tapping a fresh Virginia Slim from the pack. “She’s not in good health. She’s physically and emotionally very frail.”
Coffin shrugged. “We can be discreet,” he said. “Right, Bangs?”
“Righty-o,” Bangs said. He sipped his coffee, made a face.
“But you want something in return, is that right?” Connie said. “Information. About Maurice?”
“It’s about the seals, isn’t it?” Stecopoulos said. He shook his head again. He’d put on a bathrobe, to Coffin’s relief. It hadn’t been easy, looking at his hairy shoulders.
Connie patted Stecopoulos’s arm. “Donny loved those freakin’ seals. He cried like a baby after they got shot. He came home and put his head in my lap and cried like a three-year-old, no fucking joke.”
Stecopoulos crossed himself in the Greek Orthodox manner—three fingers, right-to-left across the chest. “Hand to God,” he said, “Maurice had nothing to do with killing them. He’s a good boy, he loved those seals—he had names for them, even. Clarabelle and Dawn and Sammy—I can’t remember the other two. He didn’t do it, I promise you.”
“Okay,” Coffin said. “How do you know that?”
“He was here with me,” Connie said. “All night. We sat on the couch and watched TV ’til about eleven. Then he went to bed—he had to get to the restaurant early every morning.”
Coffin looked at Stecopoulos. The goldfish hovered in their bowl, staring, faces enlarged by the curved glass wall. “Is that true?” he said.
Stecopoulos frowned, shook his head. “No,” he said. “He was out that night. He had a girl in Eastham for a while—he was out with her.”
“Then how do you know he didn’t kill the seals?” Coffin said.
Stecopoulos looked down, then back up at Coffin. “Because I did it,” he said. “I shot them.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Connie said, leaning back in her chair. “Smooth move, Adonis.”
“Adonis?” Coffin said. “Really?”
Stecopoulos shrugged. “I was a cute baby,” he said.
“Why would you kill your own seals, Mr. Stecopoulos?” Lola said.
“They were hurting the business,” Connie said. “The food, the vet bills. And the animal rights whackos—people would say terrible things to Donny. The local PETA chapter organized a boycott, even. They were a burden, those seals.”
Stecopoulos thought for a long minute. “That’s part of it,” he said at last. “I kept those seals a long time—their parents, too. I loved seeing them every day, swimming in their pool, playing, sunning themselves on the deck. They were a good draw for the business, at least until the last few years. But zoo stock or not, they’re wild animals, you know? They’d sit by the fence at high tide, looking out at the harbor with their big, sad eyes. I’d look at them huddled up at the fence like that and it’d break my heart a little more every day. People think it’s cruel, keeping seals. Maybe they’re right.”
“Why not just turn ’em loose?” Bangs said.
“They’d have starved,” Stecopoulos said. “They never caught a fish in their lives. You can’t just release a tame seal into the wild like that. They’d die a terrible death.”
“What about aquariums or research centers?” Lola said.
“I tried Mystic, Woods Hole, the Franklin Park Zoo, New England Aquarium—they all said the same thing: budget cuts, recession, layoffs, yada yada. I must’ve called twenty places—no takers.”
“So you just shot them,” Lola said, hands flat on the table.
“He was impaired,” Connie said. “He’d be
en drinking ouzo and listening to the soundtrack from Zorba the Greek over and over. It’s enough to make anyone crazy.”
“What about Maurice?” Coffin said. “Does he know you killed the seals?”
Stecopoulos scratched his chest through his T-shirt. “No. He looks up to me. I couldn’t tell him a thing like that.”
“Where is he now?”
Connie stared at Coffin for a second, then stubbed out her cigarette in a ceramic ashtray. “At work, like I said. He had a dog to groom.”
“You still want to talk to him?” Stecopoulos said. “How come? I told you—I shot the seals, not him.”
“It’s regarding another matter,” Coffin said.
Stecopoulos stared at Coffin, then at Lola, heavy brows knitted. “So I just confessed for no fucking reason?”
There was a long pause. Connie stood up, opened a cabinet, produced a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses. “I need a drink,” she said, pouring a hefty double. “Anybody join me?”
“Sure,” Coffin said. “Why not?”
Connie poured him a double, too, and they clinked glasses. “Here’s to the last thirty years of my life, fucking the dumbest motherfucker on the Cape,” she said. “What d’ya think about that?” She downed her shot, poured another.
“Hey!” Stecopoulos said.
“Here’s to love,” Coffin said, raising his glass.
Stecopoulos nodded. “That’s more like it,” he said.
* * *
Petzapawlooza was wedged in between a garden store and a low-rent law firm, across the street from a large CVS drugstore, not far from the Super Stop & Shop and the Nauset Fish and Lobster Pool, an excellent seafood market that stayed open year-round.
There was only one car parked in front of Petzapawlooza: The shop windows held the usual assortment of caged birds and roly-poly puppies of dubious origin. A bell rang softly when Coffin and Lola stepped inside, but no one greeted them. The store smelled like hamsters. Bright fish swam in bubbling tanks. “Want a free lizard?” Coffin said, walking up to a large terrarium that held two green iguanas. “Now’s your chance.”
“I had a housemate once that had an iguana,” Lola said. “All he did was hide behind the sofa. Somehow he got inside the walls and we never saw him again—we just heard him slithering around in there sometimes. His name was Walter.”
Soothing Muzak drifted from hidden speakers. Neon-colored parakeets chirped and whistled in their cage. Faintly, Coffin could hear the buzzing of grooming shears coming from a back room. He put a finger to his lips, and he and Lola moved quietly, quickly past the caged rabbits, the green python in its tank, the cat toys and dog collars, cat litter and dog food, until they stood just outside the swinging door that led to the back room. A sign on the door said EMPLOYEES ONLY. Lola pushed the door open silently with one hand, and Coffin stepped inside. A cocker spaniel stood patiently, muzzled, tethered to a grooming table, most of the fur sheared from the left side of its body. An electric grooming clipper lay buzzing on the concrete floor. The back door was open. A cool, damp breeze was blowing in. Maurice Duval was gone.
There was a flurry of shouts from the rear parking lot: a young, strident voice yelling, “Police! Get down!” and then, “Stand up, Duval!”
“Bangs!” Coffin said, running out to the parking lot, two steps behind Lola. “He got him!”
Bangs appeared from behind a rusty Dodge van, a young man in tow, head down, hands cuffed behind him. “Got your boy,” Bangs said, grinning. “He came running out the back door just after you went in. We had a little foot pursuit, but I nabbed him.”
The young man looked at Coffin, then at Lola. He was slender, fair-skinned. His black hair was long and straight. “That’s not him,” Coffin said.
“Oh, shit,” Bangs said. “Seriously?”
Lola nodded. “Yep. Wrong guy.”
“Okay,” the young man said, shaking his head sadly. “Maybe you believe me now, ha?”
Coffin tilted his head. “You check his pockets?”
Bangs nodded. “No weapons, no drugs. Wallet, keys, iPhone.” He handed the young man’s phone to Coffin.
“Let’s get the cuffs off him,” Coffin said. “You got some ID, sir?”
Uncuffed, the young man took out his wallet, produced a driver’s license. His name was Goran Milovanovic; he lived in Eastham. Serbian, Coffin thought.
“Why’d you run, Goran?” Coffin said.
“I don’t want trouble,” he said. “I see cops, I get the fuck out.”
“Visa expired?” Coffin said.
Goran nodded.
“Where’s Maurice?”
“He called, says he’s sick. Asks if I can cover. I need the work—I say okay.”
“How’s your day been so far, Goran?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Would you say it’s been a good day so far?” Coffin asked. “Or maybe not so great.”
“I’m in dirty parking lot with three cops. I tore my pants. Not so good.”
“I can make it a little worse,” Coffin said. “Or I can make it a little better. Which would you prefer?”
Goran shrugged. “Better would be nice.”
“You still have Maurice’s number on your cell?”
Goran nodded. “Of course.”
Coffin handed him the phone. “Call him. Tell him the boss gave everybody a nice bonus and his check is sitting here waiting for him. Tell him yours was three hundred bucks, but you think his is more.”
“Okay, but he won’t believe this.”
“What would he believe?”
“Boss is pissed he’s not here—he comes in right now or he’s fired.”
“Must be some boss,” Coffin said, handing Goran his iPhone. “If he shows, we never saw you. No ICE.”
“Terrible boss,” Goran said, “but the animals, I like. They are very sad.” He touched the iPhone’s screen a few times, held the phone to his ear.
Coffin looked at Lola. They waited.
Goran’s eyebrows went up. “Maurice,” he said. “It’s Goran. Pete comes to store and he’s not happy. He says you got to come in. Yeah, man, I know. I’m just telling you what he said—you got to come in or he’s letting you go.” Goran paused, frowned, lowered the phone.
“Well?” Coffin said.
Goran pursed his lips, looked down at the rip in the knee of his jeans, nodded slowly. “He says Pete can go fuck himself. He says everybody can go fuck himself.”
Coffin held out his hand. “Let me try.”
Goran handed him the phone. Coffin touched REDIAL and waited. The phone rang once, then again. A voice said, “Hello?”
“Maurice,” Coffin said. “What’s up?”
There was a long pause. “Who is this?” Maurice said, finally.
“This is Frank Coffin, with the Provincetown police. Listen, Maurice—we need to talk. It’s important.”
There was another pause, then a burst of static. Maurice must be in Provincetown, Coffin thought. The rest of the Cape has good reception.
“Coffin,” Maurice said, when the static had cleared. “Time’s up.” And then he hung up.
“What’d he say, Frank?” Lola said.
“Time’s up,” Coffin said, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. “Whatever that means. I think he’s back in P’town—the reception was terrible.”
“Sounds like P’town,” Goran said. “Reception there always sucks.”
“That’s ’cause the closest tower’s in Truro,” Bangs said. “P’town won’t let anybody build one.”
Coffin handed Goran his iPhone, and a business card. “Thanks for your help, Goran. Call us if you hear anything from Maurice. Sorry about your pants.”
“It’s okay,” Goran said, looking at the card, then down at his jeans. “I never liked these pants.”
* * *
Maurice was wearing his mother’s red wig, an old surf-green muumuu, Converse sneakers. He’d parked his friend’s Nissan just down the street from Coffin’
s place. It was a shabby little house—shingles curling with age, slight sag in the roofline—hardly worth burning. But it was the right distance from town center, he thought, and the neighboring houses were easily close enough that they, too, would be at risk. The fact that Coffin was a cop would mean that every fireman and cop in town would be there, trying to help. And that, he knew, meant that his last fire—the big fire he’d been planning all along—would be off to a roaring start before anyone could respond.
He opened the glove box. His plastic squeeze bottle of Ronsonol lighter fluid was still there, of course, and his long grill lighter with the flexible neck. He’d decided to switch from gasoline to lighter fluid after nearly incinerating himself at the church fire. Somehow the gas he’d poured in the sanctuary had ignited while he was still inside: a spark, maybe, or a pilot light. The resulting fireball had literally blown him out the door, singeing his eyebrows, leaving him dazed for a few moments, flat on his back in the oyster-shell parking lot. He’d been lucky—picked himself up, dusted himself off, melted out of sight down a dark side street, circling back twenty minutes later to watch it burn.
The lighter fluid was better, easier to control. It was too bad, he thought, that he was almost done. He was starting to enjoy his work. He was starting to get good at it.
* * *
Coffin’s phone burst into a shrill fusillade of “La Cucaracha.” He wrestled it from his jacket pocket, where it was stuffed along with his keys, a wad of Kleenex, and a plastic bottle of zinc soft chews. He looked at the screen: It read, HOME.
“Jamie?” Coffin said.
“Frank, where are you?”
“We’re in the car. Heading back from Orleans. We had a close call with a Serbian dog groomer.”
There was a rush of white noise. “What?”
“Sorry. It’s been a weird day.”
“It just got weirder, Frank. The nursing home called.”