High Season

by Jon Loomis

  “You bugged Louie’s office? Your own cousin?”

  Rudy chuckled. “First rule of politics,” he said. “Whatever you’ve got on your enemies, make sure you’ve got twice as much on your friends. You should read Machiavelli.”

  Coffin rubbed his temples. His head felt too small for his brain suddenly. “So where are these tapes?”

  “Safe deposit box. Fishermen’s Bank.”

  “To which you have the key.”

  “The key is in a safe place,” Rudy said.

  “My mother’s duck!” Coffin said. “Jesus—I knew there was something going on with that duck.” His face darkened. “Who knows about that key besides you?”

  “Nobody. Not even your mother—she thinks the duck’s full of heroin.”

  “I don’t get it,” Coffin said, shaking his too-small head. “What’s the percentage in buying up a bunch of existing properties? What were they going to do, tear down half the town and build condos? That’s just crazy.”

  “Ah, Grasshoppa,” Rudy said, doing a bad Chinese accent. “You are wise beyond your years, and yet you are foolish.” He plunked a big hand onto Coffin’s shoulder and squeezed. “Condo farms. Mc-Mansions. Hotels. Luxury rentals. The full catastrophe,” he said.

  “What if people decided not to sell?” Coffin said, squirming out of Rudy’s grasp. “Like Kotowski. Wouldn’t that screw everything up?”

  “I don’t know all the details.” Rudy shrugged. “But Louie acted like they had it all figured out.”

  Coffin said nothing for a while. He smoked his cigarette almost down to the filter and flipped the butt toward a storm sewer grate. “Why do you suppose the killer towed Louie’s car into Conwell Marsh?”

  Rudy shrugged. “Maybe ’cause Louie owned the goddamn thing. That’d be my guess.”

  “The marsh? He did?”

  Rudy nodded. “Owned it for years. Dumbest fucking thing he ever did. About three days after he bought it, the state EPA declared it a fragile fucking wetland. I never laughed so hard in my life.”

  “Doesn’t seem quite so funny now,” Coffin said.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  They were quiet for a minute; then Rudy nodded toward the house. “Does the Amazon princess like boys?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Rudy cocked an eyebrow. “You should be. And here I thought you were bangin’ her.”

  “Hate to disappoint you.”

  “Ha. Bullshit,” Rudy said. He leaned toward Coffin and poked him in the ribs with his forefinger. “You’re going to go interrogate that consultant guy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Coffin said.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You absolutely are not coming with us. No.”

  “You might need some muscle, Frankie. I may be getting older, but I’m still pretty fucking scary.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Coffin said, poking Rudy back. “Go get that goddamn duck of yours out of my mother’s room. I can’t believe you’d leave a thing like that with her.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Rudy laughed. “She was thrilled. Most exciting thing that’s happened to her in years.”

  _______

  “It wasn’t Plotz,” Coffin said, stepping onto his screen porch. He took the Colt from his waistband and set it on an end table, next to a withered avocado plant.

  Lola sat on the wooden swing, deep in shadow. “I saw,” she said. “Who was that guy? He looked like an older version of Tony.”

  “His dad. Older, smarter, and a hell of a lot scarier.” Coffin sat down in the crackling wicker chair. “But you didn’t see him here. Okay?”

  Lola nodded, blond ponytail bobbing. “Sure. None of my business.”

  “None of Mancini’s business,” Coffin said. He scratched his chin. “Know anything about real estate law?”

  Lola pushed off with her heels and the porch swing glided slowly back and forth, creaking a bit on its two chains. “The basics,” she said. “Three semesters of law school, remember?”

  “Okay,” Coffin said. “Tell me something: Let’s say you want to buy my house, tear it down, and build a bunch of condos on the lot. But I don’t want to sell. How do you get me to hand over the property?”

  “Aside from offering you way more than the place is worth?”

  “Let’s say I won’t sell at any price.”

  “I’d harass you. I’d buy the place next door and play loud music all night. I’d call animal control and bitch about your cat. I’d file all sorts of complaints with the health department and the building inspector and see if I couldn’t get your place condemned.”

  “Let’s say you tried that, and I whacked you with a fish until you said uncle.”

  Lola thought for a minute, then snapped her fingers. “I’d get my buddies in city government to eminent domain your ass. Try and stop me.”

  “Eminent domain,” Coffin said. He slapped himself on the forehead. “ED.”

  “ED!” Lola clapped her hands. “The supreme court said it’s okay to seize private property through eminent domain and turn it over to developers. ED Test—Kotowski was going to be the test case.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Coffin said, sitting on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. “How could they get away with it? People would go nuts. There’d be protests and lawsuits out the ying-yang.”

  “They didn’t care,” Lola said. “They thought they had the angles covered.”

  Coffin looked at his watch. “Where the hell is Jamie?”

  On cue, Jamie’s Volvo chugged around the corner and pulled up in front of the house. Jamie climbed out and retrieved a bag of groceries from the backseat. “Who wants to carry in the laundry?” she said.

  Grinning, Coffin walked to the car. “You brought food,” he said, kissing Jamie on the cheek.

  “Everything at the fish market was overpriced,” Jamie said, “but I got some kalamata olives at Stop N Shop, and some great-looking Vermont cheddar.”

  After Jamie had poured a glass of wine and snacked on olives and cheese, Coffin told her that he and Lola had to go out for a while.

  “It’s not good that we’re leaving you here by yourself,” he said, “but I think it’s more secure than your apartment.” He locked the front door, turning the key in its old, corroded lock. Then he walked through the house, latching all the windows on the ground floor. “We’ll go out the back. Make sure you lock the door after we leave,” he said. “Keep the phone with you. If anything weird happens, call the police right away.”

  “You own a gun, right?” Jamie said.

  “Of course I own a gun.”

  Jamie put her hand out. “So fork it over.”

  “Not so fast,” Coffin said. “Have you even looked at a gun up close before?”

  Jamie smiled. “My daddy loved three things in this life,” she said. “Dogs, guns and Jack Daniel’s whiskey. I’ve been shooting handguns since I was twelve. Bet I can shoot better’n you, Buffalo Bill.”

  Lola grinned. “Who can’t?” she said.

  Coffin retrieved his Colt from the porch. “It’s an automatic,” he said. “The safety’s on.”

  Jamie took the pistol, popped the clip, and ejected a shell from the chamber. “Wow. Colt .45, World War II vintage. Nice piece. Blow a hole in you the size of a dinner plate. Where’d you get this thing?”

  “It was my dad’s.”

  Jamie hugged Coffin. “You’re very sweet to worry,” she said, “but give me a large-caliber handgun, and I can take care of myself just fine.”

  Chapter 29

  It was almost midnight, and the upper floors of Town Hall were dark and deserted. Lola held a small flashlight while Coffin unlocked Louie’s office door.

  “Where’d you get the key?” Lola whispered.

  “Master set,” Coffin said, pushing the door open. “Picked them up when I was acting chief. Figured they might come in handy someday.”

  Coffin followed Lola into the office and shut the door behind them.
“You do the file cabinet,” Coffin said. “I’ll get the desk.”

  “Can you see okay?” Lola said.

  Coffin took a small leather case from his pocket and unzipped it. He took out a slender lock pick and set the case on the desk. “I’m fine—there’s enough light from the street.”

  “Shit,” Lola said. “It’s locked.”

  “Hang on. Almost got it . . .” Coffin worked the pick in the desk’s small lock for a few seconds, then pulled the upper drawer open.

  “Wow, Frank,” Lola said. “Hidden talents. Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “Baltimore. My ex-wife had a nasty habit of changing the locks when she got mad at me. Hold the light right here.”

  Coffin slid the pick into the file cabinet’s lock and wiggled it gently. “ ’Atta baby,” he said, withdrawing the pick. “All set.”

  Lola opened a file drawer. “My internal Nancy Drew is very impressed,” Lola said.

  “I’m just showing off,” Coffin said. “You could pick these things with a paper clip.”

  “Remind me what I’m looking for exactly,” Lola said, riffling through the files.

  “Development, REIC, the Moors, the Project, and/or eminent domain,” Coffin said, turning to the desk. “Well, now—what have we here?”

  “Find something?”

  “More cash. Lots of it. And something that looks like an account book.” Coffin thumbed through the small blue book. “It appears to be a very meticulous record of the bribes Louie was handing out, with amounts, names, and dates. My, my.”

  “Anybody interesting?” Lola said.

  “Oh, yeah. State EPA, a couple of judges—among about two dozen others. Interesting indeed.”

  “Dogs, Feral,” Lola said, flipping through the files. “Decorations, Christmas; Development. Here we go.” She pulled a thick file from the drawer and handed it to Coffin.

  “Jesus,” Coffin said, opening the file on the desk and flipping through its contents. “What is all this stuff?” He held up a document typed on letterhead. “Here, you speak legalese.”

  Lola peered at the letter in the small, bright circle cast by her flashlight. “It’s a legal opinion,” she said. “Fancy law firm in Boston. Looks like a thumbs-up on eminent domain. ‘It is our opinion that the invocation of eminent domain in order to undertake the selective redevelopment of Provincetown’s blighted areas would not encounter significant legal impediments.’ ”

  “Blighted areas,” Coffin said. “The slums of Provincetown.”

  Lola held a finger to her lips. Someone in sneakers was walking down the hallway toward Louie’s office. The sneakers made soft squelching sounds on the polished terrazzo.

  “Fuck,” Coffin hissed. He stuffed the Development folder into Louie’s desk. There was no place to hide. Lola clicked off her flashlight and stationed herself beside the door, back flat against the wall. Coffin crouched behind the desk.

  A wavering flashlight beam shone through the frosted glass in Louie’s door. A key slid into the lock, and the doorknob turned. A man dressed entirely in black slipped into the office and shut the door softly behind him.

  Lola took two steps away from the wall and kicked him hard in the crotch.

  “Haaa—” the man said, doubling over and clutching his groin. “Aaaa, God—” His flashlight dropped to the floor and rolled under the desk.

  “Get on your belly and put your hands behind your back,” Lola said. “Or I’ll kick you in the nads again.”

  The man looked up. In the light from the street Coffin could see his face. It was Brandon Phipps.

  “You dyke bitch,” Phipps said, straightening up. “I’m going to rip your f—”

  Lola kicked him in the crotch again, and Phipps crumpled like a salted slug.

  “Ow,” Coffin said, wincing. “Man. My balls want to crawl up inside my chest cavity when you do that.”

  “Haaargh—” said Phipps, curled in the fetal position on the floor.

  “Not much point in hitting men in the head,” Lola said. “Y’all got these tiny brains and big, thick skulls.” She rolled Phipps onto his belly. With a knee in his back, she pulled a pair of handcuffs from her belt and clicked them shut on his sturdy, well-toned wrists.

  “So what brings you here at this time of night, Brandon?” Coffin said, half-sitting on Louie’s desk. “You wouldn’t be looking for large amounts of cash, would you? Or planning a little late-night document shredding, maybe?”

  “Faakkk—” said Phipps, still trying to catch his breath.

  “The black outfit’s a very nice touch, by the way. And the flashlight. Stylish, but incriminating if you get caught.”

  “This is outrageous,” Phipps spluttered. He coughed, then groaned. “You can’t prove anything.”

  “Our word against yours, Brandon.”

  Lola set a booted foot on Phipps’s head. Her heel rested on his cheek, the ball of her foot on his ear.

  “All right,” said Phipps. “What do you want?”

  “A little conversation is all.”

  “Tell her to stop standing on my head.”

  “Let’s talk about the Project first—then we’ll see about your head.”

  “What project?” Phipps said.

  Lola shifted her weight.

  “Aarrr—” said Phipps. “All right—I heard things, but I wasn’t involved.”

  Lola leaned harder.

  “Aaarrrr!” Phipps said.

  “He sounds like a pirate,” Coffin said.

  “Brandon Phipps, the gay blade,” Lola said.

  “Just because I’m well groomed doesn’t mean I’m gay,” Phipps said.

  Lola frowned. “You’re not gay? Really?”

  “You’re not just involved,” Coffin said. “You’re a partner.”

  Lola leaned on Phipps’s head.

  “Not a full partner!” Phipps said. “I just worked for them! I was in charge of the visioning process!”

  “Visioning process?” Coffin said.

  “Right. My job was to finalize the optimal decisioning about which properties to target. It had to be done carefully, gradually, but also coherently—just buying up random properties wouldn’t fully maximize the—Aaarrr!”

  “Speak English,” Lola said.

  “What properties were you going after, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. Lots.”

  Coffin nodded, and Lola ground her heel on Phipps’s cheek.

  “Arrrr!” Phipps said. “Jesus! I’m not lying—I don’t know off the top of my head. There were a lot. But there’s a list.”

  Coffin raised his eyebrows. “A list,” he said. “And where would we find that? It doesn’t seem to be in Louie’s file.”

  “I have it,” Phipps said. “In my office. Filed under Real Estate Acquisitioning, Prospective. I’ll go get it for you.”

  “No you won’t,” Coffin said. “Stay here and entertain Officer Winters with your pirate imitation. I’ll get it.”

  Five minutes later, Coffin returned with the file. Lola took her foot off of Phipps’s head. She removed the handcuffs and helped him into a sitting position against the wall.

  “Thank you,” Phipps said, a little breathlessly.

  Coffin rifled through the file quickly, then pulled out the list. It was several pages long and stapled to a detailed map of Provincetown, liberally marked in green highlighter. Lola peered over his shoulder.

  “My God,” she said, pointing to an address on the list. “That’s my building.”

  “My whole neighborhood,” Coffin said, looking at the map. “Parts of the waterfront—there’s Kotowski’s house, and Souza’s Boatyard—Souza’s not going to be too happy about that. Jesus—the nursing home. A bunch of land across the highway, like Rudy said. A big chunk of the cemetery . . .”

  “Look,” Lola pointed. “The Fine Art Center. And the lumberyard.”

  “A fourth of the town, at least,” Coffin said. “Maybe a third.”

  Coffin prodded Phipps with his
toe. “Who else is involved?”

  “They’re all dead,” he said.

  “That’s not what I hear,” Coffin said, nodding at Lola.

  She took two steps toward Phipps.

  “Okay, okay—there may still be one or two silent partners. From out of town, like Merkin,” Phipps said. “The local people were Silva, Hench, and Duarte.”

  Lola frowned. “How’d a dead-end guy like Duarte get a piece of the pie?”

  Phipps shrugged. “He wasn’t a full partner. He was a wage slave, like me. He worked fast and he kept his mouth shut. He was desperate for the money.”

  “You might be next on the developers-to-whack list, you know,” Coffin said.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Phipps said, paling a bit beneath his tan. His eyes narrowed. “Thank God that lunatic Kotowski’s in jail.”

  Coffin gathered up the Project paperwork and stuffed it back in its folder. “Maybe you’re really dumb enough to believe Kotowski’s the killer,” he said. “Maybe not. Either way, if I were you, I’d check under the bed before I went to sleep at night.”

  “We should caution Mr. Phipps not to leave town,” Lola said.

  Coffin stood. “Don’t leave town,” he said. “The state police will want to talk to you, as soon as they’re done chasing their tails.”

  Phipps touched the swelling bruise on his cheek. “I haven’t done anything illegal,” he said, “and the killer’s in jail. Why would I want to leave town?”

  _______

  “Phipps is going to bolt, isn’t he?” Lola said as she and Coffin trotted down the stairs. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Coffin grinned. “Oh ye of little faith. Let’s stop by my office—I want to make a quick phone call.”

  Chapter 30

  Jamie held her hand under the bathtub faucet. The cascading water was deliciously hot. She adjusted the mix a bit—she didn’t want to scald herself—then poured in some organic bubble bath and watched it foam in Frank’s big clawfoot tub. Downstairs, both doors were locked and the windows were latched. Frank’s gun was on the bathroom counter, three feet away. She felt entirely safe. She took a sip of wine, slipped out of her yoga pants, top, and underwear. Because the tub was running, she didn’t hear the small, sharp sound of glass breaking downstairs.