by Jon Loomis
“Jesus,” Cavalo said, when Rudy had started the Range Rover and was accelerating rapidly down Commercial Street, swerving to avoid a clutch of German tourists on bicycles. “What’d you say to them?”
“I reminded them that stealing is wrong,” Rudy said. “I admonished them and suggested they try to behave less like thieving fucking scumbags in the future.”
“Jesus,” Cavalo said. “I am in so much trouble.”
Rudy glanced at Cavalo for a second under his snake lids. “You don’t know the half of it, son.”
Chapter 8
Cecil Duckworth sat perched on the edge of Boyle’s desk. He was built like a fullback and had skin the color of low-fat cottage cheese. His smooth-shaved head flared now and then in the fluorescent light. He wore brown-tinted glasses with rectangular wire frames. Coffin had never met him before.
Duckworth stuck his hand out. “Well, now,” he said. “The famous Detective Coffin. Very pleased to meet you.”
Coffin shook his hand. It was slippery and dry in the way that snakeskin is both slippery and dry; it was also very large—like a catcher’s mitt, Coffin thought.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Trooper Duckworth?”
“The Cyber Crime Task Force has had its eye on this Cavalo cat for three months now,” Duckworth said. “He’s been running his own private Internet porn ring out here since last spring. We had a few complaints—some of the girls he’s using appear to be underage.”
“Cavalo’s a witness in a homicide case,” Coffin said, shaking the blood back into his hand. “You can’t have him.”
Duckworth unbuttoned his jacket and took a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket. It was a big jacket, in a shade of pink Coffin couldn’t quite name, somewhere between salmon and fuchsia, with an emerald green lining. Before Duckworth buttoned it again, Coffin noted the handgun nestled under his armpit: a small semiauto in a web shoulder holster, probably standard issue. The stag-handled hunting knife Duckworth wore in a sheath at his hip was another story, Coffin thought. Definitely not standard issue.
“I don’t want him,” Duckworth said. “Not yet.” He unfolded the paper and held it in front of Coffin’s face. “Search warrant,” he said. “Duly signed by Judge Samuel Hoskins of the Orleans District Court—I believe that’s the proper jurisdiction, no?” He folded the warrant and slipped it back into his pocket. “To be executed immediately.”
“Chief,” Coffin said, “can we call the AG’s office and verify this? Do they know Cavalo’s one of our witnesses?”
Boyle’s face was red. “Been there, done that,” he said. “I just got off the phone with Poblano—he’s out in Reno at some AGs’ convention. He says we should assist Trooper Duckworth as requested.”
Coffin pursed his lips and tilted his head. “What sort of assistance is Trooper Duckworth requesting?”
Duckworth giggled. “You’re gonna hate it,” he said.
“Gonna?” Coffin said.
“Two things,” Duckworth said. “First, I could use a little help finding your boy Cavalo—his address doesn’t show up on my GPS. Dorothy Bradford Lane ain’t on the map.”
“It’s a private road,” Coffin said. He shrugged. “Maybe it’s not on the Geological Survey maps, or whatever they use for GPS. What’s the second thing?”
“This is the part that’ll tweak your nads: I need access to the Sole crime scene.”
Coffin looked at Boyle. “Chief?”
“The AG has reason to believe there might be important video evidence there,” Boyle said. “If he wants us to let Trooper Duck-worth in, we let him in.”
Coffin looked at Lola; she stood near the door, lips pressed tightly together.
“Interesting sidearm you’ve got there, Trooper Duckworth,” Coffin said.
Duckworth slowly unbuttoned his jacket again and pulled it aside. “You mean Lucille here?” he said. He touched the knife’s polished handle with his fingertips and smiled. “I picked her up in my Special Forces days. I mostly just keep her around for old time’s sake, but you never know when you might find yourself in close with a bad guy.”
“Get in close with a lot of bad guys in the Cyber Crime Task Force, do you?” Coffin said.
“A few,” Duckworth said. “Although most of ’em are skinny little computer geeks.” He looked at Coffin, then at Boyle. “That’s a joke,” he said.
Boyle stood. “I’ll run Trooper Duckworth out to Cavalo’s place,” Boyle said. “In the meantime I might take a look at the crime scene myself, in case you two missed something.”
“Always good to follow up on the work of your subordinates, right, Chief?” Duckworth said.
Boyle nodded. “Just doing my job.”
“A bang-up job it is, too, Chief,” Coffin said.
Boyle glared at him. “Are you fucking with me, Coffin?”
“No, sir.”
“Good,” Boyle said. “See that you don’t.”
“What a weird dude,” Lola said as they trotted down Town Hall’s broad front stairs. “He kind of gave me the willies.”
“Was it the pink jacket,” Coffin said, “or the hunting knife?”
Lola grimaced a little. “Both,” she said. “That knife deal was definitely creeping me out.”
“Think he’s after what I think he’s after?”
“I think he’s after the DVR,” Lola said. “I think Poblano sent him to look for it.”
“I think you’re right,” Coffin said. They passed the World War I monument, its verdigrised soldier gazing out across the harbor. “How the hell does he even know it exists?”
“ESP?” Lola said, waiting for a pickup truck to pass before they crossed the street. “A hunch? A lucky guess?”
“Either that,” Coffin said, “or somebody told him.”
“Oh my God,” Lola said, standing in the doorway of her apartment. “Holy fucking shit.”
Coffin looked over her shoulder and let out a low whistle. “Whoa,” he said.
The living room had been thoroughly trashed. The sofa was upside down, the cushions slashed and the stuffing removed. The upholstered easy chair lay on its side, disemboweled, stuffing flung around the room. The big-screen TV was still intact, but the electronics cabinet below it had been ripped open; Lola’s TiVo and DVD player had been yanked from their shelves and thrown across the room with some force. The kitchen and bedroom were in similar shape: Every dish and glass had been swept from the kitchen cabinets and smashed on the floor; the silverware had been dumped from the drawers. It looked as though a bomb had gone off in the bedroom closet. Lola’s clothes and shoes lay everywhere, mingled with tufts of pillow stuffing and smashed bits of nightstand. The dresser drawers had been emptied, too. A surprising variety of lingerie lay strewn across the buff-colored carpet. Coffin nudged a filmy pale green negligee with his toe. It reminded him of some delicate sea creature, stranded on the beach after a storm.
Lola followed his eyes. “What?” she said. “You think ’cause I’m a lesbian it’s all jog bras and boy shorts, twenty-four seven?”
“That’s another trick question,” Coffin said. “I’m not going there.”
“I can be girly when I want to, you know,” Lola said, fists on her hips. “It pisses me off that people act like I’m not allowed to have a fucking feminine side.”
“Fine,” Coffin said. “Great. Just don’t hit me.”
“Christ. Look at this place.”
“They work fast,” Coffin said.
“They?”
“I’ve tossed a few apartments in my life,” Coffin said. “One guy probably couldn’t have done all this in such a short time.”
Lola stuck her head into the bedroom closet. “They got it,” she said. “It was behind the shoe rack.”
“I had a feeling this would happen,” Coffin said. “I just didn’t think it would happen so fast.”
“Jesus,” Lola said, picking up a lace nightgown, dropping it again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Why
don’t you stay at my place,” Coffin said. “Until you can get some new furniture.”
Lola picked up her clock radio and put it on the windowsill. “Whoever did this better watch out,” she said. “Because this shit really pisses me off.”
Coffin looked at his watch. “Let’s go have a drink,” he said. “It’s cocktail hour.”
Lola hauled the mattress back onto the bed, picked up a shoe, and tossed it into the closet. “You go,” she said. “I’m going to stay here and clean up.”
“Come on,” Coffin said. “You don’t want to be here. We’ll clean up tomorrow. You can take a personal day. Jamie and I can help.”
“Frank,” Lola said, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes, “you’re very sweet, you know that?”
“I’m a lot of things,” Coffin said, “but I am not sweet. Come on. Drinks are on me.”
Chapter 9
The Mews was one of the few fine dining establishments in Provincetown that stayed open through the off-season. It was perched on the harbor side of Commercial Street and had a gorgeous view of the water. The moon was just rising over Cape Cod Bay; a wrinkled avenue of light lay on the black water, stretching from the horizon to town beach.
It was Sunday night, and Dawn Vermilion was playing to a small but jovial crowd—mostly men sitting with men, tables of two or four, sipping large, colorful martini drinks. A few lesbian couples were there, too, and a scattering of straight tourists, but no children. It was not that kind of restaurant.
Dawn Vermilion was a handsome person of fifty or so. She sat at the piano in a tall crimson wig, playing selections from Cole Porter and Billy Strayhorn: “Let’s Do It” followed by “Lush Life.” Her eye shadow and fingernails were sparkly green. She wore a black cocktail dress with many sequins; it strained a bit across her broad back. Dawn’s voice sounded like cigarettes, leather, and bourbon. The piano was only a little out of tune.
“She’s on tonight,” Lola said, sitting down at the bar.
“Pretty good crowd, too,” Coffin said, catching the barmaid’s eye. She was a young Eastern European woman, very pretty. She had the dark brows and high cheekbones of a Serb, Coffin thought.
“What can I get you?” she said.
Lola ordered Glenlivet on the rocks. Coffin ordered a vodka martini, very dry, and the tempura-sushi appetizer. He was hungry, he realized, and knew he shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.
The barmaid handed him a menu without smiling. “We have two hundred thirty-four different kinds of vodka,” she said. Wodka. “Imports, flavors, whatever you want.”
“What kind do you drink?” Coffin said, squinting at the menu in the dim light.
The barmaid raised an eyebrow. “You are flirting with me,” she said, “or really wanting my advice?”
“The first thing,” Lola said.
“I thought so,” the barmaid said. She pursed her lips. “Tonight I would drink Stoli Elit. It’s very smooth, and I’m a little upset.”
“Upset?” Coffin said. “Why?”
“My boyfriend leaves me for another woman.” The barmaid shook Coffin’s drink with both hands, then poured it through a strainer into a chilled martini glass. Her fingernails had tiny sequins glued to them; they glinted in the dim light. “See?” she said, still not smiling. “I’m like an American now. I just meet you, I tell you everything about my life.”
“Your boyfriend is a fool,” Lola said.
The barmaid shrugged and poured Lola’s scotch into a rocks glass. “Perhaps. I think this other girl is not so pretty as me, but maybe more sexier, I don’t know.”
“You said you were a little upset,” Coffin said. “Why just a little?”
“He is not such good boyfriend,” she said.
Coffin laughed and sipped his martini. It was perfect, with only a whisper of vermouth. A thin skin of ice floated on its surface. The Russian vodka was very smooth indeed.
“I am Yelena,” the barmaid said. She stuck out a hand, offering it first to Lola, then to Coffin, who introduced themselves.
“Lola and Frank,” Yelena said. “I say in American way: Please ta meet ya. You are couple?”
“No,” Lola said. “We work together.”
“We’re police officers,” Coffin said. “We’re here to talk to Dawn.”
Yelena lowered her voice. “She is in some trouble?”
Coffin shook his head. “No. Not at all. It’s just a social call.”
“That woman who was killed,” Yelena said. “Kenji Sole. My friends clean her house.”
“Zelenka and Minka?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not all they do,” Coffin said.
Yelena shrugged. “You mean the pornos? They are stupid girls.”
“I thought they were your friends,” Lola said.
Yelena grinned. “They are not such good friends.”
Coffin and Lola both laughed.
“Pornos, plural?” Coffin said. “They made more than one?”
Yelena nodded. “Is for Web site. It has stupid name—hungarianchicks.com—but no Hungarian girls. All from Croatia, Bulgaria. I guess nobody goes to Web site called bulgarianchicks.com.”
“Whose Web site is it?” Lola asked. “Bobby Cavalo’s?”
“I don’t know his name.” Yelena shrugged again. “They say he is handsome, pays good, cash. They try to get me to go, but I say no. For what? Few hundred dollars?” Her eyes flashed. “I like to make sex very much, but I don’t do this for money. I am not prostitute.”
______
When Dawn Vermilion had finished her set, she ambled over to the bar and sat next to Coffin. “Evening, officers. Buy a girl a drink?” She kicked off one of her size twelve pumps and wiggled her toes. “God. My feet are killing me. It’s hell, getting old.”
Yelena brought her a Grey Goose on the rocks. “Beautiful set, Dawn,” Yelena said. “You are sounding just like Billie Holiday tonight.” She moved a discreet distance away to shake up a couple of peach martinis.
“Nice girl, that Yelena,” Dawn said.
“No kidding,” Coffin said.
Lola nudged him with her elbow. “Easy there, cowboy.”
“I thought you were spoken for,” Dawn said, painted eyebrows lifted. “Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise.”
“No,” Coffin said. “Everything’s fine.”
Dawn sipped her vodka. “How’s things on the baby-making front?”
“Good God,” Coffin said. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
“Not if it happened in P’town, honey,” Dawn said. “If it’s out there, I’ve heard it.”
“What’ve you heard about Bobby Cavalo?” Coffin asked.
Dawn smiled and leaned close to Coffin’s ear. “A lot,” she said, “and it’s all delicious. You know about the Web site, I assume?”
“Hungarianchicks.com?”
“Everybody knows about that one, honey,” Dawn said, swirling the ice slowly around in her glass. “I’m talking about the other Web site.”
“What other Web site?”
“Spycamdomme.com.”
Coffin sat quietly for a moment, watching Dawn’s face. She’d put on rhinestone-studded cat-eye glasses that sparkled in the dim bar light. “Spycamdomme.com,” Coffin said finally. “Tell me about that.”
“Well, here’s the thing,” Dawn said. “It doesn’t exist. Not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s only one page with three or four video clips on it. All the faces are blurred electronically, but the action is very explicit.”
“Like what? Whips? Leather?”
“I haven’t actually seen it,” Dawn said. “Pictures of straight people fucking give me the heebiejeebies. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“But it’s in that realm, apparently—and then some.”
“So what’s the connection?” Lola said. “How do we know Cavalo’s involved?”
“Well,” Dawn said. “Apparently there�
��s a way you can find out who owns a Web site: You can go online and check. Turns out, both hungarianchicks.com and spycamdomme.com are listed under Bobby’s name and address.”
“They are?” Coffin said.
“How do you know all this?” Lola said.
Dawn lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. “I ordinarily never reveal my sources, but—Bobby’s favorite boy-toy, Jordan, is good friends with my associate, Gordita Derriere,” she said. “Gordita and Jordan got drunk one night over at the A-House, and Jordan spilled the beans. It’s just amazing what people will tell you after six or seven Captain and Cokes.”
Coffin looked at Lola. “I think we need to have another conversation with our friend Cavalo,” he said.
“Assuming he’s still in town,” Lola said.
“Oh, he’s in town,” Dawn said. “I saw him myself at Al Dante’s just a little bit ago, having cocktails with this fascinating man.”
“Fascinating how?”
“About six-four, two-forty—bald, practically an albino, wearing the most amazing hot pink jacket. I thought about introducing myself, but you know me—I’m pathologically shy.”
______
The moon was high and almost full. Its light filtered through the big front window of Bobby Cavalo’s apartment, glinting faintly on Cecil Duckworth’s bald head, throwing his broad shadow across the studio floor. Duckworth smiled, touched Lucille’s polished handle with his fingertips, and unsnapped her sheath’s leather keeper. Bobby Cavalo groaned. He lay on the futon sofa, hands and feet duct-taped to the armrests at either end. Duckworth’s favorite-mix CD was playing on the boom box: a snaky bachata thing that Duckworth was fond of, although he loved the tango best of all.
“Look, I told you,” Cavalo said, voice quavering a little. “I don’t know what it is. How can I tell you if I have it if I don’t know what it is?”
Duckworth eased Lucille from her sheath. He felt her edge lightly with his thumb. “Do you have it, Bobby?” he said. “Seriously, now. No more fooling around. Do you have it?”