Mating Season

by Jon Loomis

  “So what’s the next move?” Mancini said. “We keep checking the boyfriends’ alibis? Dig deeper on the porn angle?”

  Coffin’s eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. His left lower eyelid twitched once, then again. “We?” he said, rubbing his eyes. “This whole thing would be a lot easier if we could just get the DVR back.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Coffin?” Boyle said.

  Coffin could almost see the steam rising from Boyle’s bald spot. He imagined cracking an egg on Boyle’s head and watching it fry. “The DVR our guy was looking for. After he murdered Kenji Sole. We had it, but it got stolen before we had a chance to see what was on it.”

  “Stolen by who?” Boyle said.

  “Whoever it was,” Coffin said, “they did a pretty professional job on Sergeant Winters’s apartment.”

  “Should we bring in CSS?” Mancini said. “Check for prints and fibers and whatnot?”

  Coffin shrugged. “If you want to,” he said, “but I doubt there’d be much point.”

  “So you don’t have this DVR?” Boyle said.

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t see what was on it.”

  “We saw a few minutes toward the beginning, but then we were interrupted. By the time we got back, Lola’s apartment had been broken into and the DVR was gone.”

  “Interrupted?” Mancini said. “By what? Your girlfriend drag you off to the fertility clinic again?”

  Coffin leaned back in the vinyl chair. “Well, no, actually,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter what interrupted him,” Boyle snapped. “What matters is that he screwed up and lost a vital piece of evidence because he didn’t follow proper procedure.”

  Coffin leaned back a bit and met Boyle’s eye. “You might want to think twice,” he said, “before you go that route.”

  Boyle’s eyes bugged. “Is that some kind of threat, Coffin?”

  Coffin imagined the egg growing crisp around the edges, firm in the center.

  Mancini shook the paperweight. The snow fell again on the little village. “You said ‘he.’ You think it was a man?”

  Coffin shrugged. “They usually are,” he said. “It’s not easy to stab someone to death. It’s messy. You usually have to stab them a bunch of times before they die, and it’s not like they’re holding still letting you do it. A lot of the time they try to get away, or they put up a fight; you have to either corner or subdue them. You have to be pretty strong to stick a knife in someone’s rib cage, too—especially a big butcher knife like the one that killed Kenji Sole.”

  Mancini peered at Coffin through the swirling miniature snow. His eyeball looked huge. “I thought it was a man from the get-go,” he said.

  “Could have been a woman,” Coffin said. “Maybe. If she was really pissed off. Or crazy.”

  “Not crazy crazy,” Mancini said. “Five or six stab wounds, not thirty or forty. The killer stabs her in the heart on the sixth try, she dies, the killer stops. No mutilation or any psychotic shit like that.”

  “Who isn’t crazy?” Boyle said. He levered himself off the desk, walked to the window, and raised the venetian blind. “Hell, half this town is out of its fucking mind. God only knows what they’re capable of.”

  “Tell me about this DVR,” Mancini said. “Are you saying there might be a video recording of the murder?”

  “Kenji had a hidden camera in her bedroom,” Coffin said. “It was a pretty elaborate setup. The camera connected wirelessly to a DVR, which was in the linen closet, in a secret drawer. The DVR was connected to a wireless router, which sent video to Kenji’s computer. Whoever killed Kenji took the computer but left the DVR. An amateur’s mistake, but not that surprising.”

  “Oh ho!” Mancini said. “A boudoir-cam. I guess we know what was on it.”

  Coffin nodded. “She liked to watch herself having sex. Some people use a mirror. Kenji used a hidden camera.”

  “My,” Mancini said, setting the paperweight down on Boyle’s desk. “Our Miss Kenji was a bad girl. If you were a married guy involved with a freaky-deaky broad like that, and you found out she was filming your ass—”

  “You never really know what people will do when the going gets weird,” Coffin said, watching Boyle’s face. Boyle’s ears were crimson. His mouth worked, but he said nothing.

  “She must have been something,” Mancini said. “Sackwise, I mean. All these guys who should’ve known better, selling their souls for a little sniff.”

  Coffin shrugged. “C’est l’amour,” he said.

  “Ha,” Boyle said, lips twisted into a tight little sneer. “L’amour my ass.”

  Mancini knitted his fingers, leaned forward. “What’s your gut telling you, Coffin? You’ve met the major players—the boyfriends, the father, his little squeezola. Did one of them kill her?”

  Coffin thought for a moment. “Probably,” he said.

  “For fuck’s sake, Coffin,” Boyle said. “Probably?”

  Outside, the sky was the color of slate. Gulls orbited above MacMillan Pier, yelping like small, sorrowful dogs.

  “Probably,” Coffin said. “It’s probably a man. It’s probably someone she was involved with. That leaves us something like ten suspects, including Cavalo. Of course, I could be wrong about it being a man.”

  Mancini leaned back and laced his fingers on top of his head. “Got the prelim report from CSS, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested,” Coffin said.

  “They found a bunch of different hair samples—in the bed, in the rugs, in the shower trap. Like, ten different samples, not including the victim’s. Weeks and weeks of fun with DNA.”

  “Fascinating,” Coffin said. “That it?”

  “They also found an impressive collection of strap-on dildos and other sex toys, including a couple of paddles. That jibe with what you know about her?”

  “Pretty much. We’ve had a couple of witnesses mention it.” Coffin glanced at Boyle, who was staring blankly out of his office window.

  “What about the hidden camera? Any video of her playing dominatrix?”

  Coffin nodded. “Yep. It seems to be a recurring theme.”

  “A recurring fucking theme,” Boyle said, still staring out at the harbor. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Well,” Mancini said, looking at his watch. “If there’s nothing else, I’d better get back to Barnstable. You should see the frickin’ pile of paperwork on my desk.”

  “Paperwork,” Coffin said. “Damn. It sucks being you.”

  “Fine,” Mancini said, standing. “Very funny. What would you recommend for dinner?”

  “Try the Captain Alden,” Coffin said. “Great clam rolls.”

  Lola gave Mancini a thumbs-up. “The best,” she said.

  “Huh,” Mancini said. “Who knew?”

  When he was gone, Boyle settled into his desk chair. “All right, Coffin,” he said. “Say what you have to say.”

  “I think you already know,” Coffin said.

  Boyle smirked. “I’m not playing your guessing game, Coffin.”

  Coffin looked out the window. The harbor lay flat and grey in the twilight. A beat-up panel truck rattled down Commercial Street, loaded with junk. “You’re on the DVR,” Coffin said. “You’re one of the boyfriends.”

  Boyle said nothing. A patch of fluorescent glare shifted on his bald spot. His face squirmed and twitched; he was very red. Coffin wondered if he was having an aneurysm.

  “So?” Boyle said at last.

  “So we need to ask you where you were the night Kenji was killed,” Coffin said.

  “Friday night?” Boyle said.

  Coffin nodded.

  “I was at home, alone. My wife was in Boston on a shopping trip with friends. I heated up a frozen pizza in the oven—pepperoni. I drank two beers, watched a John Wayne movie on TCM—The Searchers—and went to bed.”

  “What time?”

  “A little after eleven o’clock.”

  “Yo
u never left the house? Nobody saw you?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you make or receive any phone calls? Send any e-mail?”

  “No and no.”

  Coffin rubbed his chin, looking out the window. A small blue sailboat was passing the breakwater, sail bulging with wind. “Not much of an alibi, Chief,” Coffin said.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Boyle said. “So now what do we do?”

  “I’d recommend voluntary DNA testing,” Coffin said. “Assuming you’re not a match for the semen in Kenji’s vagina, it could go a long way toward clearing you.”

  Boyle waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “Screw that, Coffin. What I meant was, how do we keep my wife from finding out? If she finds out what I was doing with Kenji Sole, she’ll divorce me so fast it’ll make your head spin. There goes the house, the car, the boat—the whole deal.”

  “You own a boat?” Coffin said.

  “Yes, Coffin, I own a freaking boat. Have you got a problem with that?”

  “To each his own,” Coffin said. “I guess.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Coffin,” Boyle said. “Can we try to stay on topic here?”

  Coffin looked blank for a second.

  “Chief Boyle was hoping his wife wouldn’t find out,” Lola said.

  “I’m afraid it’s probably too late for that, Chief,” Coffin said. “I mean, even if your involvement is limited to just the affair with Kenji, and even assuming you didn’t get called to testify in court—”

  “I know all that, Coffin. All I ask is that you be as discreet as possible. As a personal favor. There’s no reason to go blabbing all over town, is there?”

  “No, sir,” Coffin said. “What should we do about Mancini?”

  “Look,” Boyle said. “Look at me, all right?”

  Coffin looked. Boyle’s eyes were bulging like a Boston terrier’s.

  “I didn’t kill her. I had an affair, but that doesn’t make me a killer. Okay?”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Early last week. Monday, I think.”

  “How long had the affair been going on?”

  “Almost four months. Since late January.” Boyle looked at Coffin, then at Lola. “She came on to me, Coffin. She came on to me. Can you believe that?”

  “Sure,” Coffin said. The blue sailboat was now just a pale dot on the horizon. “Sure I can.”

  Chapter 15

  Nick Stavros lived in a big house in the Heights, Provincetown’s exclusive—and still wildly expensive—gated community. The house had a nice view of the West End, the breakwater, and the tidal salt marsh. If it had been lighter, Coffin could have seen the roof of Kotowski’s house out the big front windows.

  “So how long had you been in a relationship with Ms. Sole?” Lola said. She was sitting on the couch, a massive sectional in lime green silk.

  “About two years,” Stavros said. Twenty years ago—even ten—he would have been strikingly handsome: He still had the square chin and straight nose of a movie star. Now he was probably sixty, with a mane of silver hair and the beginnings of jowls. He wore a white suit and a bright green shirt, maybe two shades lighter than the couch. His voice was scratchy and thick; he spoke with a slight Mediterranean accent. “I was very fond of Kenji. She was an extraordinary woman.”

  “Extraordinary how?” Coffin said.

  Stavros leaned forward. “Well, she was highly intelligent, for one thing, and funny—she had a lively sense of humor. I enjoyed her company a great deal. I’ll be frank with you, officers. Sex with Kenji Sole was a transformative experience for me. I would have done anything she asked.”

  Coffin thought for a second. “What sorts of things did she ask you to do?”

  “Well,” Stavros said, adjusting his glasses, “I suppose that’s a fair question. Experimental things, I’d say—at least for me. Light bondage, that sort of thing.”

  “Who was in charge? Kenji or you?”

  “Kenji was. She was very definite about that. She had no interest whatsoever in playing the submissive role.”

  “That was all right with you?” Lola said.

  “It was a revelation.” Stavros leaned back, tapped a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table, and lit it. “It unlocked a whole side of my sexuality I never knew was there.”

  Coffin’s left eyelid started to twitch. He touched it lightly with his fingertips. “Did you know she was filming you?”

  “No,” Stavros said, glasses glinting under the recessed lighting. “Not until Friday evening, when I found the note in the front seat of my car.”

  “Can we see it?” Lola said.

  Stavros nodded. “It’s in the bedroom,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  When he’d left the living room, Lola raised her eyebrows a bit. “Nice place,” she said, half under her breath.

  “He owns a ton of real estate in town,” Coffin said. “Two hotels, a bunch of summer rentals, a restaurant, you name it. P’town’s answer to Donald Trump.”

  “With much better hair,” Lola said.

  Stavros appeared in the doorway, holding a folded sheet of paper. “It’s quite crudely done,” he said. “Childish, almost. That’s part of what makes it so creepy.” He handed the paper to Coffin.

  “‘Check out spycamdomme.com,’” Coffin read. “‘Password: avocado. Wait for more.’ Written in bright orange crayon.”

  “That’s it?” Lola said. She stood, looked over Coffin’s shoulder.

  “That’s it,” Stavros said.

  “So you checked it out,” Coffin said.

  “I did. After nearly having a heart attack.”

  “The password,” Lola said. “That was Kenji’s safe word, right?”

  “Right,” Stavros said. “Not that I ever used it.”

  “So after you read the note—” Coffin prompted.

  “After I read the note I went straight to my study—in a cold sweat, I don’t have to tell you—and found the Web site. The first page was blank, just a black background and a box to type in a password.”

  “So you typed in ‘avocado,’” Lola said.

  “Right.”

  “And there you were?”

  “There I was, along with five or six other guys, all these little film clips. My face was blurred out—all the faces were, including Kenji’s—but of course I recognized myself right away.”

  “Recognize anybody else?”

  “Honestly? I couldn’t bring myself to watch the other clips.”

  Coffin rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty from lack of sleep. His eyelid twitched a few times, then settled down. “So there you were. Then what did you do?”

  “Well, I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do, honestly. I mean, at first I couldn’t believe Kenji would do something like that. I felt so betrayed, you know?” Stavros’s movie-star chin was quivering.

  “Of course,” Coffin said. “So then what? Did you call her? Drive out to her house?”

  “I called her, though I had no idea what I was going to say. I mean, what would you say? It just seemed so crazy. I called her house and no one picked up. So I tried her cell.”

  “And?”

  “No answer. So I left a frantic message, as you can imagine.”

  “That’s it? You didn’t drive out to confront her?”

  “Well, that’s the funny part. I did.”

  Coffin’s eyelid twitched furiously. “You did?”

  Stavros nodded. “I paced back and forth for a while, trying to decide what to do. I poured myself a scotch, smoked a couple of cigarettes. Ordinarily I’m not particularly averse to conflict, but the idea of confronting Kenji was very daunting somehow. Then, when I’d worked up my courage a bit, I got in the Porsche and drove out there.”

  Coffin nodded. People who owned Porsches always referred to them as “the Porsche,” in his experience—never as “the car.” “Okay,” Coffin said. “You drove out there.”

  “I stopped at the bottom of the hill and pulled onto
the shoulder. It was starting to rain, and the Porsche’s top was down—like an idiot, all I could think of was the interior getting ruined. I hit the button; then I looked up at Kenji’s house as the top was closing. All the lights were on. The place was just blazing. I’d never seen it like that before, I don’t think. By then I was already having second thoughts—it was very unlikely she was alone. What would happen if I knocked on the door and she refused to answer? I’d feel like a fool. What if she did answer—could I still confront her if one of her other lovers was there?”

  Coffin wanted to poke Stavros with a stick. Instead he said, “Go on.”

  “As I was driving up the hill I noticed a weird thing. There was a car parked on the side of the road, two wheels in the ditch. It’s a very narrow drive—and steep. An awkward place to park. It struck me as odd, so I remembered it.”

  “What kind of car?”

  Stavros shrugged. “I don’t know the make. Some kind of sedan. Very anonymous looking—like a rent-a-car.”

  “Okay, so you drove up to Kenji’s house . . .”

  “Right. There was another vehicle in the drive—you know, between the house and the garage—and this one I did notice.”

  “A second car.”

  “Yes. A black one. A big Mercedes. Very impressive car.”

  Coffin’s eye twitched. “So you saw the sedan parked on the hill. You saw the Mercedes. All the lights were on. Then what happened?”

  Stavros chewed his lower lip. “I chickened out,” he said. “I never even got out of the Porsche. I turned around in the drive and went home.”

  “Why didn’t you contact us earlier?” Coffin said. “Surely you knew this was important information?”

  “I thought it might be,” Stavros said, “but I had hoped I might be able to save my marriage.”

  “So why now?”

  “My wife left me after she found the second note.” Stavros took his glasses off, rubbed a hand over his face, and put them back on. “Christ,” he said. “I’m sixty-three years old. I’ve lived in Provincetown thirty-five years, almost. All my friends are gay, you know? Lovely people, all of them. Sometimes I think I’m practically gay myself, but I can’t keep away from the pussy. It’s my great weakness.”