High Season (14 page)

The first bedroom is empty. The bed unmade. Clothes strewn on the floor—jeans, a flannel shirt, women's cowboy boots, shoddy and worn at the heel. There's a wall hanging, a big image of a wolf howling at a bright moon, printed on black plush. There's a boom box on the nightstand, a mostly empty bottle of Jim Beam, a glass pipe and a lighter.

“Hillbillies on crack,” Rashid said. “The black man's revenge.”

The second bedroom is bad. There's blood everywhere—smeared on the floor, soaking the bedclothes, spattered on the walls and ceiling. Coffin has seen hundreds of homicide victims, hundreds of rooms and apartments and houses where murders have been committed; his first year as a Baltimore cop, he vomited from one end of his precinct to the other. But this is one of the worst—the two battered children in their beds, the covers twisted around them. Their faces are horribly damaged,
their skulls caved in. Coffin realizes he's making a sound, a kind of whimper in the back of his throat. Rashid is doing his job, taking Polaroids, but Coffin can't stay in the hot little bedroom anymore. He wants to flee, but where? There's a small crowd of people outside the door. He considers opening the window and climbing down the fire escape, but then Rashid comes out of the bedroom, shaking his big head. Coffin expects him to make a joke, some wisecrack that will make him feel better, less out of control.

“This is bad, Coffin,” Rashid says. “This is really incredibly fucking bad.”

 

Later in the dream, the phone began to ring, and Coffin searched for it in a lightless room, worried he might fall down the stairs in the dark. Something fell on the floor and broke. The phone stopped ringing, and Boyle's voice came out of the answering machine.

“For fuck's sake, Coffin,” he said. “I blame this entirely on you.”

Coffin turned on the light and, squinting, picked up the phone. The digital clock said 5:17. “What's that, Chief?” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“We've got
another one,
” Boyle said, as if he'd discovered a rat in the laundry hamper.

Coffin knew but asked anyway. “Another one what?”

“Dead guy, is what—Jesus Christ, Coffin. Up at the Heights—the fire department found a dead guy in that house that burned down.”

Coffin grimaced, swung his legs out from under the bedclothes.

“Is it Jason Duarte?”

“Beats me, Coffin,” Boyle said. “What does Jason Duarte look like? 'Cause this guy's crunchy, black, and smoldering.”

Coffin sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two. He felt disoriented and dizzy; his hand shook slightly as he brushed his
teeth. He put on old clothes—poking around in burned-out buildings was a dirty job—and a pair of ancient L.L. Bean duck boots. It took him a long time to hunt down his keys. It was still dark outside. The air was damp and cold, and the whole town smelled like smoke.

 

The smell was worse at the Heights; stronger and more complex. There was the stink of charred wood, of course, but also melted plastic and a burnt-wool smell that Coffin guessed was expensive carpet. Beneath it all, something horrible, something animal and a little sweet that made the back of his throat close a bit.

A few volunteer firefighters were still there, leaning against a pumper truck and smoking cigarettes, keeping an eye on the blackened skeleton of Jason Duarte's house. Lola and Jeff Skillings had cordoned the lot with yellow police tape. A gaggle of neighbors hovered in the street; Coffin wondered if they'd been there all night. Pete Wells, the fire marshal, was sitting in the open rear door of his van, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Mornin,' Frank,” he said.

“What've we got here, Pete?” Coffin said.

Wells was about thirty-five, with a mop of curly brown hair. He wore jeans, yellow rubber boots, and a plaid cowboy shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons. “Two bodies,” he said. “One human, one canine. In the basement. That's where they ended up, anyway, when the floors caved in.”

“Coroner not here yet?” Coffin said.

“Nope. Nor the state police. There's a wreck out on Route Six, apparently. Big pileup in the middle of suicide alley. Guess I just missed it.”

“You got a minute? Can you give me the tour?”

“Have I got a minute,” Wells said, dumping the last of his coffee into the street. “Time is
all
I got, my friend.”

 

_______

 

The house had burned to the sills; only the poured concrete foundation remained, the basement a blackened hole in the ground. Dead cinders and wet wads of pink insulation were scattered across the lawn. Charred timbers lay everywhere, broken, at odd angles.

“Jesus,” Coffin said, climbing down an aluminum ladder into the basement. “The place looks like a bomb hit it.”

“Nothing as exotic as that,” Wells said, climbing down after him. “Simple arson fire.”

“How do you know?”

Wells pointed. “See here? Scorch marks on the concrete slab, from the stairs to what was the laundry room. Looks like somebody doused a pile of dirty clothes with gas or kerosene, poured a trail out to the stairway, lit it, and walked away. Arson 101. They didn't try to conceal it, either. I wouldn't be surprised if there was an empty gas can lying around.”

“Look at the washer and dryer,” Coffin said. They lay crumpled on the basement floor, as if they'd been thrown from the cargo hold of an airplane as it flew overhead.

“Yeah—the fridge melted, too. Pretty hot fire. Ready to look at the bodies?”

Coffin's vision began to warp and swim. He stuck a hand out, leaned against the foundation wall and took a few deep breaths.

“You okay?” Wells said. “You don't look so good, Frank.”

“I'm fine,” Coffin said. His palms tingled. His heart thunked in his chest. “It's nothing that'll kill me, anyway.”

They picked their way through half-devoured floor joists, blackened doors, and stumps of stud wall, all of which had collapsed into the basement as the floors gave way.

“Here's the dog,” Wells said. The charred body lay near the
furnace. It could have been any small four-legged thing—a cat, a raccoon. The reek of its burned flesh was almost overwhelming.

“And the man?”

“I didn't say it was a man.” Wells stepped around a bent and blackened clawfoot bathtub. “I said it was a human. Your guess as to the gender's as good as mine.”

The body was black and stiff. Most of its clothes had burned away. Coffin was glad it was facedown. The smell was horrible. He coughed, gagging a little. His boots were smeared with ash.

 

When Coffin got home it was almost noon. He checked his answering machine. There were nine messages from reporters requesting interviews and one message from his cousin Tony, inviting him over to watch a ball game—the Sox versus the Yankees. Coffin pictured Tony's chaotic house, the explosion of plastic toys all but obscuring the floor, Tony's three young children screaming back and forth in front of the TV screen, his wife, Doris, hollering at them, somebody always crying.

Coffin thought about Tony—wondered how he could stand it, all that mess and commotion at home. Tony seemed to take the whole business in stride, like a big, good-natured Buddha. Coffin liked the peace that living alone brought, liked eating when he wanted, going to bed when he wanted, not having to pick up anyone's mess but his own. He'd been married for five years, in Baltimore, but things had gone sour—the divorce a cold slap in the face. His wife had gotten pregnant toward the end, but then she'd had a miscarriage.

He tried to sleep for a while, but whenever he began to drift off he felt dizzy; the darkness behind his closed eyes was a bottomless pit into which he fell and fell. He got up and made coffee and toast. He put half-and-half and sugar in the coffee and buttered
the toast and then threw the toast away. As he sat and sipped his coffee he saw that Jamie had left most of a cigarette in the ashtray—she'd apparently lit it, then put it out almost immediately. He eyed it, deciding to let it be. He showered and shaved and dressed in his least-rumpled khakis and flannel shirt. On his way out the door, he picked up the cigarette and put it in his pocket.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A
half hour later, Lola sat in Coffin's desk chair, flipping through her notebook. Coffin was on the phone with Shelley Block.

“Thanks for the Merkin report, Shel,” he said.

“Hope it helps,” she said. “Just don't tell anyone you got it from me. You're not authorized, you know.”

“Any ID yet on the body from the Duarte house?”

Someone flushed a toilet upstairs, and water rushed through the sewer pipe above Coffin's desk.

“It's wall-to-wall gorks here,” Shelley said cheerfully. “Haven't had a minute. But hang on—I've got his stuff here somewhere.” There was a rustling of papers. “Here we go. Personal effects. Wallet, watch, two rings, earring. Let's just look in the bag, shall we?”

She paused a moment; Coffin heard plastic rattling.

“All righty,” Shelley said. “One wallet, smoky and wet, containing bank card, credit cards, insurance card, nude photo of
girlfriend—nice dye job—and Mass driver's license, issued to one Jason Duarte.”

“So it's him, then.”

“Unless somebody went to the trouble of putting Jason Duarte's wallet in someone else's pocket before they killed him, yes. Once we get dental records, we'll know for sure.”

“Great,” Coffin said. “When can you do the autopsy?”

“
Now
he's interested in my work,” Shelley sighed. “
C'est l'amour
. Your guy's at the top of the list. I'll shoot for this afternoon.”

“I owe you lunch,” Coffin said.

Shelley laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Anything but barbecue.”

Coffin's phone buzzed as soon as he hung up. It was Boyle.

“Coffin? Mancini's here. He's holding a briefing in ten minutes. You and Winters are required to attend.” He hung up before Coffin could say anything.

“Mancini's here,” Coffin said. “He's going to brief us on the murders.”

“That should be interesting,” Lola said.

 

At one o'clock precisely, Vincent Mancini strode into the cramped squad room, with Boyle two steps behind him. The Cape and Islands district attorney was tall and tight-lipped. He wore round-rimmed glasses, a blue suit, and a red power tie. His hair was gelled into a premeditated rumple. Mancini set his briefcase down on the desk, stood behind the small lectern, and looked at his watch. The gabble of conversation died.

“As you know, the CIDA's office and the state police detectives division are now investigating two homicides committed this week in and around Provincetown,” he said. “While we are making good progress, we ask that you keep your eyes and ears open and
notify us at once if you obtain any information that may prove to be pertinent.”

Tony raised his hand. “Like what kind of stuff?” he said.

“Facts. We're interested in Merkin's movements in the hours before his death. The PPD should
not
directly question potential witnesses, but we do ask that you notify us immediately if you
hear
of anyone who might have information pertaining to either of these cases.”

“That sucks,” Tony said softly.

Mancini frowned and straightened his tie. “While you will not be an active part of the investigation, I thought it wise to come here today and fill you in on where we stand at the moment. You may want to take notes.” He held up three fingers. “In a homicide investigation, we look for three things: means, motive, and opportunity. Let's begin with motive. Murder happens for one of two reasons. Who can tell me what they are?”

Mancini waited, eyebrows raised expectantly. No one moved.

“All right,” Mancini said. “I see we're starting from square one. The two basic motives for homicide are sex and money. Everything else is just a variation on those themes.”

“Mr. Mancini?” Tony said.

“What is it, Officer?”

“What about revenge?”

“What do you mean, what about revenge?”

“You said there were only two motives for murder, but you didn't say revenge.”

Mancini rolled his eyes. “All right, Officer. If you insist. Sex, money, and revenge.”

Jeff Skillings raised his hand. “What about self-defense?”

Mancini glared at him. “All right, all right—sex, money, revenge, and self-defense. Is that it? Is everybody happy now?”

Two more hands went up. Coffin looked down at the floor, hoping Mancini wouldn't see him grinning.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Boyle said, standing near the door. “Can we get on with this? Would that be all right with you people?” No one spoke for a moment.

“As you all know,” Mancini went on, “the majority of homicides are committed by the victim's family members or acquaintances, so that's where homicide investigators tend to look first. At the moment, our best suspect in the Merkin killing is Merkin's wife, who stands to inherit his entire estate, valued in the range of one hundred million dollars. She had motive and opportunity and no alibi for the time period in which Merkin most likely was killed. That is where our investigation will focus.”

Tony raised his hand again. “What is it, Officer?” Mancini sighed.

“What about means?” Tony said, looking down at the scrap of paper on which he'd been taking notes.

“What's that, Officer?”

“Before, you said you had to have motive, opportunity,
and
means. Then just now you said the wife had motive and opportunity, but you
didn't
say means. Does that mean it's okay not to have means?”