Read Online Fire Season by Jon Loomis - Free Book Online Page A

there?”
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œDifferent owners?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBoth, then.”
    â€œHa,” Jones said, clicking with his mouse. “You’re going to like this.”
    â€œWhenever you say I’m going to like something,” Coffin said, “I don’t.”
    â€œIt’s not my fault you’re so hard to please.”
    â€œMarv?”
    â€œMarvin.” Marvin’s pale blue eyes flickered up from the screen, met Coffin’s. “Not Marv.”
    â€œMarvin. What am I going to like?”
    â€œMaybe ‘like’ is too strong a word.”
    â€œMarvin!”
    â€œThe building belongs to a company—R. S. Investments. Title transferred two years ago from another company, Outer Cape Properties, which I happen to know is now defunct.” Marvin looked up from his screen and smiled brightly. “R. S. Investments is owned outright by an individual whose initials also happen to be— so original—R. S. Care to take a guess?”
    Coffin closed his eyes. “Oh, Christ. Uncle Rudy.”
    â€œDing, ding, ding!” Marvin grinned. “Former chief of police and man of mystery, Rodolfo Santos. Give the detective a Kewpie doll.”
    *   *   *
    Twenty minutes later, Coffin sat in one of Monica Gault’s leather guest chairs. Somehow a spot of grease had appeared on his tie. Christ , he thought. I’m turning into Tony. Vincent Mancini, the Cape and Islands district attorney, sat with one haunch propped on Gault’s broad desk. A pair of state police detectives lurked near the door—Pilchard in his brown suit, and a new one whose name Coffin hadn’t caught. Pete Wells sat in the other guest chair, and Monica Gault, the new town manager, stood by the window, gazing out at the harbor.
    â€œWell, it’s very bad news,” Gault said. “ Very bad news.”
    â€œWhich part?” Mancini asked. “The escalation, or the possibility there’s a copycat?”
    Gault frowned. “I just don’t believe there’s a copycat,” she said. “Not in Provincetown. Two psychopaths setting fires? Here ?”
    â€œYou haven’t lived here very long,” Coffin said.
    â€œProbably just one psychopath,” Wells said, “and an outside chance there’s also an opportunist trying to get out from under some debt.”
    â€œYou need to talk to your uncle, Coffin,” Mancini said. “Stat.”
    â€œI’m not sure he’s in town. He doesn’t keep a residence here, I don’t think. I haven’t seen him since May.”
    â€œWhat about his son? He’s one of your patrol officers, right?”
    â€œTony, yeah. He might know. Rudy has a girlfriend in town, too. Or had. I think I can probably locate her.”
    â€œThis uncle of yours,” Gault said, still peering out at the harbor. The clouds had lifted, finally, and the day was bright. A herring gull sailed past the window, a small green crab in its beak. “He used to be police chief, right? Left under a bit of a cloud?”
    â€œRight,” Coffin said.
    â€œA bit of a cloud?” Mancini said. “Ha. You could call it that. The guy had a finger in every drug deal and rent-boy operation in town. And that was just for starters.”
    Mancini had his trying-not-to-look-too-out-of-place-in-Provincetown outfit on: pressed jeans, tassel loafers, pastel polo shirt. His hair gelled into an artful rumple. A pair of blue-mirrored sunglasses parked on top of his head.
    â€œYou could have prosecuted,” Coffin said, “but you passed.”
    Mancini narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying, Coffin?”
    â€œGentlemen,” Gault said. “If you must mark your territory, you must. But please don’t do it in my office.”
    Pete Wells snapped his fingers. “You just reminded me.”
    Everyone turned to look at Wells.
    â€œIn forensic terms, most