Fire Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

mud. The rain fell, a morose drizzle.
    Lola was there, too, and Coffin’s cousin Tony—trying to keep a small knot of onlookers out of the way. Tony had surprised Coffin by staying on the force, despite all the money he’d made during the real estate boom, despite having inherited another small fortune—almost two million dollars—from his mother-in-law back in July.
    â€œNot ’til my twenty years,” he’d said, when Coffin had asked him whether he planned to retire. “I’ve earned the full pension—I want every cent that’s coming to me. Besides, what would I do all day?”
    â€œWhat do you do all day now?” Coffin had said.
    Tony had laughed. “Always the kidder, Frankie,” he’d said. “Just like your old man.”
    Coffin stood beside Lola, who was watching the fire with arms crossed, uniform hat planted squarely on her head. “This isn’t good,” she said. “Two in one day.”
    Coffin nodded. “I don’t think it’s a prank anymore. Kids or not.”
    â€œWhoever it is,” Lola said, “they’re getting more ambitious.” She was 5' 10", 155 pounds or so of solid muscle, slim and fit beneath the bulky Kevlar vest she always wore under her uniform shirt. She could outlift, outrun, outfight and outshoot any man in the department, Coffin knew. She could also kill a man, if it came to that. Her blond ponytail was beaded with raindrops. Coffin made himself look at the fire.
    â€œGot a camcorder in your squad?”
    â€œOf course,” Lola said. “It’s on the checklist, isn’t it? Charged and ready to go.”
    â€œI want film of any onlookers, just in case.”
    Lola walked back to the road to fetch her camcorder. The fire and rescue boys had sorted out their fancy Italian pumper, and were having better luck putting water on the fire. There was a long, loud hiss, and steam rose with the flames and smoke. What was left of the shed’s roof collapsed in a shower of sparks.
    A tall, thin man walked up to Coffin and shook his hand. “You’re with the police, yes?” the man said.
    â€œYes,” Coffin said. “Detective Coffin.”
    â€œMy name’s Hallowell—Mark Hallowell. I’m the owner.”
    Hallowell had a beak of a nose and small, quizzical eyes surrounded by wrinkled lids. He looked like a friendly ostrich. He was around seventy years old, Coffin guessed.
    â€œAny idea how it caught fire?” Coffin said.
    Hallowell pointed to a house just up the hill. “We live right there, me and my wife Khaki.”
    â€œKhaki?” Coffin said. “Like the pants?”
    â€œRight,” Hallowell said, pointing a long, curved finger at Coffin’s chest. “Like the pants. Her family’s from Connecticut—they gave all the kids funny names. Her brother’s named Skipper, if you can believe that.”
    â€œAbout the fire,” Coffin said.
    â€œRight. When I saw the fire out the window I said, ‘Khaki, call 911,’ and I ran down here. First thing I noticed was it smelled like gas.”
    â€œGasoline? That kind of gas?”
    â€œYep, real strong smell of gasoline. You know that smell—there’s no mistaking it for anything else.”
    â€œDid you keep a gas can in the shed? A lawn mower, maybe, or a chain saw? Anything that might have gas inside it?”
    Hallowell looked at Coffin with his bright little eyes. “Well, no,” he said. “That’s the funny part, isn’t it? We keep all that stuff up at the house, in the garage. This is Khaki’s studio. Was, I should say.”
    â€œStudio?” Coffin said. “What kind of studio?”
    â€œWood sculpture. Khaki makes erotic wood sculpture—driftwood, mostly. It’s pretty hot stuff, I don’t mind telling you.”
    â€œSo what’s inside there is mostly driftwood, tools, that kind of