The 7th Month (2 page)

“How much fast cash did he get?”

Don rattled off a number; D.D. sat up straighter. The minute the man had mentioned needing an expert and working in film productions, she couldn’t help but think of extra cash for the baby’s nursery. But the number Donnie B. had just rattled off was closer to the baby’s college fund.

She eyed him with new interest as well as fresh skepticism. “Who was the cop? Boston PD?”

“Retired. Samuel Chaibongsai. Hung up his shield years ago, I’m told.”

D.D. didn’t recognize the name, but there were more than a couple of retired Boston cops running around. “What was Samuel doing for you?”

“We’re filming a crime drama,
Cover Your Eyes.
Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s about two detectives racing against the clock to catch a serial killer who’s returned from beyond the grave—”

“A dead serial killer?”

“That’s what everyone thinks, but it turns out that the body had been burned beyond recognition, meaning . . .”

“The serial killer faked his own death?”

“Exactly.” Talking about the movie, Donnie B. seemed to relax. The producer’s shoulders came down, his voice warmed up. “So, the murderer, the Gravestone Killer—”

“Because he’s from beyond the grave?”

“No, because he kills his victims by whacking them over the head with a piece of granite tombstone.”

“Of course.”

“He’s stalking pretty blond widows in Boston. They show up to mourn their loved ones, and he . . . well,
whack, whack
. But don’t worry,” Don added hastily, “the Boston detectives are on the case, and being the heroes of the movie—”

“They’ll send the Gravestone Killer back to the great beyond.”

The producer paused, stared at her. “Oh, I like that. Wait a minute. I’m going to write that down. May I use that? We might play with it a little . . .”

“Possibly. Keep talking about what you need, then we’ll establish terms.”

“Well, we’re shooting on a very tight deadline. And, of course, we want the movie to be as authentic as possible.”

“Hence death by tombstone.”

“So we prefer to have a police consultant on set. To assist our actors with those tiny little details only a cop would know.” Don’s voice warmed up again. “Think about any cop movie you’ve ever seen. What do they get wrong that sets your teeth on edge?”

“DNA test results in less than six months,” D.D. said immediately. “In real life, it takes several months, not to mention boatloads of budgets and reams of paperwork to get anything back from the lab. But in movies, TV shows, and crime novels it’s always DNA results in one chapter or less.”

“Exactly! As a technical consultant, you could assist with that kind of insider’s knowledge. Though, to be honest, in our movie the detectives get DNA evidence instantaneously by scanning the evidence with their state-of-the-art handheld forensic finders. The devices also work on fingerprints, blood spatter, and paint chips.”

D.D. frowned at him. “Ah, technically—”

“Tonight,” Donnie interrupted. “We shoot seven
P.M.
to seven
A.M.
It’s the graveyard sequence, absolutely critical to the plot. Show up, I’ll have the contract waiting. Per diem, plus expenses, plus all meals are provided. Wear a warm coat.”

Donnie didn’t wait for her reply. He picked up his business card, scrawled an address on the back and replaced it on the counter.

Most likely confident that no one, absolutely no one, turned down that kind of money, the movie producer pivoted on his heels and left.

D.D. looked at the card, then glanced at her watch. One fifteen
P.M.
She should call Alex, figure out the rest of her life, probably eat a Kit Kat.

Or . . .

She picked up the card, made a couple of calls, and with her boss’s blessing, formulated her evening plans.

What kind of killer are you? Always a central question. The quiet, distant type, stepping out of the shadows to fire three to center mass? Or up close and personal? Perhaps you’ve always been secretly turned on by the way light winks across a freshly sharpened blade.

Will you approach your victim first? Engage in casual conversation, lowering her guard even as you lure her into your web? Or will you strike out of nowhere—hard, fast, fierce?

Finally, will you linger, watching the last spark of life leave your victim’s eye, feeling the whisper of her final, gasping scream? Or is this a clinical operation—in, out, done? Nothing personal, simply a matter of business. Take a small memento of the event, then be done with her. Destroy. Walk away. Never look back.

Select your preferred methodology. This is step two.

Chapter 2

D.D.’s cell phone rang just as she was pulling into Mattapan, an inner-city neighborhood in Boston, known for its stately triple-decker houses and on-again, off-again drug wars. The call was from her boss, Deputy Superintendent of Homicide Cal Horgan. He had news regarding Samuel Chaibongsai, and it wasn’t good. Horgan asked her a couple of questions. She asked him a couple more. He informed her she should feel free to change her evening plans, return home, wash her hands of the movie biz.

She informed him that was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. Knowing her as well as he did, he didn’t take offense.

They worked out a few more details, the call ended, and fittingly enough, D.D. arrived at the film location: a large sprawling cemetery she already knew better than she’d like. Several years ago, she’d worked a major case on the grounds of an abandoned mental institute just across the street from this cemetery. A couple of drunk kids had managed to tumble into an underground pit that held six mummified remains. At first glance, she’d wondered if the bodies weren’t the handiwork of a serial killer she and her then-partner, State Detective Bobby Dodge, had presumed dead.

Now, six thirty
P.M
., well after dark in November, D.D. parked her Crown Vic, got out, and stretched her lower back. In the past week or so, she was noticing more minor pains, some small episodes of shortness of breath. Probably because she had a fairly decent-sized life-form hanging off her spine, pummeling her lungs, playing soccer with her bladder. The usual baby games.

She rubbed her belly, tried to encourage the tight bands of muscle to relax. Long day, leading to a longer night. When she’d finally mustered the courage to call and talk to Alex, he hadn’t been wild about her decision to pull an all-nighter on a film set. In his opinion, she should be taking things easy, curling up on the sofa with her feet on a pillow.

Another reason for her to move in with him, she’d thought, but hadn’t said. So he could “take care of her”? Monitor her every move, give her plenty of superior male advice? Almost immediately, however, she’d recognized those thoughts as her baggage, not his. In the nearly year they’d been together, Alex had never been anything but patient and understanding of her various foibles. Even this afternoon, he hadn’t brought up the question or pressured her for an answer.

He seemed to have taken the slow and steady approach to winning her over. Like the horse trainer with a particularly skittish mare. At least, he observed wryly one day, she hadn’t bolted yet.

Honestly, D.D. wasn’t trying to be stubborn. She was just . . .

Terrified.

Cemeteries, crime scenes, serial killers were the kind of dangers she understood. Problems to be faced, puzzles to be solved. White picket fences, cozy domestic scenes, a patient, understanding partner/spouse, on the other hand . . .

Well, everyone had their Achilles’ heel.

Given the plunging temperature, D.D. had worn her warmest winter coat. Now, she attempted to button up the long black wool layer, but couldn’t make the edges meet over her massive belly. She gave up, pulling on a pair of black knit gloves instead. Cemetery on one side. Former crime scene on another. It was enough to make even a hardened Boston cop feel superstitious.

Then D.D. caught the unmistakable glow of klieg lights, followed by the throaty growl of multiple generators kicking to life. The inner-city cemetery, surrounded by black wrought iron fencing and even taller skeletal trees, became less ghost story and more business locale. Movie people had clearly arrived and were getting to work.

D.D. followed the beams of light to the front of the cemetery, where the massive gates had already been pushed opened and numerous groups of people were milling about, most dressed casually in jeans, turtlenecks, and bulky sweatshirts. Nobody paid her any attention, each individual with a job, each job demanding total focus.

She wandered about until she spotted a small brown shape lurking next to the tombstones.

“Donnie,” she called out.

He turned, saw her, and immediately froze. He looked surprised, she thought. Then he looked guilty, which she thought was interesting, since she was here at his request.

“Detective Warren,” he managed, quickly making some attempt to rearrange his features into a more neutral expression. “You came.”

“You ask, the police commissioner delivers. I’m yours till morning.”

The producer’s gaze dropped to her protruding belly. “Do you . . . need anything?” he asked delicately.

“No, thank you. Big operation you got here tonight. How many people?”

“Hundred and four.”

“Seriously? How many scenes are you shooting?” D.D. turned, so she had Don to one side, the organized chaos to the other.

“Call sheet lists six scenes for this evening. The line schedule is based on location, of course, and given the nature of the movie’s serial killer, many scenes take place in the cemetery. Some, however, have been moved to the indoor set, as we’ll need special effects.”

D.D. arched a brow. She understood about half of what Don was saying, but figured that was enough. “So, these hundred and four people running around. Are they cast, crew, extras, whatever?”

“Most are crew. Lighting and electrical department alone involves more than a dozen guys. Then we have camera men, production assistants, sound department, props department, art department, costume and wardrobe, hair and makeup, the cast, the stand-ins, the director, the director of photography, the assistant director, the producer, the line producer . . .” Don’s voice trailed off. He seemed to be thinking. “Oh, and craft services, of course, mustn’t forget them.”

She eyed him blankly.

“Food, Detective. Crafty feeds us. I believe tonight’s menu includes nachos at eight to be followed by a Chinese buffet around one. Of course, Maggie and Margie will be happy to make you anything you’d like in between. Or you can simply grab snacks from their truck. Sugar, salt, no sugar, no salt, craft services has it all.”

Unlimited food, available in person or from a truck. Moviemaking finally made some sense. “Where’s the truck?” D.D. asked, looking around.

“The cemetery caretakers asked us not to bring our larger vehicles inside the perimeters,” Don said, his tone apologetic. “Crafty is parked around the corner. Everyone else is at base camp, which has been established across the street at the new school.”

D.D. almost laughed, just caught herself. The new school. Built above one serial killer’s favorite burial chamber. She wondered if Donnie had any idea his base camp was probably sitting on the former home of more dead bodies than his film set.

She caught a faintly chemical smell, traced it to her left, where fog machines had been put to work. Thick, white smoke poured out, sliding gracefully along the hard November ground before weaving among the closest headstones, pale granite markers appearing and disappearing into the billows.

Was it her imagination, or beside her, did Don shudder?

“Um, contract,” he muttered. “Must get you one. Come along, we’ll head to my office.”

“Where’s your office?”

“Base camp. Have my own trailer. Film leads should be in theirs by now, having reported for hair and makeup. I’ll introduce you, and you can get right to work.”

Donnie walked pretty fast for a small guy, D.D. thought. He ventured out wide, seeming to want to give the fast-rolling fake fog a wide berth. She followed in his wake, as they passed through the open wrought iron gates, back onto the darkened city street. Once they hit the sidewalk, he stopped suddenly, turning toward her.

“I’m sorry. Let me get a driver. You’ll be more comfortable.”

He waved in the direction of her rounded stomach, the way men did when feeling a need to acknowledge her pregnancy, without actually mentioning it. It was amazing, D.D. thought, how many times a day she had this exact same conversation. Her stomach was officially bigger than a soccer ball, but people still went out of their way not to directly state the obvious. It was as if they didn’t want to be the first to tell her she was facing a major life change.

Don used a cell phone to summon a driver. It gave D.D. more time to take in her surroundings, the growing throng of locals collecting outside the cemetery to gawk. The lone, bored security guard, standing stoically next to the open gates. People moving with purpose, film credentials clearly visible on lanyards around their necks.

The cast and crew inside the cemetery. The audience loitering just outside. Everyone in their place.

A white van pulled up. Remove the benches inside, D.D. thought, and it would be the vehicle of choice of serial killers everywhere. She eyed Don with fresh interest, knowing things he didn’t yet know that she knew, and climbed inside.

The drive took approximately two minutes. From outside the cemetery gates, to down and around to the new school. D.D. had never visited the building. After that first night, staring at the bodies of those poor little girls tied up in trash bags, she made it a point not to come to Mattapan.

Now she took in a vast parking lot filled with long lines of trailers, parked side by side in sets of two. Each one was white, approximately the same size and shape. Each one had a different name on the door. Some names were departments, wardrobe, hair and makeup, etc. Some names were people, the filming bigwigs, she figured, such as director, producer, major star.