The 7th Month (3 page)

Don marched by the trailers belonging to people, headed to the trailers belonging to departments. One of the last trailers was identified as Production. He opened the flimsy door, motioned for D.D. to enter. She pretended to be fiddling with her coat, allowing him the opportunity to go first, where she could keep him in her line of sight.

The inside of the trailer was one seven-by-eight office, attached to a closed door that ostensibly led to a similar-sized bedroom. Beige carpet, brown built-in sofa, brown and beige benches on either side of a Formica table. As decor went, the trailer fit the man.

Don produced a twenty-page contract from the top of the table, then a pen. D.D. started skimming.

“Have you heard from your other cop, yet?” she asked casually. “Chaibongsai.”

“No,” Don said. He bent over the table, shuffling more piles of paper. He seemed intent on keeping busy.

“When’d you last see him?”

“He was on set the day before yesterday. We shot daytime scenes in a local office building that we’ve turned into police headquarters.”

“How’d he look?” D.D. asked. She stopped skimming the contract. Watched Don.

“I don’t know. How does someone look?” Don was definitely turned away from her now, shoulders rounded, gaze averted.

“He interact with the cast and crew?”

“I guess so. Samuel usually sat at video village—”

“Video village?”

“The bank of monitors where you can see what’s being filmed. His job was to look for mistakes. For example, he’d point out that a real cop wouldn’t stand that way, exposing his gun to a suspect. When the director yelled cut, he’d glance at Samuel. If Samuel saw any issues, he’d say so, then have a one-on-one with the actor. Otherwise, filming would continue.”

“He have any one-on-ones his last day?”

“Couple.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know. He talked to the director, then to Gary, not me.”

“Gary?”

“Gary Masters, our star. Perhaps you know him from
Boyz of Bel Air
? Sitcom in the eighties about two white kids from the Bronx who move to Bel Air?”

Don finally turned around. D.D. eyed him closely.

“Never saw it. Gary Masters. He good? Easy to work with?”

“Pro,” Don said immediately. “He started in commercials at six months, meaning he’s literally been acting all his life.”

“Maybe he didn’t like being corrected by a cop?”

“No. Gary seemed into it, considered Samuel to be his own personal character consultant. You don’t always get that on a set.”

“What about the director?”

“Ron Lafavre.”

“Sounds like Chaibongsai had final say on some scenes. Did that irk him?”

“Ron’s who asked for a police expert, so I wouldn’t think so.”

“Any other issues crop up that last day?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you get through your scenes? Cameras worked, sound rolled, cast was happy? No mishaps, however minor?”

Don’s turn to regard her closely. “No . . . Detective, are you having second thoughts about being our expert? Because we really do need one, so—”

“Not at all, not at all.” She waved her hand.

Don continued to frown at her. “Are you worried that Chaibongsai will return? Because if so, I have to admit, we’d go back to him, as he’s familiar with the project. But you’d be compensated for time worked, of course.”

“I’m not worried about that,” D.D. said immediately.

“Then . . .”

“Chaibongsai isn’t coming back.” She took a step closer in the small trailer. Allowed her pregnant bulk to crowd Don a little, force him back against the table. His hands were where she could see them, and while he may not have noticed it yet, she wore her firearm in a shoulder holster underneath her open coat, easily accessible.

She wasn’t scared of Don Bilger, though. She was curious.

“Samuel Chaibongsai is dead,” she said, watching the producer’s nervous face. “I got the call on my way here. Landlord found his body. Looks like he was beaten to death by some kind of blunt object. For example, a baseball bat.”

What do you need to get the job done? Murder weapon of choice, of course, based on your preferred methodology. But what else? Gloves, thin latex for maximum dexterity, while limiting evidence transfer. Hat, not a bad idea for containing any shedding hair.

But what else? Now you must consider your victim choice as well as methodology. Is he or she a fighter? Perhaps you require restraints, or a secondary weapon to stun your victim into submission. Or perhaps the right disguise to help lower defenses, draw your victim in. I recommend a suit; there’s something about a man in a suit that almost always inspires trust.

Do not love your shoes. Chances are, they will have to be tossed as the soles leave behind imprints. Also, consider the moments after your first strike. If you plan on spending some time with your victim, you will want to gather ancillary items such as duct tape, rope, pliers, perhaps a lighter, and/or a camera. Do you want a Taser? A plastic bag for bloody clothes?

Pack your murder kit. This is step three.

Chapter 3

A very subdued Don Bilger led D.D. from his white trailer back outside to the waiting transport van. Normally, D.D. would’ve preferred walking, but her back was still bothering her, the baby seeming to have gained three pounds in just the past hour, so driving to the “green room,” where the stars hung out until summoned on set, sounded good.

D.D. had never signed the movie contract. Originally, when she’d spoken to her boss, Deputy Superintendent of Homicide Cal Horgan, she’d been okayed to play consultant on her personal time for private pay. But the discovery of Chaibongsai’s body had changed all that.

Already her squadmates Phil and Neil were at the scene, studying the body, processing the basics. Uniformed officers would start with the canvassing of neighbors. Lists would be made of known contacts, and detectives further deployed to track down Chaibongsai’s family, friends, associates. By definition, the investigation would lead to the movie set, Chaibongsai’s last place of employment.

When Horgan had called with the news of the murder, as well as the suggestion that D.D. go home, she’d argued for continuing on in order to conduct basic reconnaissance. Instead of playing film consultant, she’d spend the next twelve hours identifying key players and getting the lay of movie land. Then, come seven
A.M.
, when the cast and crew were exhausted from having worked all night, D.D.’s fellow detectives would descend and, based on D.D.’s intel, quickly overwhelm the weakest links and strongest targets. Badda bing, badda boom. Case wrapped in time for breakfast.

Besides, D.D. argued with her boss, she wasn’t going to be alone all night, surrounded by potential murder suspects. Shortly after nine, when Alex finished teaching his criminology class, he planned to join her on set. That was his approach to these things: If she wouldn’t stay home with him, then he’d work late with her.

You had to respect a man like that. Probably even love him, which might logically lead to living together, especially considering, you know, the baby.

They would become a family.

And she’d become the new and improved D. D. Warren. Sharing closet space, filing official police paperwork, warming desk chairs.

Telling herself she didn’t miss her independence, or the absolute adrenaline rush of working a crime scene until the odd hours of the morning, diligently sifting through every piece of evidence while simultaneously breaking down the suspect’s supposedly airtight alibi until six
A.M.
, the sun rising and another killer being led away in wrist restraints.

Truth be told, D.D. knew she loved Alex. He was sexy and smart. Patient and kind. No question he’d be a great father, while no doubt she’d bumble and stumble as a mom. She feared, however, that moving in with a man would become the first step to leaving her job.

And she just couldn’t imagine not being a cop.

Even now, striding across a dark, cold city street, heading into an overlit cemetery with billowing fog and roaring generators and endless rows of pale gray tombstones, there was no place else she’d rather be. Beside her, Donnie B. was growing more and more nervous. And D.D. was more and more stoked to be the investigator breathing down his scrawny neck.

Donnie worked his way around the fake fog again. He led her to a large enclosed tent, like the kind used for weddings. An open flap had been tied back to serve as the entrance. He ducked in, muttering, “Welcome to the green room.”

The green room wasn’t green. Just a white tent. Half a dozen brown metal folding chairs had been set up on the ground. A long card table held a collection of snacks and various drinks, including an urn filled with hot coffee.

Three people currently sat in the chairs. One male, two females. All approximately thirty to forty years of age. The man was dressed in dark slacks, a blue collared shirt and light brown jacket that didn’t completely cover the very large sidearm holstered at his right hip. The dark-haired woman was similarly garbed—wardrobe’s equivalent of a detective’s costume, D.D. determined. The other female, a thin, knockout blonde, wore all black and was hard to see in the shadows between the hanging lights.

“Gary Masters?” D.D. asked the man, assuming he was the male lead.

“Don’t I wish. Joe Talte. Stand-in.” He rose, shook her hand. He was wearing black leather gloves. Because it was cold? Maybe.

“Stand-in?” D.D. quizzed.

Don did the honors. “This is Joe, Melissa, and Natalie. They’re the stand-ins for the three leads. Meaning, they’ll go on set first, taking up position on the markers so that the lighting and camera crews can make their final adjustments before shooting begins.”

“But you’re in costume.” D.D. stated the obvious.

Joe smiled at her. He had a good smile, charismatic, like an actor. With his short cropped sandy brown hair, strong tanned face, and bright blue eyes, he definitely looked enough like a cop to play one on TV. “Our wardrobe needs to be consistent with the actors’ outfits to assist with lighting,” he explained to her. “If I was wearing a black jacket, for example, that would bounce light differently than a tan one. So in the end, it’s easier to dress consistently; otherwise the crew can’t get their job done.”

“But the gun?” D.D. peered at it closely. One of the largest, craziest sidearms she’d ever seen.

“From props,” he assured her. “Does it make me look tough? ’Cause that’s the idea.”

“Total badass.”

He smiled again. Grinned really. Took her all in, even the enormous rounded belly, and poured on the charm. Joe Talte, D.D. decided, was a dangerous man.

“So you’re like understudies for the stars,” D.D. tried out. “Do you like it?”

All three immediately nodded.

“We get a lot of time in front of the director,” said Melissa, the brunette dressed as a detective. “Not to mention the experience of making a feature film. You never know. Stand-in today . . .”

“Star tomorrow,” Natalie, the gorgeous blonde, finished for her. She trilled the word “star” in a way that indicated she’d practiced it before. Many times, D.D. would guess, probably while standing in front of her dresser mirror.

“I play the victim that gets away,” Natalie continued, gesturing to her tightly fitted black dress, with matching hose and, of course, three-inch stilettos. “Tonight’s the scene where my character, the widow Deborah, first visits her husband’s grave to leave a red rose—it’s their anniversary. Except the Gravestone Killer attacks. She barely gets away.”

Natalie tossed back her wavy blond hair as if to emphasize the drama of her narrow escape. Getting into character, D.D. figured, but already she had a feeling the thin, elegant blonde was the naturally dramatic type.

“That’s scene one,” Don reported, from the doorway. “What they’re setting up now.”

“Later in the movie,” Joe picked up, “the cops”—he gestured to himself and the other stand-in, Melissa—“decide to bait the Gravestone Killer by having Deborah return to her husband’s grave. That’s scene thirty-two, which we’ll film after scene one.”

“Scene thirty-two?” D.D. asked. “Of how many scenes?”

“A hundred and eighty-nine.”

“Meaning baiting the killer obviously doesn’t work. What goes wrong?”

Joe grinned at her. “You’ll have to stick around to find out.”

She rolled her eyes. D.D. had done some digging into Donnie’s production company. She knew that the film had started shooting three weeks ago and that Chaibongsai had received one paycheck for two weeks of work. Meaning the cast and crew had had three weeks to get to know one another, form friendships, and, apparently, make enemies. Given that Samuel had been hired to help primarily with the male lead, she decided to quiz Joe first on Chaibongsai’s involvement.

“You work with the cop consultant?” she asked him.

“Chaibongsai? Nope. I’m just a stand-in. Authenticity is above my pay grade. He worked directly with Gary.”

“What about hanging around on set?”

“His territory was video village. The promised land. Again, we’re second team. We’re lucky to get the green room.”

“Meals?”

“Cast and crew eat together,” Joe granted. “But people are staggering in and out over the course of an hour, depending on their schedules. I sat next to Chaibongsai once. That was it.”

“You local?” she asked him, then stretched out the question to include Melissa and Natalie as well.

As a unit, they nodded.

“What about others on set?”

“Lighting and electrical,” Don spoke up. “Some of the production crew, including PAs. Craft services, hair and makeup. But most of the cast and crew flew in for the shoot. The director, Ron, has his own camera crew out of L.A., sound is from New Orleans, wardrobe from New York. Not sure about the rest.”

D.D. looked at him. “Where’s everyone staying?”

“A hotel in Boston that gives us a group rate.” Donnie shrugged. “It’s why we’re working such long hours. Cast and crew are here to get this done, then everyone goes home again.”