The 7th Month (6 page)

It’s tending these little details that enables one to get away with murder. Carefully consider what must be done before, during, and
after
the killing. Plan accordingly.

Concoct an alibi. This is step six.

Chapter 6

D.D. was a sap. Maybe it was hormones or a pregnant woman’s biological response to the father of her unborn child, but each time she saw Alex, her heart skipped a beat. Didn’t matter that it was nearly ten
P.M.
, freezing-ass cold, and they stood outside a fake-fogged cemetery. She took in her man, his salt-and-pepper hair, trim build currently hunched beneath a charcoal gray wool coat, strong legs striding toward her, and she beamed like a giddy school girl, awaiting the star quarterback’s approach.

“I thought you said he was a teacher,” Joe said beside her. They remained next to D.D.’s car, where they could confer with Alex in private. It was dark here, the wind kicking up and delivering a knife-edged chill. Joe, wearing only a thin sports jacket, was shivering hard. D.D., carrying around her own private heater in the form of an incubating baby, felt great.

“Teaches crime scene management at the police academy,” D.D. supplied.

“He doesn’t look like a teacher.”

“He still likes to get out in the field. That’s how we met. Family annihilation. Husband took out three kids and his wife with a kitchen knife, before shooting himself point-blank in the head.”

Joe glanced sideways at her. “That’s your romantic first-meet story?”

D.D. rolled her eyes. “Fraud investigators. No stomach for real crime.”

Alex drew to a halt in front of them. He glanced at D.D. first, the warmth of his smile reaching his blue eyes. And she felt herself melt a little bit more. No lecture or whiff of censure that it was ten
P.M.
on D-Day and she still hadn’t given him an answer. Instead, she asked for help, he came. She smiled at him, and he beamed back with his entire body.

She was an idiot. Stubborn, foolish, but worse than all that, a scared ninny. When had Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren ever allowed herself to behave so cowardly? When had she ever tolerated fear?

Beside her, Joe cleared his throat. Belatedly, D.D. and Alex turned to him.

Alex stuck out a hand. “Alex Wilson.”

“Joe Thieriault,” the FBI agent said.

The men didn’t exchange titles or departments, given that in the dark it was difficult to know who else might be listening. They finished shaking hands, then Alex enveloped D.D. in a quick hug. “How are you feeling?” he murmured in her ear.

“Jazzed. Cranked up. Ready to rumble. Oh, and if anyone says anything about me possibly chasing a vampire through the cemetery . . . total exaggeration. Joe did all the heavy lifting, right Joe?”

“Right,” Joe agreed.

D.D. decided the federal agent was a good guy after all.

Quickly, she and Joe brought Alex up to speed. The idea of crime bosses using major film projects to launder money didn’t faze him the least. D.D. explained about Chaibongai’s murder, and movie producer Donnie Bilger’s prime suspect status. Alex had a couple of questions, then he was ready to go. Joe nodded his approval. D.D. got out her cell phone and arranged for Donnie to meet her back at his trailer. She’d never signed the initial contract, she reminded him. Of course, they should get that done.

Donnie had grumbled, but agreed to see her there.

Then D.D., Joe, and Alex climbed into D.D.’s car, and she drove them over to base camp.

This time of night, with just the dim parking lot lights illuminating the space, D.D. found the endless rows of twin white trailers to be eerie. Like a bad science experiment. Pod after pod after pod. She shivered as she pulled into the rear of the parking lot, then killed the car lights.

Five minutes later, the set van pulled up, and Donnie B. stepped out. He never glanced their way. Just climbed the metal step to his trailer, yanking open the door. One more minute, then D.D. looked over at Alex and nodded.

D.D. and Joe went first. D.D. rapped three times hard on the trailer door.

Don opened it almost immediately, nodding at her, frowning at Joe.

“Just escorting a pretty lady,” Joe said easily. “Didn’t want her to walk over alone, you know.”

“You
walked
over,” Don exclaimed, the idea of a pregnant woman using her own two feet distracting him.

D.D. smiled at him, then pushed her way in, Joe following quickly behind her. Door closed, then the three of them stood in a space designed for six people max. Given the rounded bulk of D.D.’s stomach, it made for tight quarters.

Don had the contract out on the table. He handed her a pen, tapped the signature line impatiently.

“Director is hoping to resume within the next fifteen minutes,” he said crisply. He stared at Joe. “Shouldn’t you be in makeup? We’ve had enough of a delay tonight. Time is money, you know!”

D.D. made a big show of fiddling with the pen. It was blue ink, did Don have black? Wait, she had the perfect pen in her coat, just let her find it. She started patting down her coat pockets.

Her stomach was still bothering her, she registered vaguely. In all the excitement, she’d forgotten about dinner. Maybe she should check out this whole craft services business. Chinese food at one
A.M.
Except just the thought of pork chow mein made her feel suddenly nauseous.

She focused on looking for just the right black pen, as Donnie B. grew twitchier and twitchier.

A fresh, loud knock on the trailer door.

Don frowned at Joe and D.D, as if they knew something they weren’t telling. Both made a big deal of shrugging.

Finally, with an exasperated sigh, Donnie marched across the small space to the door and yanked it open.

Alex Wilson stood there.

“Don Bilger? Boston PD.” Alex flashed a badge, D.D.’s credentials, actually, but snapped the black leather billfold shut before Don could react. “Got a couple of questions for you, Mr. Bilger. If I may?”

Don looked over at D.D. Standing beside the table, she shrugged again.

The producer stepped back uneasily and Alex joined them in the tight space, door banging shut behind him.

“Do you two know each other or something?” Don asked, his gaze going between D.D. and Alex.

“Detective,” Alex said formally, nodding in her direction.

“Dr. Wilson,” she replied, her tone equally proper. “Dr. Wilson is one of our experts,” she informed Don. “What’s your specialty again? That’s right. Blood spatter.”

“Blood spatter?” Donnie’s eyes grew wide.

D.D. ignored him, focusing on Alex instead. “Is there something we can do for you, Dr. Wilson?”

“I’m afraid I have some questions for Mr. Bilger.”

D.D. immediately turned toward the movie producer. She’d taken a couple of steps away from the table, moving into the center of the space. Between her, Alex, and Joe, they had Bilger pinned against the far wall, against the built-in sofa. He hit it with the back of his knees, and sank down, seeming to resign himself to the inevitable.

“How tall are you, Mr. Bilger?” Alex asked sternly.

“Um, five ten.”

“Please stand up.”

“Fine, fine, five eight and a half.”

“May I see your hands, Mr. Bilger?”

“But, but—”

“Your hands, Mr. Bilger.”

Wide-eyed, Don Bilger held out his hands. Alex didn’t make any move to touch them, just appeared to study them.

“I see you have a ring on your right ring finger. Oval, with two small diamonds.”

“Signet ring. A gift . . .” Bilger couldn’t seem to pull himself together. His breathing had escalated, his chest rising and falling in a series of nervous pants.

“Are you familiar with cast-off, Mr. Bilger?”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“When a murder weapon, moving at a certain speed and trajectory comes to a sudden stop, for example at the top arc of an attacker’s swing, any liquid, say blood, will continue the initial speed and trajectory as it flies from the murder weapon onto a stationary object, such as the ceiling, floors, walls, or furniture at the murder scene.”

“Messy,” Bilger mumbled.

“Indeed. Murder is a messy business, especially when it involves a baseball bat caving in a grown man’s skull. Which, for the record, results in cast-off of both blood and brains.”

Bilger, still not breathing well, turned a distinct shade of green.

Interestingly enough, so did D.D.

“Now,” Alex continued crisply, “while blood and brains are messy, they’re also very useful to a crime scene expert. Did you know that each blood droplet formed by cast-off contains a distinct head and distinct tail, much like the shape of sperm? The sharper tail end always points back to the origin of the stain, meaning by studying the size and direction of the blood droplets, an expert such as myself can determine many things about both the attack and the attacker.”

Alex paused, peered down at Bilger, who was now nearly cowering on the sofa.

“Yes,” Alex said softly, as if speaking to himself. “A height of five eight and a half would be exactly correct for the murderer of Samuel Chaibongsai.”

“But, but—” Bilger protested weakly.

“Of course, a crime scene as brutal and graphic as a man bludgeoned to death yields many types of blood evidence. In addition to droplets of cast-off, there were several large, distinct areas of bloodstain. Including an imprint against the wall, as if the murderer brushed against it . . . with the back of his bloody hand, which was wearing a single flat-topped ring studded with two small diamonds.”

Alex suddenly stepped forward, grabbing Bilger’s hand. “How long did it take you to get the blood out, Mr. Bilger? Soak it in jewelry cleaner, or just a quick rinse? Because blood is a very tricky substance, and I bet you didn’t get it all. Somewhere, embedded around one of those tiny, tiny little vanity diamonds, is enough of Samuel Chaibongsai’s blood to put you away for life.”

“But I didn’t, but I didn’t—” Bilger moaned.

“We know about your contact with Chernkoff,” D.D. boomed, jerking Bilger’s attention to her. Her stomach ached now. She rubbed it unconsciously, as she continued to speak: “How much did he offer you, Donnie? How much money was Samuel Chaibongsai’s life worth? One million, two million dollars?”

“You don’t understand . . .”

“I know, I know,” D.D. continued. “You’re a good guy, you’d never do such a thing. But then you were at Foxwoods, had a little run of bad luck.”

Donnie’s head whipped up. She thought his eyes were going to bulge out of his head with surprise. He stared at her slack-jawed, a drowning man, finally realizing he was beyond the reach of a life rope, and going under quickly.

“I screwed up,” he whispered.

D.D. again: “How bad, Donnie? Tell me. Give me something to work with, and maybe I can do something for you.”

“Three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars,” Bilger whispered.

“You lost three hundred and seventy-five
thousand
dollars?”

“At Foxwoods,” he mumbled.

D.D. caught the distinction. “At Foxwoods? Does that mean you gambled at other casinos as well?”

“Mmmm, maybe.”

“Mmmm, how much?”

“Six hundred ninety-seven thousand,” Donnie rattled off quickly. “But I got a lead on a horse—”

“Donnie Bilger! You lost nearly seven hundred thousand dollars that belonged to Andréas Chernkoff? Are you nuts?”

Bilger looked up at her miserably. “It’s a disease, you know. I need treatment. Maybe, I could just . . . go away . . .”

“When did Chaibongsai find out?” D.D. pounced. Her stomach muscles squeezed queasily. She rubbed them again.

“I don’t know—”

“Seven hundred thousand dollars. That’s a lot of incentive to keep him quiet. Given that the moment Chernkoff gets word, your death will be long and slow.”

“But that’s just the thing—”

“Was it a baseball bat? Pick it up at a local sporting goods store? You might as well tell us. We’re going to find out.”

“He knows.”

“Samuel, of course—”

“No, no. Chernkoff. He knows. Found out. ’Bout four weeks ago. And you’re right, I thought he was gonna kill me, but he called in a favor instead.”

D.D. paused, dumbfounded. On each side of her, she could feel Alex and Joe grow equally still.

“What kind of favor is worth seven hundred grand? Did you kill Chaibongsai for money?”

Donnie paled further and looked like he was about to keel over. “No, god no. I got his girlfriend a part. Except, the part wasn’t quite good enough. She got mad. Really, really mad. And, um,” Donnie licked his lips nervously. “And maybe, um, maybe you should turn around, ’cause she’s standing right behind you.”

Stop thinking. Stop worrying, stop fearing, stop preparing, stop planning, stop reading this fucking murder blog.

Kill. This is your final step.

Chapter 7

D.D. turned around first. The space was small, crowded. She could feel Alex, his shoulder solid and reassuring next to hers. She could see Joe, just two steps to the side. In a space so small, filled with three trained law enforcement officers, how scared could she be?

Then she saw the gun, pointed straight at the enormous mound of her spasming belly, and she registered the blond stand-in, Natalie, holding the gun, and D.D. nearly stopped breathing. Instinctively, her hands clasped her stomach, her interlocked fingers no match for a bullet, of course, but when you were an expectant mom, what else could you do?

Alex took an automatic step forward, half of his body muscling in front of D.D.’s, pushing her back behind him.

“Don’t move!” Natalie said instantly, the high, brittle edge to her voice spooking D.D. even more than the actress’s white-knuckled grip on the 9mm.

“Hey, Natalie,” Joe spoke up. His tone strove for congeniality, but came out forced. In theory, he knew Natalie better than all of them, having worked with her these past few weeks. Better yet, his true identity remained under wraps, giving him the element of surprise.