McNulty raised his eyebrows. “Any of them want a dog?”
Larry deflated like a pricked balloon. “No.”
McNulty turned and started back toward the location.
“Then tell them I left the country.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Getting the police on board wasn’t a bad idea, but not the Quincy PD. McNulty was already in their bad books after the fire, so it would take some explaining how he happened to be looking through the skylight at South Shore Hardcore. Add the fact that all he’d really seen was bondage equipment and dubious stains in an industry that prided itself on bondage and stains, and he didn’t have any real evidence to take to the police.
Officially.
The beauty of being technical adviser for Titanic Productions, though, was that the Boston Film Office had a working relationship with the police and McNulty had contacts at the Boston Film Office.
He called Flip Livingstone during a break in filming.
“Before you say anything. I don’t want a dog.”
McNulty moved away from the noise as stagehands changed location to the sea wall that protected Marina Bay. The rock and pebble structure was long and straight, but not particularly flat. Setting up the lights and reflectors required all hands on deck to build solid platforms that would be off-camera when they began shooting at the eastern edge of the harbor. He clamped a hand over one ear and shouted into the cell phone.
“What was that?”
Flip’s voice was calm and level.
“I don’t want the dog.”
McNulty smiled even though Livingstone couldn’t see him.
“Larry told you about that, huh?”
Flip had the most relaxing voice McNulty had ever heard.
“You’re a hero. I worship at your feet. But I’m not taking the dog.”
McNulty moved farther away from the noise to around the side of a housing development at the edge of Marina Bay. The expensive condos dampened the sound and protected him from the sea breeze. The temperature was five degrees warmer. McNulty kept his voice cool.
“That’s not why I’m calling. I need a favor.”
Flip’s voice relaxed even more.
“If it doesn’t involve boarding kennels, fire away.”
McNulty looked out to sea as he considered how to phrase this, then decided to come straight out with it.
“I need the police to look into something.”
Flip stated the obvious. “So go to the police.”
The sea view wasn’t making this any easier.
“Off the books.”
Flip paused before answering.
“This some kind of location-permit thing?”
McNulty watched a seagull drifting gently on the breeze. Calm. Serene. Like Flip Livingstone on the other end of the line. Flip’s calmness transferred to McNulty. That was Flip’s gift and why he was so effective liaising between movie companies and local government. Police, location services, town planning and city hall. McNulty felt confident that Livingstone would have the answer.
“More like some locations we might want to avoid.”
Flip filled in some of the blanks.
“Without upsetting the wrong people.”
McNulty nodded into the phone.
“Discreetly.”
Flip’s voice was like honey. Warm and friendly.
“Off the books.”
McNulty turned his back to the sea.
“Have you got anybody I can use?”
Flip made soothing noises over the phone as he searched for a number.
“I know a guy who works at E13. Senior detective in the Jamaica Plain neighborhood.”
There was a pause, then Flip came back on the line.
“Sam Kincaid. Does some work for us on the side. He’s got no jurisdiction in Quincy but so long as you don’t want anybody arresting, I guess he’ll be okay.”
McNulty thought he remembered Kincaid from the news a couple of years ago.
“Nothing like that. Sounds great.”
Flip read out the office number for Jamaica Plain and McNulty scribbled it in his notepad. He thanked Flip and hung up. He glanced along the sea wall to see how long it would be before filming started again. The lights were set up, but the camera hadn’t arrived yet. McNulty dialed the number and a weary voice answered after five rings.
“J-P detectives.”
McNulty asked to speak to Sam Kincaid but was told he was out of the office. This wasn’t something he wanted to discuss with anyone else, so he left his name and number and said he was from the Boston Film Office. Hopefully the prospect of a cash-in-hand job would speed Kincaid’s response. Having a detective knocking on doors for you was the best way to get information.
As McNulty glanced at the condos, he thought of something else. A paperboy was delivering newspapers along the cul-de-sac. McNulty nodded to himself. The only people who had more information than the police were local reporters.
TWENTY-SIX
The Quincy Sun was advertised as being Historic Quincy’s Hometown Weekly Newspaper since 1968. As such, it was a good few years younger than The Patriot Ledger, which claimed to have been South Shore’s newspaper since 1837. The Ledger covered everywhere from Abington to Whitman in alphabetical order. The Sun covered Quincy. In the end that’s what swung McNulty toward the smaller press. That and the fact that The Ledger’s mirrored-glass and marble offices looked like part of Rupert Murdoch’s empire, while The Sun was a shop front sandwiched between Avon Products and a dentist.
Smaller was better for keeping a low profile. Plus, The Quincy Sun broke the dog rescue story, giving McNulty a suitable introduction and a reason for being there. McNulty parked around the corner on Maple Street, pushed through the front door, and asked the receptionist for the news desk. Turned out there was only one desk and all the reporters shared it. All the reporters added up to two. The only one working today didn’t look as if he’d started shaving yet.
“Wow. You’re the dog guy. Cool. Let me get a pen.”
Scoot Jackson was a cub reporter who made up for his lack of experience by displaying boundless enthusiasm. He was practically jumping up and down as he showed McNulty to a writers’ nook at the back of the office. Three low-slung chairs formed a corner between a water cooler and a coffee machine. The coffee machine was unplugged to save electricity. A smoked-glass coffee table made it difficult to stretch your legs so McNulty sat sideways with his legs sticking into the aisle. Jackson brought a pen and notepad from his desk then realized he hadn’t offered his guest a drink.
“Oh. Sorry. Would you like a cold drink?”
McNulty indicated the coffee machine.
“Not a hot drink?”
Jackson looked embarrassed.
“Ah. Sorry. We’re cutting back. Don’t get many visitors.”
McNulty nodded.
“Water’s fine then. Thanks.”
Jackson filled two disposable cups and sat opposite McNulty.
“So? The dog rescue. That was great. My biggest story. Got picked up by The Boston Globe and everything.”
McNulty sipped the chilled water.
“You wrote that?”
Jackson beamed with pride.
“Got my own by-line. Staff Reporter, Scoot Jackson.”
“Don’t you always get your own by-line?”
The bloom went off of Jackson’s smile.
“Usually it’s just, ‘Hot From The Tip Line.’”
“You get tips?”
“People ring up. If they think we might be interested.”
“And you’re interested in dog rescues?”
The smile came back.
“Heck, yes. Everybody loves a shaggy dog story.”
McNulty leaned back in his chair.
“I’m not surprised. With so many dogs going missing around here.”
Jackson flipped the notepad open and settled into reporter mode.<
br />
“Yes. I suppose anyone can lose a dog. You given it back yet?”
“Who to?’
Jackson looked confused.
“The Bridgewater Photo Lab.”
McNulty put his cup down.
“Funny you should ask that. I took it back the following day and they said it wasn’t theirs.”
Jackson scribbled notes on his pad.
“Who owns it then?”
McNulty shrugged.
“They wouldn’t talk to me.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“On account of the police arrested me for starting the fire.”
Jackson’s pen stopped in midstroke.
“You didn’t?”
“Get arrested or start the fire?”
“Either. Both.”
“Didn’t, ‘Hot From The Tip Line’ mention that?”
Jackson scribbled again while keeping his eyes on McNulty.
“I know they questioned you. I assumed that was in case you saw anything.”
“Oh, they questioned me all right.”
“But you didn’t start the fire.”
“No.”
“Otherwise they wouldn’t have released you.”
McNulty took another drink.
“Is that what they teach you in journalism school? The police don’t let you go unless you didn’t do it?”
Jackson blushed.
“They don’t, do they?”
McNulty looked at the reporter.
“You do have the presumption-of-innocence rule over here, don’t you?”
Jackson nodded.
“Innocent until proven guilty. Yes, of course.”
McNulty held his hands out.
“Well, they couldn’t prove me guilty. But the lab still thinks I started the fire.”
Jackson joined the dots.
“So they won’t tell you who owns the dog.”
McNulty let out a sigh.
“Which leaves me stuck with a dog I don’t want.”
Jackson stopped writing.
“But if it was theirs. Wouldn’t they snap it up?”
McNulty nodded.
“Which begs the question. Whose dog is it? And why was it at the lab?”
Jackson pondered that as he chewed the end of his pen; then he stopped.
“I could do a follow-up story. Background the dog.”
McNulty smiled and took another drink.
“I hear that’s what reporters do.”
Jackson mimed using a camera.
“We could take a photo. Run up some flyers.”
McNulty finished his drink.
“That’s something else I want to ask you about.”
Jackson wiggled his pen.
“The missing dog posters?”
McNulty crushed the plastic cup.
“The missing girl posters.”
Jenny Eynon had been missing for almost two weeks. She was thirteen years old and had never gone missing before. She had, however, been seeing a boy from out of town that her parents didn’t approve of. Tensions were high. She started coming home late. Then one night she didn’t come home at all and the police got involved. Nobody knew who the boy was. Nobody had seen him around since Jenny’s disappearance. It was widely assumed that she’d run away with him.
The police circulated her as missing. The family printed flyers. Apart from the missing-dog posters it was the one McNulty had seen the most when the crew were redressing film sets after shooting. All across the Marina Bay boardwalk. Up and down the docks and jetties. Outside the South Shore Diner. The face that reminded him of Michelle Jamison at Northern X, another place that used belts and shackles and nasty sharp instruments.
“Is that one of the paper’s services?”
Jackson looked up from his notes.
“Missing persons?”
“Missing anything. The posters.”
Jackson nodded toward a complicated machine in the corner.
“We run a copy and print service. Photoshop any poster you want. Give us a picture of the dog and we’ll turn it into Lassie.”
“It’s a Yorkshire Terrier, not Lassie.”
Jackson held his hands up in apology.
“Sorry. Figure of speech. I mean we can make any photo look good.”
“So people can recognize it?”
Jackson nodded.
“Dogs or people.”
McNulty tossed the crushed cup into the wastebasket.
“Missing dog posters must keep you busy then.”
Jackson’s tone became as serious as his exuberance could manage.
“Missing persons is hitting boom time as well.”
McNulty looked at the reporter.
“Jenny Eynon isn’t the first?”
Jackson did some calculations in his head.
“Counting her, that makes five.”
“All girls?”
Jackson nodded.
“Between twelve and fifteen.”
He twirled a finger in the air.
“They’re spread out a bit, but all sometime within the last six months.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Okay. It was time to stop pussyfooting around. Five girls in six months. A hardcore porn outfit filming bondage using thirty-five-millimeter film stolen from Titanic Productions. And a second AC with access to the film stock and a suspicious way of hanging around when McNulty was discussing the porn outfit. There was nothing to link all three, apart from timing and suspicion. There wasn’t enough evidence to give probable cause and nothing to bring the police running.
Vince McNulty wasn’t the police.
Yes, it was time to stop pussyfooting around. Time for hard questions. The person for hard questioning was Brad Semenoff. McNulty parked at Marina Bay just as shooting finished for the day. The crew were redressing the set as the lights were loaded onto the equipment trailer. Staple guns fired. Posters were being rehung. The camera was being dismantled and packed for transport. The exposed film had already been logged and sent for processing.
“Where’s Brad?”
McNulty asked everyone he saw. The answer was always the same. Nobody had seen him for more than an hour. The DOP had to unload his own cartridges. F.K. was fuming when McNulty finally got around to asking him.
“This is highly irregular. I don’t even have the film log.”
McNulty stood beside the cinematographer.
“That’s his job, right? Recording stock used and film sent for processing?”
F.K. Parenteau put his hands on his hips. That was as aggressive as he ever got.
“That is his reason for living. And he has let me down.”
A big man with his sleeves rolled up came over from the parking lot.
“Are you looking for the film guy?”
McNulty turned to the stagehand.
“Brad Semenoff? Yes.”
The stagehand jerked a thumb toward the exit.
“He shot off a while ago. Bummed a lift back to the motel.”
McNulty waved a hand at the movie circus packing up across the parking lot.
“He couldn’t wait? We’re all going back to Blacks Creek.”
The big man shrugged.
“Seemed to be in a hurry.”
McNulty turned on his heels and stalked toward his car. I’ll bet he is, he thought as he got in and started the engine. He screeched out of the parking lot onto Victory Road. He was getting a bad feeling. Whenever he’d got that feeling in the West Yorkshire Police, it had always paid off. What he felt now was a man making a run for it. He kept in low gear and hit the gas. Speeding away from Squantum Point toward the motel on Quincy Shore Drive.
He knew he was too late even before he pulled into a slanted bay outside the security compound. McNulty felt it as he got out of the car and pondered which way to go, the production office or the motel. Back in his uniform days, he’d o
ften blue-lighted to crimes in progress, burglaries, robberies and domestic disputes. He knew as soon as he switched off the blue lights and siren if the suspect was still at the scene. He slammed his door shut. Brad Semenoff was no longer at the scene.
The second AC had more than an hour’s head start and an accomplice with a getaway vehicle. McNulty didn’t know what that vehicle was. He should have asked the stagehand, because McNulty didn’t believe Semenoff had bummed a lift. He ignored the production office and headed to the motel reception. He didn’t know what room Semenoff was in, but he’d bet it was already empty.
He was going in the front door when he realized he’d lost the bet. He must be getting rusty since his uniform days. Or Brad Semenoff was a slow packer. The second AC came dashing down the stairs and across the parking lot, a battered suitcase under one arm and a cell phone to his ear.
McNulty turned from the motel office.
“Hey, Brad. Hold up.”
Brad snapped the phone off and shoved it into his pocket. He broke into a shambling run toward the main road. Traffic was end-of-the-day busy but on Quincy Shore Drive that meant a half-dozen cars going either way. The suitcase was hindering his sprint finish. He cut across the narrow lawn with the low Blacks Creek Motel sign and crossed the entrance drive. He glanced over his shoulder at McNulty then looked at the traffic on Quincy Shore Drive, trying to find a gap to cross the road.
McNulty put on a burst of speed and went after him. He’d had enough of messing around. His sprint finish was less encumbered than Brad’s, but fear leant Semenoff wings. He sped across the driveway, looking to his left. McNulty was a split-second behind him and shouted, loud and brash and hard as nails.
“I said fuckin’ stop!”
Semenoff didn’t stop. He ran along the road that accessed entrance onto Quincy Shore Drive. He wasn’t looking for a gap in the traffic, he was looking for a specific car. The getaway car was parked at the start of the access road. It was the same car that had tried to run McNulty down yesterday. It spat gravel and raced toward Semenoff. Sunlight glinted off the windshield. The car swerved away from the road and straight for McNulty.
Final Cut Page 12
