As time went by Larry broke into legitimate moviemaking and left the porn industry behind. Or so he thought. The Boston connection occasionally called in favors, such as the loan of props and equipment. Titanic Productions survived by keeping costs down and quality up. Its output began to make an impact as Larry crawled up the ladder of legitimacy. But he still had to honor the favors.
“I didn’t know about this.” His hands were shaking. “I just thought they were going upmarket. Using thirty-five millimeter.”
McNulty kept his eyes on the producer.
“And you couldn’t afford to lose any more film.”
Larry rubbed his hands together to stop the shaking.
“I thought that setting you on them, well…” He shrugged. “It got the film back.”
McNulty glanced out of the window at the production compound.
“But it didn’t stop them from using the camera.”
“No.”
“And Brad was their man on the inside.”
“Yes.”
McNulty rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He flexed his neck and the bones cracked like gunshots in the quiet of the room. He leaned back in his chair and looked across the table.
“Have you got contact details for these people?”
Larry shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. They have cutouts.”
McNulty thought about that. Insulating the top men from the dirty work was nothing new. There was always a connection somewhere, though.
“How long has Brad been with Titanic?”
Larry considered that, doing calculations in his head.
“He was fairly new. Six months maybe.”
McNulty nodded.
“About the time the missing girls’ posters started.”
Larry looked baffled.
“The flyers?”
McNulty nodded again.
“The ones the crew keep putting back up when they redress the locations.” He thought about the film crew for a moment. “Anyone else join about that time?”
Larry raised his eyebrows.
“You did.”
McNulty realized Larry was right. He remembered being introduced around as the new man on the crew. He vaguely remembered not being the only one but had no recollection of Brad Semenoff joining at the same time.
“Anyone else? Anyone that was friendly with Brad?”
Larry’s face screwed up with concentration. Keeping track of the crew wasn’t part of his job but as the head man at Titanic Productions he always kept his finger on the pulse. A light went on behind his eyes.
“There was a guy. Seemed to know Brad. Can’t remember his name. I think we took him as dolly grip.”
McNulty trawled the technical terms in his mind.
“Is he the one in charge of laying the camera dolly track?”
“That’s right.”
McNulty’s eyes hardened.
“So we’ve got one fella keeping track of the film stock and his mate working the camera dolly. Both around the camera. Both started with you at the same time.”
Larry pointed out the obvious.
“And an ex-cop working security.”
McNulty narrowed his stare. “They’ll be wishing I hadn’t.” He leaned forward. “The dolly grip. Where is he now?”
FORTY-THREE
Where Eddy Turk was, was nowhere. He wasn’t in his room at the motel and he wasn’t in the diner next door. It was the middle of the evening and Edward L. Turk was nowhere to be found. If he’d gone out for the night, he must have gone into town because there were no bars or nightclubs near Quincy Shore Drive. McNulty didn’t think he’d gone nightclubbing. He reckoned the dolly grip was doing something much darker.
McNulty took out his frustration on Turk’s motel room. He turned it upside down in a frenzied police search that provided no clues and no evidence. There were no incriminating photographs. There were no contact numbers. Turk didn’t keep a diary. He didn’t keep anything at all. Travel light, travel far. He was completely mobile, just like South Shore Hardcore, who no longer had a base of operations and would have to film on location. It hadn’t been solely studio-based anyway. It had always used other locations as well. Like the one on Semenoff’s behind-the-scenes video that showed the thirty-five millimeter camera filming in a well-appointed room with expensive paintings and furniture.
The camera. McNulty’s next port of call.
The production compound was closed and padlocked. McNulty unchained the gate and went in. There were no security lights. The compound was usually empty and Blacks Creek Motel hadn’t invested in security lights for an empty compound. The shadows were hard and black and only broken by filtered light from the motel or shifting beams from passing traffic. There wasn’t much passing traffic.
McNulty ignored the production office and threaded his way between location vehicles and the makeup trailer. The shipping container was in the far corner. He came out of the shadows and approached the door. It was closed but not all the way. The handle and levers were unfastened. McNulty pulled the door open and flicked the switch on the wall. Makeshift fluorescents blinked on. The storage space was tightly packed but separated into departments. Lighting, sound and camera. The camera department had the space on the left as you entered the container. Heavy-duty tripods stood against the wall. Film canisters and spare cartridges were stored in a metal cupboard along with the clapperboards and film logs. The cameras were carefully stacked in protective padding beside the tripods. One of the cameras was missing.
So, he was right. They were filming tonight. Somewhere in Quincy a teenage girl was waiting to be gang raped and murdered on camera. That teenage girl was Suzanne Cipolletti, the owner of the dog the police had taken into custody and best friend of Jenny Eynon, who was almost certainly dead already. McNulty balled his fist and thumped the wall. The blow echoed through the container and drifted across the compound.
“I’m glad you didn’t teach me that move in walk-like-a-cop school.”
McNulty spun toward the door. Alfonse Bayard stepped out of the shadows.
“Because I think I’d be asking for a stunt double.”
McNulty rubbed his fist but didn’t speak. Headlights swept the compound as a car pulled into the motel parking lot. They revealed the concerned look on Bayard’s face. He spoke softly and with surprising maturity for a fledgling actor.
“This isn’t just about stolen film, is it?”
McNulty came out of the storage container and closed the door. He slid the bolts home and locked it. He looked at Bayard, an actor who looked more like a cop than when they’d started but was still only an actor playing the part.
“It’s not about walking like a cop, either.”
Alfonse winced and McNulty regretted saying it. Alfonse Bayard had made sterling progress but playing the part was different from living it. McNulty had lived it for twenty years. What he planned on doing next wasn’t for the faint-hearted. It wasn’t for the cops, either.
“This isn’t for you.”
Alfonse waved a hand toward the missing camera.
“Whatever they’re filming, there’ll be more than one of them.”
McNulty braced his shoulders.
“You don’t want to know what they’re filming.”
Alfonse stood firm.
“You go after them now and you’ll be alone.”
McNulty put steel in his voice.
“I’ve always been alone.”
He regretted saying that as well, but it was the truth. It wasn’t the sort of thing he shared with people and in a way, that only perpetuated that truth. He was a man without family. A man alone. It was the way he’d grown up and it was the way he lived now. The surrogate family of Titanic Productions had filled the gap for a while but now that family had turned into something else. Something McNulty planned to smash into oblivion.
“It’s best you stay out of it.”
He turned and walked to the production office. Alfonse followed. McNulty unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Instead of going to Larry’s office he approached the second door on the right. The location manager. The man responsible for organizing local services for the various parts of Quincy where they’d been filming. All the locations were marked on a map on the office wall. Notes were linked by ribbons pinned to the places they’d used. McNulty stood in front of the map and took an overview.
The city of Quincy, Massachusetts.
It wasn’t a big city. More of a coastal town than a city. It had schools and houses and family parks. There were shopping centers and commercial districts and industrial areas. Along the coast there were derelict shipyards and flourishing marinas. In amongst all that were the locations where Titanic Productions had been filming. Somewhere on that map was tonight’s location for gang rape and murder.
McNulty traced his movements with one finger, starting with Blacks Creek Motel on Quincy Shore Drive. Then up to Marina Bay at Squantum Point. He trailed down to the Bridgewater Photo Lab and across to the Bents Creek Shipyard where South Shore Hardcore had a studio for sex and death. He found The Quincy Sun and then Jenny Eynon’s house on Bay View Street. His finger tracked across the Town River Bay to Snug Harbor Elementary School and the ramshackle cabin where Suzanne Cipolletti lived. The L-shaped jetty where the gunman had died in the mud wasn’t on the map but somewhere on there was the place they’d be filming tonight. Somewhere that a teenage girl would be forced to have sex more dangerous than the sex depicted in the photos she had taped to the underside of her bedside drawer.
His finger stopped. He tapped the woods behind the school, then slid his finger all the way back up to Marina Bay. The place where Suzanne and Jenny had been photographed with Brad Semenoff and Hooknose. He thought about the behind-the-scenes video on Semenoff’s phone. Not the act itself but the surroundings. A well-appointed room with expensive paintings on the walls.
And a low ceiling.
He thought about other things as well. The porn outfit suddenly going mobile after the photo studio was cleared out. Helen’s reaction when McNulty had told her to stay somewhere else for safety. “I’ll just move the boat. That’s the beauty of life on the ocean wave. You’re mobile.” Life on the ocean wave. He remembered Helen pointing out some of the bigger boats. “Then there’s silly money. Cabin cruisers better than staying at the Hilton.” On “D” Dock behind The Helen of Troy, near the ice machine and fuel jetty.
There was one in particular he’d seen when Alfonse was filming at Slip 10. It had been in the background of the establishing shot. A great big fuck-off boat like some of the other yachts and motor launches, only bigger. He’d wondered if calling them boats was an insult. He didn’t think you could insult this one. The stateroom was no doubt bigger and more grandly appointed than the one on The Helen of Troy, but the two vessels would have one thing in common: a low ceiling, compared with the same room in a bricks-and-mortar house.
He tapped Marina Bay three times, then stepped back from the map. He knew where they’d be filming tonight, and he knew why.
“Twelve-mile limit.”
He also knew that Alfonse was right, they wouldn’t be filming alone. They’d have muscle with them for protection. One of South Shore Hardcore’s musclemen was dead in the mud. The other had run Brad Semenoff down after the second AC had phoned for someone to pick him up.
McNulty waved Alfonse out and locked the production office. He told the actor to go wait in the diner, then he climbed into his car. Once Alfonse was out of earshot McNulty took out his phone and made the call.
FORTY-FOUR
McNulty had to choose between maintaining the element of surprise and giving Kincaid a GPS location. In the end, getting the location won out because McNulty had no doubt that the boat would have already sailed by the time he reached Marina Bay. He spoke to Kincaid as he headed out of the motel parking lot and sped along Quincy Shore Drive toward Squantum Point. There was no time to explain this to the Quincy PD. He’d let Kincaid do that while he raced to the marina. Kincaid didn’t sound convinced.
“Are you sure?”
McNulty laid it out.
“Do you want to risk losing the girl because we’re not sure?”
Kincaid sounded tired.
“You got the number?”
McNulty took the corner using one hand without changing gear.
“I’m just gonna call him, then get back to you.”
“Okay.”
McNulty ended the call then shifted down into third gear for the network of junctions and roundabouts on Victory Road. He found Semenoff’s call log and pressed redial. He slowed to take the first roundabout. A gruff voice answered after three rings.
“Yeah?”
McNulty hardened his tone.
“Now then Fuckface. Hope you don’t get seasick twelve miles out.”
The man snapped down the phone.
“Who is this?”
McNulty kept him dangling.
“If you’re missing your friend, he’s sucking mud halfway to Australia.”
The man tried not to sound worried, but he wasn’t succeeding.
“What the fuck you talkin’ about?”
McNulty spoke in a whisper.
“I’m saying, don’t fuck with a Yorkshire Terrier.”
He ended the call then brought the number up again. He sent it to Kincaid then screeched to a stop at the Marina Bay Boardwalk. He jumped out of the car and ran to the railing. He was right; the slip on “D” Dock was empty. The big fuck-off boat had already fucked off.
The Dockmaster was still in the tower overlooking the marina. He was a man in his sixties with straggly white hair and a beard. He looked like Captain Birdseye except Americans had probably never heard of Captain Birdseye. His shift didn’t end until ten p.m., when control would go into autopilot. McNulty took the stairs three at a time and went through the door. The Dockmaster was surprised to see him.
“Bit late for you film guys, isn’t it? Not planning night shoots, are you?”
McNulty considered how to play this. He decided against going into full-scale emergency mode and kept his tone only mildly urgent.
“The big boat on “D” Dock. We had it in the background.”
The Dockmaster looked at his berth map.
“The Manticore. She just sailed.”
McNulty feigned disappointment that wasn’t entirely fake.
“Damn. We want to use it again. You got an owner listed?”
The Dockmaster shook his head.
“Can’t be giving that out. Private hire is all I can say.”
McNulty looked out window to across the harbor. Navigation lights twinkled in the distance. Several boats had lights on and there were intermittent overhead lights around the jetties.
“Which way they headed?”
The Dockmaster waved a hand.
“North when they set off. Didn’t seem to be in a hurry.”
There was nothing else to ask so McNulty thanked him and left. He was more careful going down the stairs than going up, there was no point breaking a leg while hurrying too fast. As his sergeant used to say about blue-light responding, “You can’t help anybody if you don’t get there in one piece.” McNulty planned on getting there in one piece. He jogged along the jetty toward “C” Dock. Slip 10. The lights were off in The Helen of Troy. The curtains were drawn. Good. Helen had taken his advice.
He stepped over the stern rail onto the aft deck. The boat dipped and swayed under his weight. He went to the control panel and flicked on the running lights. The spare keys were where Helen had shown him. He sat at the controls for a moment, touching the various levers and buttons. The wheel was the only thing that looked familiar. The throttle he’d have to experiment with.
He turned the key and the engine roared to life. The noise hid the sound of another car screeching onto the boardwalk. The boat’s motor throb
bed and bubbled. It sounded like a muscle car without a muffler. He eased the throttle forward and the craft started moving. He let out a sigh of relief. The boat went three feet then jerked to a stop. He glanced over the stern rail. The mooring lines were still tied.
“Shit.”
He slipped the throttle into neutral and jumped the gap. The rope had tightened, and he had to pull the boat toward himself to get some slack. He couldn’t uncurl the loop off the mooring post. He managed to get a bit more slack, but still couldn’t figure the knot.
“Fucking shit.”
The footsteps behind him blended with the creaking of the boat. He didn’t notice the figure standing over him until Helen spoke.
“You’ll not get far like that.”
She knelt beside him and expertly untied the mooring line. She tossed it onto the aft deck and stepped aboard. She held out a hand for McNulty.
“You planning on going after them alone?”
The other footsteps were louder and more urgent. They ran along “C” Dock and stopped at Slip 10.
“He’s not alone.”
Alfonse Bayard jumped the widening gap and fell flat on his face. McNulty deadpanned the two of them.
“Yes. Because this is so much better.”
FORTY-FIVE
Helen steered The Helen of Troy out of the marina then killed the lights. McNulty gave her a querying look even though she couldn’t see it in the dark. She obviously knew what he was going to ask because she waved a hand toward the horizon. There were half a dozen cabin cruisers navigating the sound, their lights twinkling on the water.
“I take it you don’t want them seeing you coming.”
McNulty listened to the engine.
“Won’t they hear us?”
Final Cut Page 19
