The 7th Month

by Lisa Gardner

  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.

  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?”

  “H
e 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?”