by Lisa Gardner
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, y
our 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.
D.D. eased closer to Alex, trying to give Joe more room to maneuver.
Natalie stood in the bedroom doorway of the trailer. Apparently she’d been here even before they’d arrived, giving her plenty of time to listen to their shakedown of Donnie B. Now, her pale face was grim, her blue eyes resolute.
While they’d been talking, she’d obviously done some thinking, and D.D. had a feeling they wouldn’t like the conclusion she’d reached.
“You,” she pointed her gun at D.D. “Gun, now.”
D.D. made a big show of opening up the left side of her long winter’s coat. Reaching slowly, very slowly for her shoulder-holstered weapon. Not resisting, but not rushing things, either.
“I’m confused,” Joe spoke up again, clearly trying to distract Natalie. He turned toward Alex. “You said Donnie was the killer. Right height given the blood spatter, the smear caused by the signet ring. So how come she’s the one holding the gun?”
“I might have lied about the blood spatter evidence,” Alex replied. “It’s possible, I haven’t even visited the scene. You actors play cops, why can’t we cops be actors? Of course, there is real evidence. What’s it going to tell us, Natalie?”
“Shut up. Just . . . shut up.”
“You killed Chaibongsai,” D.D. stated, forcing the blonde’s attention to ping-pong between the three of them. When cornered, distract, buy time, pray for the life of your unborn child. Abruptly, the muscles around her stomach spasmed harder, as if feeling her tension. Her eyes widened at the unexpected pain, then she forced herself to breathe deeply. Relax. Be cool, calm, in control.
“Gun,” Natalie yelled.
Reluctantly, D.D. handed it over. The blonde took it, then turned to Alex. “You, too.”
“Lab geek,” he tried, still playing to his cover. “No gun.”
Natalie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Take off your coat,” she ordered.
“But I’m cold.”
Natalie pulled the trigger. A bullet flew within an inch of Alex’s shoulder and added new ventilation to the trailer. Behind D.D., Donnie Bilger made a low, moaning sound which would probably precede a fainting spell. D.D. didn’t spare him a glance. She kept her hands on her clenching stomach, and her eyes on the homicidal blonde.
Alex calmly opened his jacket to reveal a gunless torso.
“Not an active-duty officer,” he said, which, as an academy professor, was the truth. “I don’t carry a weapon.”
Natalie grunted, finally seeming to relax a fraction. She kept the gun pointed at D.D., as she chewed her lower lip and seemed to contemplate next steps.
“Samuel promised to help me,” she said bitterly. “Teach me some cop tricks. I could take over the female lead. Why not? I’m good enough! Samuel said he would help, put in a good word, assist with private lessons. Men,” Natalie spat angrily. “Always only want one thing, especially from blondes.”
“I hear you,” D.D. muttered, gesturing to her swollen, achy belly.
“Shut up. You’re a cop. Men respect you.”
“Oh, honey—”
“Shut up!”
D.D. gave up trying to play the sister card, thinning her lips as her belly contracted again. Long. Hard. She panted lightly. Alex glanced back, gaze clearly questioning. She did her best to summon a reassuring smile.
Then it occurred to her: Her lower back pain all day, lack of appetite, on-again, off-again stomachache. Just over seven months. Twenty-nine weeks. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“I arrived this afternoon at Samuel’s place for more rehearsal,” Natalie was exclaiming. As her agitation grew, a faint accent colored her words. Eastern European, D.D. thought. Perhaps Russian. “Except this time, Samuel was all, I know who you are, I know who your boyfriend is, how you got your job. He was all . . . big cop. Big man around town. He’d do me a favor. All I had to do was sleep with him, and he’d keep my ‘casting couch’ a secret.
“Pulll-eeze,” the woman stated, holding herself further erect in her black widow’s costume. “I am Andréas Chernkoff’s girlfriend. Like I need some retired beat cop for protection. Andréas, he likes me for a reason. I’m not afraid of blood. And I can handle my own dirty work. Plus,” the actress added, “I do a Google search: How to kill a man. Find a most excellent website. Everything you need to know. So of course, I go out, buy a baseball bat, show Samuel I am already diva material.”
“How’d you get the drop on a cop?” D.D. couldn’t help but ask. The bands of her stomach muscles were tightening again. A slow, definitive ache. In the way true partners could, Alex was on to her discomfort. Slowly but surely, he was nudging her farther and farther behind him. Parenthood, D.D. was discovering, happened way before birth. She was keenly aware that both she and Alex were in jeopardy. And already, stubbornly, resiliently, she was plotting ways for her child to live. They were expendable. The baby, no.
“Vodka,” Natalie said. “He nodded off. I picked up the bat, went to work. It’s not so hard, almost like breaking a watermelon. Oh, I have an alibi,” the aspiring actress finished brightly. “I was at home, watching M*A*S*H. That silly Hawkeye.”
D.D. peered out at the woman from behind Alex’s shoulder. Natalie seemed genuinely pleased with herself. She had killed a cop, and she was proud of it. D.D. made a mental note never to work as a film consultant ever again. Then she held on to her stomach, as the bands tightened impossibly hard, and a shooting pain raced up her spine.
Oh, yeah. Definitely in trouble. Right now.
In front of her, Alex tensed, as if preparing for action. She wanted to grab his coat. She wanted to yell No, I can’t do this without you. But the iron bands of her stomach had squeezed the breath from her lungs and she couldn’t talk, couldn’t speak. She panted, like a c
ow calving, she thought in the back of her mind.
As Alex took a step forward.
As Joe said, “Hey, Natalie, I got an idea—”
And Donnie Bilger yelled, “Noooo!”
The film producer careened off the sofa. He shoved D.D. to the ground, where she dropped like a sack of bricks, still holding her stomach, still panting. Then he was charging Natalie, body ducked low, aiming for the legs, as Joe and Alex, recognizing the opportunity, went high.
The gun: Boom, boom, boom.
Then Natalie was screaming and falling backwards and Joe was cursing and Alex was saying nothing at all.
Please speak. Please curse, please scream, please exclaim, D.D. willed with all of her heart. But nothing from Alex as Natalie went down, and the gun got kicked across the floor of the trailer, and D.D. on her hands and knees, resiliently tracked it down between labor pains.
She got the gun. Clutched it between her hands. Turned to kill the woman who’d harmed her Alex, except Alex was there, standing up, holding a kicking and squirming Natalie between him and Joe, while Donnie Bilger sat up before her, eyes opened, but dazed, as he held a hand to the blood on his forehead.
“She shot me,” he said.
“I’d help,” D.D. ground out, “but I think . . . maybe . . . I could use an ambulance.”
Alex, still standing, but going pale. “D.D?”
“Hey, Joe,” D.D. gasped, “think you can handle booking?”
“Been known to have some competence,” he answered.
“Oh, good. Hey, Alex, think you can handle becoming a father?”
“It’s too early!” he blurted out.
“Yeah. Not disagreeing. Oh, would you look at that. Breaking water . . . is just like breaking water.”
Donnie Bilger chose that moment to pass out cold.
D.D., however, remained absolutely, positively awake. As Boston police, then FBI agents flooded the scene. Natalie was stuffed into the back of a patrol car right about the same time D.D. was stuffed into the back of an ambulance.
Alex went with her, holding her hand and reminding both of them to breathe.
Six hours later, they named the baby Jack.
