“Oh. Right. Don Bilger. Executive producer.” He fished around inside his jacket pocket, producing the previously identified roll of Tums, flushing slightly, then managing to extract a business card: “Call me Donnie.”
D.D. accepted the offered card. She read: Donnie B. Productions, followed by an address, phone number, Facebook page, and even Twitter hashmark. The modern world, she thought, where businesses occupied social media, instead of the yellow pages.
“What do you produce?” She set the card down on the counter between them.
“Entertainment products. TV, movies, videos, that sort of thing.”
D.D. nodded. She’d heard that Boston had become a hotbed of filming, from feature movies to cable cop shows. The new New York, she’d read. Move over, NYPD Blue. Hello, Rizzoli & Isles. D.D. didn’t watch much TV or get out to many movies. Too busy being summoned to real crimes.
“We need a cop,” Donnie was trying again. “For technical advice. We had one, but . . . he seems to have gone missing. So we need another one. Immediately. Tonight, in fact.”
“You lost a cop?”
“No, no, of course not. What I mean is . . . he went on vacation. Without calling and telling us. It happens in our line of work. Consulting is good money. People work a few days, get some fast cash, go have fun.”
“How much fast cash did he get?”
Don rattled off a number; D.D. sat up straighter. The minute the man had mentioned needing an expert and working in film productions, she couldn’t help but think of extra cash for the baby’s nursery. But the number Donnie B. had just rattled off was closer to the baby’s college fund.
She eyed him with new interest as well as fresh skepticism. “Who was the cop? Boston PD?”
“Retired. Samuel Chaibongsai. Hung up his shield years ago, I’m told.”
D.D. didn’t recognize the name, but there were more than a couple of retired Boston cops running around. “What was Samuel doing for you?”
“We’re filming a crime drama, Cover Your Eyes. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s about two detectives racing against the clock to catch a serial killer who’s returned from beyond the grave—”
“A dead serial killer?”
“That’s what everyone thinks, but it turns out that the body had been burned beyond recognition, meaning . . .”
“The serial killer faked his own death?”
“Exactly.” Talking about the movie, Donnie B. seemed to relax. The producer’s shoulders came down, his voice warmed up. “So, the murderer, the Gravestone Killer—”
“Because he’s from beyond the grave?”
“No, because he kills his victims by whacking them over the head with a piece of granite tombstone.”
“Of course.”
“He’s stalking pretty blond widows in Boston. They show up to mourn their loved ones, and he . . . well, whack, whack. But don’t worry,” Don added hastily, “the Boston detectives are on the case, and being the heroes of the movie—”
“They’ll send the Gravestone Killer back to the great beyond.”
The producer paused, stared at her. “Oh, I like that. Wait a minute. I’m going to write that down. May I use that? We might play with it a little . . .”
“Possibly. Keep talking about what you need, then we’ll establish terms.”
“Well, we’re shooting on a very tight deadline. And, of course, we want the movie to be as authentic as possible.”
“Hence death by tombstone.”
“So we prefer to have a police consultant on set. To assist our actors with those tiny little details only a cop would know.” Don’s voice warmed up again. “Think about any cop movie you’ve ever seen. What do they get wrong that sets your teeth on edge?”
“DNA test results in less than six months,” D.D. said immediately. “In real life, it takes several months, not to mention boatloads of budgets and reams of paperwork to get anything back from the lab. But in movies, TV shows, and crime novels it’s always DNA results in one chapter or less.”
“Exactly! As a technical consultant, you could assist with that kind of insider’s knowledge. Though, to be honest, in our movie the detectives get DNA evidence instantaneously by scanning the evidence with their state-of-the-art handheld forensic finders. The devices also work on fingerprints, blood spatter, and paint chips.”
D.D. frowned at him. “Ah, technically—”
“Tonight,” Donnie interrupted. “We shoot seven P.M. to seven A.M. It’s the graveyard sequence, absolutely critical to the plot. Show up, I’ll have the contract waiting. Per diem, plus expenses, plus all meals are provided. Wear a warm coat.”
Donnie didn’t wait for her reply. He picked up his business card, scrawled an address on the back and replaced it on the counter.
Most likely confident that no one, absolutely no one, turned down that kind of money, the movie producer pivoted on his heels and left.
D.D. looked at the card, then glanced at her watch. One fifteen P.M. She should call Alex, figure out the rest of her life, probably eat a Kit Kat.
Or . . .
She picked up the card, made a couple of calls, and with her boss’s blessing, formulated her evening plans.
What kind of killer are you? Always a central question. The quiet, distant type, stepping out of the shadows to fire three to center mass? Or up close and personal? Perhaps you’ve always been secretly turned on by the way light winks across a freshly sharpened blade.
Will you approach your victim first? Engage in casual conversation, lowering her guard even as you lure her into your web? Or will you strike out of nowhere—hard, fast, fierce?
Finally, will you linger, watching the last spark of life leave your victim’s eye, feeling the whisper of her final, gasping scream? Or is this a clinical operation—in, out, done? Nothing personal, simply a matter of business. Take a small memento of the event, then be done with her. Destroy. Walk away. Never look back.
Select your preferred methodology. This is step two.
Chapter 2
D.D.’s cell phone rang just as she was pulling into Mattapan, an inner-city neighborhood in Boston, known for its stately triple-decker houses and on-again, off-again drug wars. The call was from her boss, Deputy Superintendent of Homicide Cal Horgan. He had news regarding Samuel Chaibongsai, and it wasn’t good. Horgan asked her a couple of questions. She asked him a couple more. He informed her she should feel free to change her evening plans, return home, wash her hands of the movie biz.
She informed him that was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. Knowing her as well as he did, he didn’t take offense.
They worked out a few more details, the call ended, and fittingly enough, D.D. arrived at the film location: a large sprawling cemetery she already knew better than she’d like. Several years ago, she’d worked a major case on the grounds of an abandoned mental institute just across the street from this cemetery. A couple of drunk kids had managed to tumble into an underground pit that held six mummified remains. At first glance, she’d wondered if the bodies weren’t the handiwork of a serial killer she and her then-partner, State Detective Bobby Dodge, had presumed dead.
Now, six thirty P.M., well after dark in November, D.D. parked her Crown Vic, got out, and stretched her lower back. In the past week or so, she was noticing more minor pains, some small episodes of shortness of breath. Probably because she had a fairly decent-sized life-form hanging off her spine, pummeling her lungs, playing soccer with her bladder. The usual baby games.