D.D. was a sap. Maybe it was hormones or a pregnant woman’s biological response to the father of her unborn child, but each time she saw Alex, her heart skipped a beat. Didn’t matter that it was nearly ten P.M., freezing-ass cold, and they stood outside a fake-fogged cemetery. She took in her man, his salt-and-pepper hair, trim build currently hunched beneath a charcoal gray wool coat, strong legs striding toward her, and she beamed like a giddy school girl, awaiting the star quarterback’s approach.
“I thought you said he was a teacher,” Joe said beside her. They remained next to D.D.’s car, where they could confer with Alex in private. It was dark here, the wind kicking up and delivering a knife-edged chill. Joe, wearing only a thin sports jacket, was shivering hard. D.D., carrying around her own private heater in the form of an incubating baby, felt great.
“Teaches crime scene management at the police academy,” D.D. supplied.
“He doesn’t look like a teacher.”
“He still likes to get out in the field. That’s how we met. Family annihilation. Husband took out three kids and his wife with a kitchen knife, before shooting himself point-blank in the head.”
Joe glanced sideways at her. “That’s your romantic first-meet story?”
D.D. rolled her eyes. “Fraud investigators. No stomach for real crime.”
Alex drew to a halt in front of them. He glanced at D.D. first, the warmth of his smile reaching his blue eyes. And she felt herself melt a little bit more. No lecture or whiff of censure that it was ten P.M. on D-Day and she still hadn’t given him an answer. Instead, she asked for help, he came. She smiled at him, and he beamed back with his entire body.
She was an idiot. Stubborn, foolish, but worse than all that, a scared ninny. When had Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren ever allowed herself to behave so cowardly? When had she ever tolerated fear?
Beside her, Joe cleared his throat. Belatedly, D.D. and Alex turned to him.
Alex stuck out a hand. “Alex Wilson.”
“Joe Thieriault,” the FBI agent said.
The men didn’t exchange titles or departments, given that in the dark it was difficult to know who else might be listening. They finished shaking hands, then Alex enveloped D.D. in a quick hug. “How are you feeling?” he murmured in her ear.
“Jazzed. Cranked up. Ready to rumble. Oh, and if anyone says anything about me possibly chasing a vampire through the cemetery . . . total exaggeration. Joe did all the heavy lifting, right Joe?”
“Right,” Joe agreed.
D.D. decided the federal agent was a good guy after all.
Quickly, she and Joe brought Alex up to speed. The idea of crime bosses using major film projects to launder money didn’t faze him the least. D.D. explained about Chaibongai’s murder, and movie producer Donnie Bilger’s prime suspect status. Alex had a couple of questions, then he was ready to go. Joe nodded his approval. D.D. got out her cell phone and arranged for Donnie to meet her back at his trailer. She’d never signed the initial contract, she reminded him. Of course, they should get that done.
Donnie had grumbled, but agreed to see her there.
Then D.D., Joe, and Alex climbed into D.D.’s car, and she drove them over to base camp.
This time of night, with just the dim parking lot lights illuminating the space, D.D. found the endless rows of twin white trailers to be eerie. Like a bad science experiment. Pod after pod after pod. She shivered as she pulled into the rear of the parking lot, then killed the car lights.
Five minutes later, the set van pulled up, and Donnie B. stepped out. He never glanced their way. Just climbed the metal step to his trailer, yanking open the door. One more minute, then D.D. looked over at Alex and nodded.
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
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?”
