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.
She rubbed her belly, tried to encourage the tight bands of muscle to relax. Long day, leading to a longer night. When she’d finally mustered the courage to call and talk to Alex, he hadn’t been wild about her decision to pull an all-nighter on a film set. In his opinion, she should be taking things easy, curling up on the sofa with her feet on a pillow.
Another reason for her to move in with him, she’d thought, but hadn’t said. So he could “take care of her”? Monitor her every move, give her plenty of superior male advice? Almost immediately, however, she’d recognized those thoughts as her baggage, not his. In the nearly year they’d been together, Alex had never been anything but patient and understanding of her various foibles. Even this afternoon, he hadn’t brought up the question or pressured her for an answer.
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.”
