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?”
“He 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
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.”
Chapter 3
