Chapter 5
Filming was delayed an hour. The fake tombstone had suffered damage from the actor wannabe’s fake ax and was in need of repair. Natalie had to return to makeup for a complete do over, not to mention a stiff drink. And given all that had just happened, the director had come to an exciting conclusion: The Gravestone Killer would now be a vampire.
“Very hot, very happening,” the director declared. “Trends solidly with our target demographic of eighteen- to twenty-six-year-olds. Not to mention, a werewolf would involve new casting.”
The director left to consult with the Gravestone Killer actor, Mark Smerznak, on his new role. Mark had just made it to set, arriving two hours late as apparently his day job at a local restaurant had gone into overtime. Donnie had pounced on the actor and whisked him away to makeup, where he had entered as a tired-looking bartender, and would emerge as a vampiric serial killer.
In the meantime, D.D. and Joe had plenty of time to talk. She led him out of the cemetery, away from the chaos, to the relative privacy of her parked Crown Vic. They stood beside it, alone in a pool of darkness between streetlights, where D.D. stopped using her nice voice and got straight down to business.
“Who?” she said, jamming a finger into his chest.
“Joe Thieriault, FBI.” He smiled, still charming, but also sheepish.
“Why?”
“What do you know about movie financing?”
“Nada.”
“Well, movies cost money. Anywhere from a couple mil for the going-straight-to-video production to hundreds of millions for feature films starring A-list actors. Cruise, Pitt, Depp.”
“Brad Pitt’s not on set.”
“Exactly.
“You said you were FBI, not IRS.”
“Yeah, because IRS handles tax fraud, whereas FBI handles money laundering.”
D.D. stared at him a moment. “The movie is a front. It’s not what’s being filmed; it’s how it’s being funded.”
“Exactly. Boston has a long history of being home to the finest crime families. From Irish gangs to Italian mobs to transplanted Russian oligarchs, we attract only the most ruthless criminal masterminds. And powerful crime lords have a tendency to be very smart. Meaning, they understand modern banking, and the imperative to make bad money good. Hence, filmmaking.”
“How?” D.D. asked, genuinely puzzled. She was a homicide detective, not a fraud investigator.
“It’s a paper game, really. Say you’re Crime Boss A, and you have two million in illegal gains you’d like to make legal gains. You pretend to “loan” half a million to a major producer to finance a film. The film will then earn one point five million dollars in legal profit, even if it never sells a single ticket. Basically, Crime Boss A hands over two million in illegitimate funds, in order to get back one point five in ‘real profit.’”
D.D. had to think about it. “Crime Boss ‘donates’ two million dollars; half a million goes to the film as an investment expense, one point five million is eventually returned to him as a legal gain—his own money, once dirty, now cleaned up as the earnings of a reputable business enterprise. What happens to the half a million paid to the movie?”
“It goes into the movie producer’s biz as a legitimate investment, which the producer can then skim, waste, manage wisely, whatever. And business profits abound.”
D.D. was still frowning. “But how can anyone guarantee the movie makes money? I mean, if a film costs twenty million to make, and never sells a single ticket, won’t the IRS question the one point five million paid to the gangster as a return on investment?”
“Notice Donnie’s wound a little tight?”
“Noticed.”
“That’s because guaranteeing profit would be his job. He has two issues, really. One, he needs to be putting together a paper trail so convincing no IRS auditor will ever question Crime Boss A’s great business savvy. Two, as the person directly laundering the money, Donnie needs to make sure he doesn’t, say, lose any socks in the dryer.”
D.D.’s eyes rounded. “No way!”
“Foxwoods. Bad round of blackjack. For about a month straight. You’d think Donnie B. would know when to walk away.”
“He gambled away a crime lord’s dirty money?”
“About a quarter of a million dollars, according to sources.”
“Whose?”
“Andreas Chernkoff.”
D.D.’s eyes rounded further. She’d heard of Chernkoff, or the Chernobyl of the North, as he liked to be called. He’d arrived in Boston eight years back, intent on conquering new territory, while expanding his empire from caviar and vodka into high-end call girls and cocaine. He liked to say that local investigators were jealous of his car collection. Local investigators were mostly jealous they couldn’t pin a thing to a man who routinely thumbed his nose in their direction.
“Doesn’t he have a reputation for cutting off ears?” D.D. asked now.
“And big toes,” Joe said. “I don’t think Donnie is sleeping well at night.”
D.D. thought about the producer’s obvious nerves, which now made sense.
“Who knows about all this? I mean, there are a hundred and four people running around this movie set. Are we talking half real movie biz, half plants, what?”
“Oh all movie biz. Director is legit, actors legit, crew legit. A real movie is being made based on a real script and financed by some real investors. Just not all law-abiding investors. Donnie, as the executive producer, is the money man. From what I can tell, he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Probably was approached by one of Chernkoff’s financial minions and offered a staggering sum to finance his latest project. Being a short-term thinker, Donnie said yes. Later, the fine print probably became clearer to him. Including the risk to not only his professional reputation but also his ability to remain among the living.”
“Donnie’s pretty desperate?”
