Lisa Gardner: The 7th Month

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.”

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.