Lisa Gardner - The 7th Month

D.D. and Joe had led him back to the set to discover the crew in disarray, Natalie unharmed but in hysterics, and the director studying the outtakes to see if any of them might be usable.

“I mean, I was busy the day of the audition,” the twenty-year-old continued to whine/lisp, “and my schedule’s lousy anyway for callbacks. So Rhonda said I should sneak in, show you what I can do.” Will glanced at the director, Ron LaFavre, his gaze hopeful. At some point during the tousle, probably when Joe Talte had body slammed him, Will had bit his lip with his prosthetic fangs. The blood smeared on his chin lent a nice touch to his costume.

“A vampire?” the director said.

“Well sure. Vampires are hot, you know. Exactly what you need to make this movie pop. Anyone can be a Gravestone Killer. A vampire, on the other hand, really rocks. Besides,” Will added belatedly, trying to scratch at his leg with his tied hands, “my werewolf costume’s at the cleaners.”

“A vampire,” the director said.

“How’d you get in the cemetery?” D.D. wanted to know.

“Backside. There’s a hole in the fence. Most of the locals know about it.”

“When’d you enter?”

“Shortly after six, before the grounds got too busy. I made a little shelter by a row of bushes. Been hanging out in my sleeping bag for hours, you know, just trying to stay warm until it was time for action.”

“How did you know it was time for action?”

“Heard the director yell action.” Will looked at D.D. as if she were an idiot. “It’s a cemetery. Sounds travels.”

D.D. frowned at him. “What about the real Gravestone Killer?” she asked him.

“What about the real killer?” the kid said.

“Did you see him? Maybe interfere with his ability to show up on set?” D.D. looked around the green room, at the director, who had a faraway look on his face; at Donnie Bilger, who was clutching a cup of coffee for dear life; and at Joe Talte, who’d asserted himself into the situation with such authority, no one even questioned his right to be here. “Isn’t the Gravestone Killer part of the scenes on the schedule tonight? Has anyone seen him?”

“A vampire,” the director said again.

Don was frowning, looking at Joe as if he would know.

“Haven’t seen him around,” Joe muttered. “Mark Smerznak is his name. And yeah, he should be here.”

“I’ll have a PA check his trailer,” Donnie said, already sliding out his cell phone and exiting the green room.

No sooner had the producer exited than Natalie came striding in. D.D. gave the blonde credit. She had her chin up, her hair tossed back, and man, could she cover ground in three-inch heels.

Natalie marched straight up to the vampire-costumed kid, and without looking at the director, the security guard, D.D., or Joe, slapped the kid hard across the face. Kid rocked back. When he righted himself, he had a fresh drop of blood on his split lip.

Natalie spat, said a word which needed no translation, then sailed grandly back out of the green room.

“Well,” D.D. said.

“A good actress knows how to exit,” Joe agreed.

The kid shook it off. He returned his attention to the director. “So… did I get the part?”

Ron Lafavre stood. He ignored Will, addressing the security guard instead. “Toss him. And don’t let the gate hit his ass on the way out.”

Then Ron turned to D.D. and Joe. “A vampire!” he declared, and strode from the tent. He was quickly followed by the security guard, dragging a dejected kid in his wake.

“Stupid girlfriend,” Will muttered.

“Stupid you,” the security guard corrected.

The tent flap closed. Only D.D. and Joe remained.

D.D. took a seat.

Joe took a seat.

“Is it just me,” she asked, “or all movie people crazy?”

“Movie people are crazy.”

She nodded. Made sense. She sat back, rubbed the sides of her aching belly. Then she said, “So, how long you been a cop?”

Of course, killing only takes so long. Sooner or later, the deed is done. Maybe you’re exultant, cranked up on power and adrenaline. Maybe you’re eerily calm. You once had a problem. Now, you don’t.

There remains, however, a key issue before you: What to do with the body? Leave it in the open, risking the discovery of any evidence you unwittingly transferred? Or dispose of the remains in some manner that buys you time, perhaps even calls into question that a homicide has occurred? The “missing wife” versus the murdered spouse. While this undoubtedly sounds like a safer strategy, moving a body involves its own dangers, including the risk of being spotted by witnesses, let alone transferring yet more evidence.

In the end, it boils down to a question of style as well as logistics. First, are you proud of your handiwork? Would you like the world to see? Or are you an immediate prime suspect, meaning confusing the issue for as long as possible is clearly to your advantage. Second, do you even have the means to transport a body? Deadweight, as the saying goes, is surprisingly difficult to lift or carry. If the body is bigger than you, disposal may involve a chain saw and a bath tub, which is not for the faint at heart.

Think. Consider. Weigh risk versus rewards.

Then, make arrangements for disposing or exposing the body. This is step five.

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. Cover Your Eyes is a nice modest twenty-million dollar affair. Big-budget enough to have some cool special effects, low-budget enough to retain campy charm, but better yet, remain a credible financial vehicle in the eyes of tax officials. That’s what this is really about.”

“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.”