Lisa Gardner - The 7th Month

“Look, maybe I haven’t had a major break, but there haven’t been any issues, either. I mean, not before tonight, and well, the discovery of Chaibongsai’s body. Shit.” Joe suddenly raked his hand through his hair. “This is getting out of hand. Whatever’s going on, with the funding, laundering, Donnie Bilger. If this is step one, it’s only going to get worse.”

“Time to rattle the cage,” D.D. declared.

“What cage?”

“Donnie’s, of course.”

“How? With what? We still don’t know anything.”

“Ah, but I know someone who knows something.” D.D. whipped out her cell phone. It was three minutes after nine. Meaning Alex was done teaching his class and ready to head to Mattapan.

“What do you know about blood spatter?” she asked federal agent Joe Thieriault.

“Nothing.”

“Then wait till you meet the father of my child. You’re gonna love him. Better yet, by the time he’s done with Donnie Bilger, our producer friend won’t just talk, he’ll sing. Which gives us about twenty minutes to prepare for the show.”

For those who like to plan ahead, it’s always good to establish an alibi. I have two suggestions:

First, place a call right before approaching the target victim. You can choose a friend or family member, but a business relationship or associate will have more credibility when testifying later on the witness stand. Of course you’re calling from your cell phone, and you’ll want to keep the conversation brief to make it difficult to later pinpoint the geographic location of the call. Your goal is to establish tone of voice. You want to sound crisp, calm, controlled. Just another morning, afternoon, evening. That way, later, the associate can testify before a jury of your peers that during the time of the murder, you were in fact talking to him by phone. And no, you didn’t sound stressed out, anxious, frantic, enraged. You sounded A-okay normal. Juries like to hear these things. Because we all know murderers can’t be normal right? They can only be freaks with stooped shoulders, disfiguring scars, and the complete inability to make eye contact. That’s the kind of monster a jury wants to find guilty of murder. Not a charming, well-dressed, well-spoken person like you.

Now, if you don’t trust yourself enough to engage in a rational phone conversation in the minutes before engaging in murder, there is a second approach: Once you’ve incapacitated your victim, finish the deed while listening to the radio or watching TV in the victim’s own bedroom/car/office/motel room. Later, when the police question you, you can say you were at home watching TV or listening to the radio. The cops, of course, will demand to know what channel, which show, what songs, peppering you with questions in hopes of tripping you up. Either you will fail to provide enough specific information or, later, when they cross-reference your answers with the local TV guide or radio playlists for that date or time, they will be able to prove you lied. You, of course, will have plenty of accurate details to supply. “Why, I was watching The Simpsons on Fox… You know, the episode where Homer tries to strangle Bart.”

It’s tending these little details that enables one to get away with murder. Carefully consider what must be done before, during, and after the killing. Plan accordingly.

Concoct an alibi. This is step six.

D.D. was a sap. Maybe it was hormones or a pregnant woman’s biological response to the father of her unborn child, but each time she saw Alex, her heart skipped a beat. Didn’t matter that it was nearly ten P.M., freezing-ass cold, and they stood outside a fake-fogged cemetery. She took in her man, his salt-and-pepper hair, trim build currently hunched beneath a charcoal gray wool coat, strong legs striding toward her, and she beamed like a giddy school girl, awaiting the star quarterback’s approach.

“I thought you said he was a teacher,” Joe said beside her. They remained next to D.D.’s car, where they could confer with Alex in private. It was dark here, the wind kicking up and delivering a knife-edged chill. Joe, wearing only a thin sports jacket, was shivering hard. D.D., carrying around her own private heater in the form of an incubating baby, felt great.

“Teaches crime scene management at the police academy,” D.D. supplied.

“He doesn’t look like a teacher.”

“He still likes to get out in the field. That’s how we met. Family annihilation. Husband took out three kids and his wife with a kitchen knife, before shooting himself point-blank in the head.”

Joe glanced sideways at her. “That’s your romantic first-meet story?”

D.D. rolled her eyes. “Fraud investigators. No stomach for real crime.”

Alex drew to a halt in front of them. He glanced at D.D. first, the warmth of his smile reaching his blue eyes. And she felt herself melt a little bit more. No lecture or whiff of censure that it was ten P.M. on D-Day and she still hadn’t given him an answer. Instead, she asked for help, he came. She smiled at him, and he beamed back with his entire body.

She was an idiot. Stubborn, foolish, but worse than all that, a scared ninny. When had Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren ever allowed herself to behave so cowardly? When had she ever tolerated fear?

Beside her, Joe cleared his throat. Belatedly, D.D. and Alex turned to him.

Alex stuck out a hand. “Alex Wilson.”

“Joe Thieriault,” the FBI agent said.

The men didn’t exchange titles or departments, given that in the dark it was difficult to know who else might be listening. They finished shaking hands, then Alex enveloped D.D. in a quick hug. “How are you feeling?” he murmured in her ear.

“Jazzed. Cranked up. Ready to rumble. Oh, and if anyone says anything about me possibly chasing a vampire through the cemetery… total exaggeration. Joe did all the heavy lifting, right Joe?”

“Right,” Joe agreed.

D.D. decided the federal agent was a good guy after all.

Quickly, she and Joe brought Alex up to speed. The idea of crime bosses using major film projects to launder money didn’t faze him the least. D.D. explained about Chaibongai’s murder, and movie producer Donnie Bilger’s prime suspect status. Alex had a couple of questions, then he was ready to go. Joe nodded his approval. D.D. got out her cell phone and arranged for Donnie to meet her back at his trailer. She’d never signed the initial contract, she reminded him. Of course, they should get that done.

Donnie had grumbled, but agreed to see her there.

Then D.D., Joe, and Alex climbed into D.D.’s car, and she drove them over to base camp.

This time of night, with just the dim parking lot lights illuminating the space, D.D. found the endless rows of twin white trailers to be eerie. Like a bad science experiment. Pod after pod after pod. She shivered as she pulled into the rear of the parking lot, then killed the car lights.

Five minutes later, the set van pulled up, and Donnie B. stepped out. He never glanced their way. Just climbed the metal step to his trailer, yanking open the door. One more minute, then D.D. looked over at Alex and nodded.

D.D. and Joe went first. D.D. rapped three times hard on the trailer door.

Don opened it almost immediately, nodding at her, frowning at Joe.

“Just escorting a pretty lady,” Joe said easily. “Didn’t want her to walk over alone, you know.”

“You walked over,” Don exclaimed, the idea of a pregnant woman using her own two feet distracting him.

D.D. smiled at him, then pushed her way in, Joe following quickly behind her. Door closed, then the three of them stood in a space designed for six people max. Given the rounded bulk of D.D.’s stomach, it made for tight quarters.