skepticism. “Who was the cop? Boston PD?”
“Retired. Samuel Chaibongsai. Hung up his shield years ago, I’m told.”
D.D. didn’t recognize the name, but there were more than a couple of retired Boston cops running around. “What was Samuel doing for you?”
“We’re filming a crime drama,
Cover Your Eyes.
Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s about two detectives racing against the clock to catch a serial killer who’s returned from beyond the grave—”
“A dead serial killer?”
“That’s what everyone thinks, but it turns out that the body had been burned beyond recognition, meaning . . .”
“The serial killer faked his own death?”
“Exactly.” Talking about the movie, Donnie B. seemed to relax. The producer’s shoulders came down, his voice warmed up. “So, the murderer, the Gravestone Killer—”
“Because he’s from beyond the grave?”
“No, because he kills his victims by whacking them over the head with a piece of granite tombstone.”
“Of course.”
“He’s stalking pretty blond widows in Boston. They show up to mourn their loved ones, and he . . . well,
whack, whack
. But don’t worry,” Don added hastily, “the Boston detectives are on the case, and being the heroes of the movie—”
“They’ll send the Gravestone Killer back to the great beyond.”
The producer paused, stared at her. “Oh, I like that. Wait a minute. I’m going to write that down. May I use that? We might play with it a little . . .”
“Possibly. Keep talking about what you need, then we’ll establish terms.”
“Well, we’re shooting on a very tight deadline. And, of course, we want the movie to be as authentic as possible.”
“Hence death by tombstone.”
“So we prefer to have a police consultant on set. To assist our actors with those tiny little details only a cop would know.” Don’s voice warmed up again. “Think about any cop movie you’ve ever seen. What do they get wrong that sets your teeth on edge?”
“DNA test results in less than six months,” D.D. said immediately. “In real life, it takes several months, not to mention boatloads of budgets and reams of paperwork to get anything back from the lab. But in movies, TV shows, and crime novels it’s always DNA results in one chapter or less.”
“Exactly! As a technical consultant, you could assist with that kind of insider’s knowledge. Though, to be honest, in our movie the detectives get DNA evidence instantaneously by scanning the evidence with their state-of-the-art handheld forensic finders. The devices also work on fingerprints, blood spatter, and paint chips.”
D.D. frowned at him. “Ah, technically—”
“Tonight,” Donnie interrupted. “We shoot seven P.M. to seven A.M. It’s the graveyard sequence, absolutely critical to the plot. Show up, I’ll have the contract waiting. Per diem, plus expenses, plus all meals are provided. Wear a warm coat.”
Donnie didn’t wait for her reply. He picked up his business card, scrawled an address on the back and replaced it on the counter.
Most likely confident that no one, absolutely no one, turned down that kind of money, the movie producer pivoted on his heels and left.
D.D. looked at the card, then glanced at her watch. One fifteen P.M. She should call Alex, figure out the rest of her life, probably eat a Kit Kat.
Or . . .
She picked up the card, made a couple of calls, and with her boss’s blessing, formulated her evening plans.
What kind of killer are you? Always a central question. The quiet, distant type, stepping out of the shadows to fire three to center mass? Or up close and personal? Perhaps you’ve always been secretly turned on by the way light winks across a freshly sharpened blade.
Will you approach your victim first? Engage in casual conversation, lowering her guard even as you lure her into your web? Or will you strike out of nowhere—hard, fast, fierce?
Finally, will you linger, watching the last spark
“Retired. Samuel Chaibongsai. Hung up his shield years ago, I’m told.”
D.D. didn’t recognize the name, but there were more than a couple of retired Boston cops running around. “What was Samuel doing for you?”
“We’re filming a crime drama,
Cover Your Eyes.
Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s about two detectives racing against the clock to catch a serial killer who’s returned from beyond the grave—”
“A dead serial killer?”
“That’s what everyone thinks, but it turns out that the body had been burned beyond recognition, meaning . . .”
“The serial killer faked his own death?”
“Exactly.” Talking about the movie, Donnie B. seemed to relax. The producer’s shoulders came down, his voice warmed up. “So, the murderer, the Gravestone Killer—”
“Because he’s from beyond the grave?”
“No, because he kills his victims by whacking them over the head with a piece of granite tombstone.”
“Of course.”
“He’s stalking pretty blond widows in Boston. They show up to mourn their loved ones, and he . . . well,
whack, whack
. But don’t worry,” Don added hastily, “the Boston detectives are on the case, and being the heroes of the movie—”
“They’ll send the Gravestone Killer back to the great beyond.”
The producer paused, stared at her. “Oh, I like that. Wait a minute. I’m going to write that down. May I use that? We might play with it a little . . .”
“Possibly. Keep talking about what you need, then we’ll establish terms.”
“Well, we’re shooting on a very tight deadline. And, of course, we want the movie to be as authentic as possible.”
“Hence death by tombstone.”
“So we prefer to have a police consultant on set. To assist our actors with those tiny little details only a cop would know.” Don’s voice warmed up again. “Think about any cop movie you’ve ever seen. What do they get wrong that sets your teeth on edge?”
“DNA test results in less than six months,” D.D. said immediately. “In real life, it takes several months, not to mention boatloads of budgets and reams of paperwork to get anything back from the lab. But in movies, TV shows, and crime novels it’s always DNA results in one chapter or less.”
“Exactly! As a technical consultant, you could assist with that kind of insider’s knowledge. Though, to be honest, in our movie the detectives get DNA evidence instantaneously by scanning the evidence with their state-of-the-art handheld forensic finders. The devices also work on fingerprints, blood spatter, and paint chips.”
D.D. frowned at him. “Ah, technically—”
“Tonight,” Donnie interrupted. “We shoot seven P.M. to seven A.M. It’s the graveyard sequence, absolutely critical to the plot. Show up, I’ll have the contract waiting. Per diem, plus expenses, plus all meals are provided. Wear a warm coat.”
Donnie didn’t wait for her reply. He picked up his business card, scrawled an address on the back and replaced it on the counter.
Most likely confident that no one, absolutely no one, turned down that kind of money, the movie producer pivoted on his heels and left.
D.D. looked at the card, then glanced at her watch. One fifteen P.M. She should call Alex, figure out the rest of her life, probably eat a Kit Kat.
Or . . .
She picked up the card, made a couple of calls, and with her boss’s blessing, formulated her evening plans.
What kind of killer are you? Always a central question. The quiet, distant type, stepping out of the shadows to fire three to center mass? Or up close and personal? Perhaps you’ve always been secretly turned on by the way light winks across a freshly sharpened blade.
Will you approach your victim first? Engage in casual conversation, lowering her guard even as you lure her into your web? Or will you strike out of nowhere—hard, fast, fierce?
Finally, will you linger, watching the last spark
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