DD Warren 00 - The 7th Month Read Free Page A

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.
    Don produced a twenty-page contract from the top of the table, then a pen. D.D. started skimming.
    “Have you heard from your other cop, yet?” she asked casually. “Chaibongsai.”
    “No,” Don said. He bent over the table, shuffling more piles of paper. He seemed intent on keeping busy.
    “When’d you last see him?”
    “He was on set the day before yesterday. We shot daytime scenes in a local office building that we’ve turned into police headquarters.”
    “How’d he look?” D.D. asked. She stopped skimming the contract. Watched Don.
    “I don’t know. How does someone look?” Don was definitely turned away from her now, shoulders rounded, gaze averted.
    “He interact with the cast and crew?”
    “I guess so. Samuel usually sat at video village—”
    “Video village?”
    “The bank of monitors where you can see what’s being filmed. His job was to look for mistakes. For example, he’d point out that a real cop wouldn’t stand that way, exposing his gun to a suspect. When the director yelled cut, he’d glance at Samuel. If Samuel saw any issues, he’d say so, then have a one-on-one with the actor. Otherwise, filming would continue.”
    “He have any one-on-ones his last day?”
    “Couple.”
    “What about?”
    “I don’t know. He talked to the director, then to Gary, not me.”
    “Gary?”
    “Gary Masters, our