DD Warren 00 - The 7th Month

trimester now, however, she felt great. She ate like a horse, had the energy of six people, and had even achieved the mysterious maternal glow mentioned in various baby books. Certainly, her short blond hair seemed thicker, curlier, and shinier. If she were a canine at Westminster, she was pretty sure she could win Best in Show.
    Which made her current work limitations all the more grating. Sure, early on she’d vomited a few times at a couple of different crime scenes. But she didn’t think the scene where the guy had blown off his own head with a shotgun should be held against her. Her squadmates Phil and Neil had brought her tapioca pudding for an entire week, just to rub it in. She’d saved each cup until her second trimester had brought an end to her nausea. Then she’d sat in front of Phil and Neil and calmly eaten every bite of brain pudding.
    Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren had her mojo back.
    The very next day, her boss had stuck her on desk duty. This is what motherhood did to the working detective. One moment, an invaluable member of the team. The next, a really fat paperweight.
    Whose boyfriend . . . partner . . . father of her child wanted her to move in with him.
    All she had to do was give Alex her answer. This morning. This afternoon. Anytime now.
    Then, at forty-one years of age, D.D. would complete her transition from active, single, workaholic Boston cop, to everyone else’s idea of domestic bliss.
    The nervous, frazzled, guilty-of-something guy in front her was looking better and better all the time.
    “So,” D.D. stated, jarring the man’s attention off her belly and back to her face. “I’ve told you mine. Now you tell me yours.” She pointed to her credentials, which included her name, and the nervous man got the hint.
    “Oh. Right. Don Bilger. Executive producer.” He fished around inside his jacket pocket, producing the previously identified roll of Tums, flushing slightly, then managing to extract a business card: “Call me Donnie.”
    D.D. accepted the offered card. She read:
Donnie B. Productions
, followed by an address, phone number, Facebook page, and even Twitter hashmark. The modern world, she thought, where businesses occupied social media, instead of the yellow pages.
    “What do you produce?” She set the card down on the counter between them.
    “Entertainment products. TV, movies, videos, that sort of thing.”
    D.D. nodded. She’d heard that Boston had become a hotbed of filming, from feature movies to cable cop shows. The new New York, she’d read. Move over,
NYPD
Blue.
Hello,
Rizzoli & Isles
. D.D. didn’t watch much TV or get out to many movies. Too busy being summoned to real crimes.
    “We need a cop,” Donnie was trying again. “For technical advice. We had one, but . . . he seems to have gone missing. So we need another one. Immediately. Tonight, in fact.”
    “You
lost
a cop?”
    “No, no, of course not. What I mean is . . . he went on vacation. Without calling and telling us. It happens in our line of work. Consulting is good money. People work a few days, get some fast cash, go have fun.”
    “How much fast cash did he get?”
    Don rattled off a number; D.D. sat up straighter. The minute the man had mentioned needing an expert and working in film productions, she couldn’t help but think of extra cash for the baby’s nursery. But the number Donnie B. had just rattled off was closer to the baby’s college fund.
    She eyed him with new interest as well as fresh 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