Final Cut

by Colin Campbell

  Titanic Productions had taken all the rooms on the right side of the compound—half the motel. Location Services occupied the rest. The makeup trailer was parked in the far corner. Several flatbed trucks for transporting lighting equipment and dolly tracks were pulled in close beside it. There was no location catering. Camera equipment and film stock were stored in a shipping container next to the motel. There was only one way in and out. McNulty was watching that one way. Stakeout.

  His mind wandered back to the last stakeout he’d been on, but once again he pushed the memories aside. The waters of Quincy Bay whispered up the beach across the road. Gentle waves broke all the way along the shoreline, threatening to lull McNulty into a false sense of security. The night was quiet. Traffic along the road was light and sporadic. There were no distractions. Nothing to take his eyes away from the lights of the motel or the darkness in the compound. Typical stakeout conditions. Warmer than the last time he’d done this. He stopped fighting it as his mind once again returned to the memory of his last stakeout...

  McNulty sat in his car outside The Golden Touch massage parlor, wondering just how many bad decisions had led him to this point in his life—the point where only his past made him eligible to change the future. It was cold and clear and windless. Along the street the leaves had dropped, and the only things left were naked branches of lonely trees. McNulty touched the tattoo on his neck: naked dead branches reaching across the gothic house of his childhood. Across the road the discreet sign above the front door could have been a hairdresser’s, or that of a beauty parlor. Maybe a Chinese takeaway. The Golden Touch.

  What goes around comes around. It felt strange that the place he’d been thrown out of was the place chosen for his triumphant return. The car windows steamed up and he turned the fan to demist. The Astra pumped exhaust fumes into the night, the only sign that the engine was still running. This was like a hundred stakeouts at a hundred locations; the only things missing were a thermos of coffee and a bag of sandwiches. Stakeout. Another Americanism, right up there with “once a cop always a cop.” More appropriate than doing covert obs, or undercover surveillance but for a different reason. This wasn’t a stakeout. McNulty was being staked out. Bait to tempt the predator.

  A light came on in the top right-hand motel room. Amy’s room. The light snapped McNulty back to the present, but his mind wouldn’t let go of the past—the massages he’d enjoyed at the Northern X chain of parlors under the pretext of trying to still feel like an undercover cop. The women had been seasoned professionals, corrupted by a life of vice, but before that they’d been innocent young girls. Like the ones Telfon Speed recruited for his private men’s club. Very young. Too young.

  McNulty felt shame wash over him once again. He hadn’t used the young girls, but his patronage meant he’d helped finance them. The result of the stakeout had been well documented in the British press. The consequences to himself were private and buried deep. He touched the tattoo on the side of his neck. Crag View Orphanage. It may have all started there, but his quest was a long way from over.

  He thought about the girl who’d been slapped. The sister he hadn’t known he had. The girl whose records had been destroyed before he had finally learned the truth. The girl who’d been sold for adoption and grown up in America. How could he tell Amy Moore about those things when he hadn’t fully accepted them himself? No. He wasn’t ready for a nice girl yet.

  The sound of the ocean waves calmed him. He looked up at Amy’s room and wondered what she was doing. It was late but it wasn’t that late. He could climb the stairs and knock on her door. Ask her out for a drink. But he wouldn’t. He was on a stakeout. Okay, so it might only be about a few feet of stolen film, but it still felt like police work. Whatever else he did with his life he would always feel like that. Once a cop always a cop. Even when he was teaching actors how not to walk like a duck.

  Movement in the shadows snapped his eyes away from the motel. The compound was dark and poorly lit, another X in the security box for Blacks Creek Motel. Trees swayed in the coastal breeze. Waves swished ashore. The moon came out from behind scurrying clouds and bathed the parking lot in silver light.

  The movement stopped. Somewhere between the makeup trailer and the shipping container. McNulty glanced up at the sky. Stars glinted among rushing clouds. He avoided looking at the moon to preserve his night vision. Another bank of clouds was rolling in off the sea. He counted down from five. By the time he reached zero the moon had disappeared and the compound was plunged into darkness again.

  The figure was struggling. Carrying something that was too heavy or too awkward to manage. The shape paused and adjusted its grip. Once it was satisfied it moved past the flatbed trucks toward the container. The moon came out again briefly then disappeared. There were no more gaps in the clouds.

  McNulty narrowed his eyes and focused on the compound. The motel became a vague shape in his peripheral vision. The parking lot and the entrance from Quincy Shore Drive weren’t even there. That’s why he didn’t see the two men crossing the grass until the car door was yanked open and a flashlight was shone in his face.

  SIX

  “I’ve got my eyes open this time. Want to try that again?”

  McNulty looked up at Robber Number Two but didn’t get out of the car. He relaxed in the driver’s seat like he was lounging at home, turned sideways with one arm across the back of the seat.

  “I was right about not rubbing them though, wasn’t I?”

  Number Two stood tall beside the open door. Last time it had been the other way around, McNulty standing over the bit-part actor in the makeup chair. He still didn’t know how tall he really was. He didn’t want to get out of the car to find out. Any chance at defusing the situation was reliant on not escalating the confrontation. If he stood up, he was going to deck this fucker. End of story.

  The silhouette loomed over the car door.

  “You were right about being replaceable, too. They fired me this afternoon. Rewrote the script so I’m not needed any more.”

  McNulty looked into the darkened face.

  “And you think that was me?”

  The shadow moved closer.

  “You’re the security guy. Who else would it be?”

  McNulty let out a sigh.

  “This is a movie circus. There’s nothing secret here. Minute you slapped the lady everyone knew about it.”

  Number Two puffed his chest out.

  “I bet they know what you did as well.”

  McNulty shrugged.

  “Not from me.”

  The shadow stepped aside, impatience huffing his breath.

  “You gonna talk all night or get out the car?”

  McNulty lowered his voice.

  “You don’t want me out the car.”

  Number Two played his trump card. He nodded toward the motel.

  “I can see why you got so upset now. What you trying to do? Catch a glimpse of her in the shower?”

  That was enough. McNulty shifted in his seat.

  “I can get Larry to rewrite it so Robber Number Two ends up in hospital.”

  He swung his legs out and stood up. “You want to play that scene?”

  The actor was tall, but McNulty shaded him by inches and outweighed him with muscle. The actor didn’t seem worried. He stepped back from the car and the single shadow turned into three.

  “You want to try?”

  Threes. Bullies always came in threes. Unless they felt big enough that they could intimidate their victims on sheer size alone. The actor wasn’t big enough, but his friends were. They were taller and broader than McNulty. Like facing two Jack Reachers for the price of one. McNulty was no Reacher. This was a fight he was going to lose.

  “And you think bringing the rock monsters’ll get your job back?”

  Number Two stood between and slightly in front of his backup. “Job’s gone. One thing you should know about the movie industry.” He hunched his shoul
ders, ready to charge. “Apart from above-the-line stars, the only people irreplaceable are the stagehands. Lugging all that equipment takes muscle. Try giving technical advice about that.”

  McNulty relaxed. “I can give you some tactical advice. Situation like this. Three on one.” He kept his arms loose and knees flexed. “It’s not a spearhead assault.”

  He indicated Number Two with a wave of the hand, just to get him used to a little movement without feeling threatened. “You know, your coming on ahead with your wingmen bringing up the rear.”

  He pointed at the two stagehands. “All coming from the same place.” He spread his arms to indicate the space on either side of him. “You want to get me from three sides.” Then he pointed both hands at Number Two. “Instead of you blocking their approach.”

  McNulty stepped forward quickly and slapped the actor twice across the face. The shock stunned him then McNulty slammed his knee up between the actor’s legs. The shadow doubled over and his legs collapsed. He went down hard, clutching his family jewels. What followed was a tangle of arms and legs that was still blocking the stagehands’ approach. To get at McNulty they’d have to separate. Divide and conquer. A tactic the Yorkshireman hadn’t mentioned. He waited to see which one would move first and was surprised when they both took a step backward. The voice came from the other side of the car.

  “I like the part about above-the-line star. That would be me.”

  Alfonse Bayard came out of the gloom, emerging from the motel. The stagehands weren’t afraid to tangle with the foreigner giving technical advice, but they didn’t want to cross the star of the show. Nobody spoke for a few moments. Waves washed up onto the beach across the road. Trees swayed in the breeze behind the motel. The sounds were calm but frightening, as if something bigger than all of them was a work—the wind monster or the tidal monster.

  McNulty sounded jaded. Tired. He nodded at the shape on the ground. “You’d better take him home.”

  The stagehands took an arm each and hoisted Number Two to his feet. The bit-part player moaned.

  McNulty smiled even though nobody could see in the dark. “Don’t rub them or wash them.”

  The trio retreated, giving McNulty a wide berth, then circled back around toward the motel. Alfonse skirted the car and stood beside his adviser. McNulty threw him a sideways glance. “That walk’s coming along nicely.”

  Alfonse shook his head. “Forget the walk. Show me that move again.”

  McNulty shut the car door and leaned on the roof. The compound was dark and motionless. Whoever had been skulking around in there was long gone. He turned to Alfonse and smiled. “It’s not in the script.”

  Alfonse shrugged. “I can get Larry to rewrite it.”

  McNulty glanced at the shipping container. “If there’s enough film.”

  Alfonse followed McNulty’s gaze. “Yes. I heard about that.”

  McNulty looked Alfonse in the eye. “Is nothing secret on a movie set?”

  Alfonse turned toward the motel. “I’ll tell you one thing I didn’t know.”

  The lights were on in Amy’s room and a shadow passed the window on the way to the shower; her silhouette behind the curtains left little to the imagination. She wasn’t wearing very much. All the motel rooms had the same layout. They both knew where she was going. The actor turned back to his mentor. “I didn’t have you down as a peeping tom.

  SEVEN

  The man in the shirt and tie and the well-pressed jacket didn’t knock on McNulty’s door or catch him having breakfast in the motel diner; he caught him halfway between. On the stairs back up to McNulty’s room. There were three staircases serving the upper floor, one next to the office, one at the far end near the compound, and one in the middle, splitting the motel into a north wing and a south wing. McNulty used the middle stairs. He was halfway up when he heard the footsteps behind him. Clipped hard footsteps. A man with studs in his shoes. McNulty only knew one man who had studs in his shoes. He stopped on the half-landing and turned to face the man coming up behind him.

  “You could have called. Saved yourself the journey.”

  Bob Marocco stood two steps down, leaning on the railing.

  “I thought it best to tell you personally.”

  That’s when McNulty knew it was bad news.

  “It wasn’t her.”

  Marocco didn’t believe in mincing words. The ex-cop turned private detective was being paid to get results, not build up to a narrative punchline. He’d served more years with the Boston PD than McNulty had in West Yorkshire and Maryland combined and knew better than to drag things out. Give the result first then fill in the gaps.

  They were sitting at a narrow table in McNulty’s room. Each had a bottled water from the refrigerator. Condensation ran down the sides and stained the tablecloth. Neither bottle had been opened.

  “Are you sure?”

  A stupid question but McNulty couldn’t help himself. Marocco was used to his clients not accepting the truth. It didn’t matter if you’d been a cop for twenty years, you still wanted the answer to be, “Yes, I’ve found your sister.”

  “As sure as I am it wasn’t the woman whose boyfriend you hit in Savage.”

  McNulty tapped the lid of his bottle. “That wasn’t my fault. He came at me.”

  Marocco stated the obvious: “Because you insisted his girlfriend was Susan McNulty.”

  “Because he was pushing her around.”

  “He lost two teeth and an earring.”

  “I lost my job.”

  Marocco picked up his bottle and unscrewed the lid. The plastic seal snapped. He took a cool drink then put the bottle down.

  “You lost your temper.”

  McNulty shrugged. “She fit the profile. I got it wrong.”

  Marocco kept his eyes on McNulty. “Well, you got it wrong again. This one didn’t fit either.”

  McNulty was clutching at straws. “The timing was right.”

  Marocco nodded. He recognized that McNulty needed leading through this. “She came to America during the same timeframe. Aged five. Adopted from an orphanage in the north of England. Crag View. That’s the only link. It wasn’t her.”

  McNulty saw a chink of light and went for it.

  “If she was there at the same time, she might have known Susan.”

  Marocco shook his head. “She didn’t. She knew about you, though. Everybody did. Breaking the headmaster’s nose got you noticed before you were expelled.”

  McNulty drummed his fingers on the table. “She was there after I left?”

  Marocco nodded again. “Couple of months.”

  “So she must have known the other girls adopted to America.”

  “She says there weren’t any. Between your Bible-bashing and her leaving.”

  “Is she sure?”

  Again with the stupid question. Sometimes when you’re clutching at straws it’s all you’ve got. Marocco sympathized and tried to soften the blow.

  “You must have heard the name. That’s why it sounded familiar when it came up. But without the papers.” He shrugged. Stating the obvious wasn’t helping but it prompted McNulty to state the obvious back.

  “Cruckshank destroyed the files when he knew I was looking.”

  Marocco humored him. “Round about the time you left?”

  McNulty accepted the lifeline. “Few years later. Social worker let slip I had a sister.” He gulped back the emotion the subject always engendered. “I didn’t know. When I was close to her.”

  Marocco was genuinely interested now.

  “She was the one Cruckshank slapped? In the office?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you saved her. At least that’s something.”

  McNulty looked the private detective in the eye.

  “But I forced Cruckshank’s hand. Shipped her out the first chance he got.”

  Marocco pieced the evidence together. “Except the first adoption was already set.”r />
  McNulty sounded tired. “That didn’t stop him though.”

  Marocco took another swig of water then screwed the lid back on. There were more questions than answers. That always frustrated him. Even when he’d been a Boston cop. Back in the day he could have made follow-up inquiries and interviewed the bully who’d sold the girls. He couldn’t do that now. There was no through line to follow. Crag View Orphanage had closed down more than twenty years ago amid accusations of child abuse. The staff had disappeared. Cruckshank had died not long thereafter. There was nobody left to ask.

  “I guess we’re lucky you got this far,” Marocco said.

  McNulty let out a sigh. He didn’t feel lucky. He felt like he’d been on a long trail to nowhere. The Northern X case had earned him some kudos back in the UK and opened several doors: Finding out his sister had been sold for adoption to America. Narrowing down the area to the northeast and bypassing immigration rules so he could join the Savage Police Department. It was the right neck of the woods but not the right girl. Woman now, he corrected himself. She’d been five to his ten back then. That would make her thirty-five today. It had been a long search leading to nothing. He was back to square one. He looked at Marocco.

  “What now?”

  Bob Marocco leaned back in his chair. This was the part he hadn’t wanted to explain over the phone. “Now we’re done.”

  McNulty sat up straight.

  “What do you mean? Done.”

  “I mean there’s nowhere else to go.”

  “Of course there is.”

  Marocco’s shoulders slumped. The worst thing about being a cop had always been giving bad news. Turned out it was the worst thing about being a PI as well. He tried to rationalize it for McNulty.