“You’ve done your best. You saved her from abuse. You got her out of Crag View. You broke that bastard’s nose. That’s all good.”
McNulty’s voice grew small. “But I lost her.”
Marocco pushed the chair away from the table. “You never had her.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Look. Nobody gets sold for adoption into a poor family. Anybody who can afford to buy a kid from across the Atlantic, they’re not gonna be short of a few dollars. She’s in a better place. You saved her. Be happy with that.”
McNulty didn’t look happy. Marocco tried one last thing.
“Think of it like this. She was five. It’s been thirty years. She might not remember the abuse. Do you really want to bring it back up?”
McNulty sat in silence after Marocco left. He fiddled with his water bottle. He took little sips. He unscrewed and re-screwed the lid. He needed to clear his mind, but his mind wouldn’t clear. After a few minutes he stood up and took out his iPhone. He tapped the music app and found the playlist he was looking for.
The motel room was quiet, but life continued outside. The day was only just beginning. A day in the life of a movie circus. Titanic Productions. McNulty would have to put his disappointment aside and join the circus soon. He needed a pick-me-up. Something loud and bombastic and upbeat.
He inserted the phone into the Bose sound dock beside the bed and turned the volume up. The base thumped out. The strident rhythm filled the room. The Magnificent Seven rode to McNulty’s rescue.
He stood in the middle of the room and conducted an invisible orchestra as the theme filled his head. He hummed along with the soundtrack then began to roar the bass notes. He felt the short hairs bristle on the back of his neck as the energy level filled him with hope. His mind transposed the search for his sister into a search for the stolen film stock, giving him focus and purpose and a distraction. The music built to a crescendo and he boomed out his accompaniment. He waved his arms and beat his chest and didn’t even realize he was crying.
EIGHT
Early morning sun helped burn off the mist that was hugging the shoreline and drifting off the lake behind Blacks Creek Motel. Quincy Shore Drive brightened and the trees on the hillside came into focus. The fog that was clinging to McNulty thinned but didn’t disappear. His head felt thick and heavy as he crossed the parking lot toward the compound.
“McNulty.”
The familiar voice called out as he opened the gate. Larry Unger stood in the production office door and waved McNulty over. McNulty glanced toward the shipping container. The door was open, and the crew were carrying equipment, ready for a change of location.
“Vince. Come here a minute.”
The producer rarely called him by his first name. It must be a favor or something personal. McNulty diverted his attention from the storage container and headed for the trailer that housed the temporary offices. Larry’s office was at the end of the corridor.
“Watch your head.”
McNulty ducked at the last second. The trailer had once been a site office with doors off either side of a corridor and a mailroom at the end that now served as Larry’s office. The doorway to his office was shorter than the other doorways and had a nailed-up mail slot. Whenever McNulty visited the producer, he usually stopped in to see the location manager first. By the time he reached Unger’s office, he often had forgotten about the mailroom door being shorter. Today was no exception. He banged his head on the doorjamb.
“Shit.”
He rubbed his forehead and blinked back the tears. The tears were only partly because of the doorjamb. He shook his head and wiped his eyes. Unger looked up at the six-three Yorkshireman.
“You see. Being a short round Jew has its benefits.”
McNulty flexed his neck. “I never called you a short round Jew.”
“You called me a tight little bastard.”
“I didn’t mention being Jewish.”
“Just suggested I didn’t know my father.”
McNulty tried not to make the obvious connection, but trying not to think of something just made him think of it more. His father, or the lack of one. What that conjured up was even more painful. His sister, or the lack of one. He shook his head clear and changed the subject.
“When you gonna get the door raised?”
Unger shrugged. “When I grow enough for it to be a problem.”
McNulty looked out of the window. The compound was a hive of activity. Location shooting was always busy. Getting people and equipment to different places was a logistical nightmare that could be avoided on a studio shoot. Titanic Productions didn’t have a studio. It was a think-on-your-feet outfit. The location today was down at the marina. McNulty had a few things to do before shooting began.
“What do you want, Larry?”
Unger glanced along the corridor behind McNulty, then got up and closed the door.
“I want to congratulate you.”
McNulty looked suspicious. “For what?”
Unger returned to his desk chair and held his hands out. “For sorting out the film problem.”
McNulty leaned against the door. “I did?”
Unger nodded. “It’s all been returned. Found it this morning.”
“Returned where?” “Back where it went from.”
McNulty looked out across the compound. “Who took it?”
Unger waved a hand then pointed two fingers at his own eyes. “Look at me. I don’t care. You scared it back. I doubt they’ll take it again.”
McNulty folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t like not knowing.”
Unger let out a sigh. “I know. It’s that cop thing. Well, you’re not a cop now. This is business. And we’re back on track.”
McNulty stared at the producer. “If they stole film, they can steal other stuff.”
“They won’t. So drop it.”
Unger sat behind his desk and pointed an accusing finger at McNulty.
“And stop showing Alfonse new moves. He wants me to rewrite the fucking script. What did you do last night?”
McNulty opened the door and ducked into the corridor. “I scared the film back.”
He closed the door before Unger could respond.
McNulty didn’t like unfinished business. It was one of the reasons he was so thorough as a cop. It was also the reason they’d retired him from the West Yorkshire Police. After slapping pencil-dicked Daniel Roach for kiddie-fiddling his baby sister and getting away with it. He didn’t get away with it with McNulty. The unfinished business back then finished McNulty’s police career, but at least Roach knew not to touch his sister again.
Brad Semenoff had already left for the location so the best person to ask was the director of photography. John F.K. Parenteau was Unger’s regular DOP. Everybody called him F.K. after he’d complained about being nicknamed JFK. Nobody could pronounce his surname. McNulty found him next to the camera truck.
“F.K? You got a minute?”
The DOP stepped away from the truck.
“What can I do for you, Vincent?”
McNulty guided the cinematographer around the front of the truck and away from the crew, who were busy loading it.
“I want to talk about film.”
Parenteau nodded. “The stock? Yes. It has all been returned.”
McNulty leaned against the radiator grill. “You got any idea who took it?”
He felt on safe ground asking the DOP. Without film in the camera Parenteau couldn’t do his job. The man responsible for putting the action on screen was the highest paid member of Unger’s film crew. As such he was the one least likely to be getting money on the side for stolen film.
F.K. shrugged. “I suspect everyone and trust no one. Isn’t that what you police say?”
“I’m not police. I’m security.”
“Same principle, though. No?”
“Yes. But you got any ideas?”
&nb
sp; Parenteau shook his head. “It could be anyone on the crew. They all have access. I have worked with most of these people for years. I see nothing to suggest…” He shrugged. “I don’t think any of them.”
McNulty waved a hand. “It’s one of them. Or somebody they know.”
He changed tack.
“I don’t know anything about film. Thirty-five millimeter. Not exactly home movie size. Who would be able to use it?”
Parenteau’s face went through a pantomime of expressions from smiling to concentration to frowning. He ended with another shrug.
“Not home movies. No. That would be eight-millimeter. Super 8. Most people use digital nowadays. You could film Gone With The Wind on your phone. Small film companies and TV sometimes use sixteen-millimeter.”
McNulty couldn’t imagine anyone being smaller than Titanic Productions. It was only the name that was big. The equipment was old or leased but definitely not state-of-the-art. A thought crossed his mind.
“Isn’t sixteen-millimeter just thirty-five millimeter cut in half? Could it be sold for that?”
Parenteau looked at McNulty as if he were an idiot.
“It is only the width that is halved. The frame dimensions are different, and the sprocket sizes don’t match. No. Whoever took it had access to a thirty-five millimeter camera.”
McNulty considered that. “Another film company then?”
Parenteau shook his head again. “Budgeting a movie includes making sure you have plenty of film. I doubt anyone is going to run out.”
McNulty repeated his Semenoff argument. “What about the Edward Burns effect. You know, like with The Brothers McMullen? An independent buying leftovers.”
Parenteau raised his eyebrows. “That was sixteen-millimeter.”
He indicated the narrow width between his thumb and forefinger then opened the gap. “Very unlikely with larger formats. If you can afford to hire a Panavision or Arriflex camera, you can get enough film.”
McNulty pushed off from the radiator grill.
“How many cameras have you got?”
That brought the DOP up short. He thought about his answer before speaking.
“We have two. But they are locked away overnight.”
McNulty raised his eyebrows.
“So is the film.”
Parenteau shook his head. “No, no, no. Nobody can sneak a camera off site without permission.”
“Maybe somebody’s got permission.”
“Who from?”
This time it was McNulty’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Larry’s renting equipment out for night shoots.”
Parenteau let out an exasperated laugh. “That is the most ridiculous thing.” He pointed at McNulty. “It was Larry who told you to stop the film theft.” Then he waved a hand toward the production office. “If he was renting out the cameras, then he would know who took the film.”
McNulty thought about Unger’s telling him to “drop it.”
“Yes, he would, wouldn’t he?”
Parenteau wagged a finger of admonishment. “No. That would be stupid. Why have you chase the film thief if Larry was renting him the camera?”
McNulty let out a sigh. “You’re right. Silly idea.”
He thanked the DOP for his help but couldn’t shake the thought that Larry Unger had seemed very insistent that McNulty not pursue the matter. He wondered about the consequences of threatening the camera-user. Put the price up, perhaps? Or something else? He didn’t have enough knowledge about the movie industry to make a deduction. It was just another angle to consider.
He glanced at his watch. He’d better get down to the marina before the film crew arrived. Liaising with the local police was another part of his job. The film thief would have to wait. The movie circus was about to roll. He left the compound and crossed the parking lot. His car was still where he’d left it last night.
NINE
Marina Bay was on Victory Road near Squantum Point, four miles north of Quincy center. To get there, McNulty drove all the way along Quincy Shore Drive from the motel, then turned right. It wasn’t so much a bay as an indentation in the headland between the Squantum Channel and the Neponset River. It was a marina though—ten jetties holding four hundred boats. McNulty wasn’t sure if calling them boats was insulting because some of them were big fuck-off boats. Yachts. Motor launches. Cabin cruisers. Whatever they were it was the ideal place for Titanic Productions to set up location shooting.
McNulty pulled into his designated spot in the parking lot. The location was a boat at Slip 10 on “C” Dock, on the opposite end of Marina Bay Boardwalk. There was also a long wooden commercial pier for pleasure cruises and fishing trips, all far enough away from the filming so they wouldn’t get in the way. “D” Dock gave them enough boats for background without shooting toward the commercial area. Kept the costs down. Less disruption for the local police to deal with. McNulty met the local police on “E” Dock, the main walkway that fed docks “A” through “D” and the fuel dock.
“How you doing? Thanks for coming out.”
Three uniform cops from Quincy PD stood watching preparations in the sun. The senior officer broke away from the group and shook McNulty’s hand.
“You kidding me? Double time on my day off? Half the force would snap your hand off.”
McNulty laughed. It was good to be among police officers again. He had fond memories of pulling overtime on his days off. Every cop’s dream. He waved a hand to indicate the jetty.
“You know what you’re doing?”
The old cop tapped his breast pocket.
“Got the call sheet this morning. Once you start filming, nobody along the waterfront between docks C and D. No traffic this end of the parking lot or the access road.”
McNulty nodded. “That’s great.” He pointed to a two-story building near the parking lot. “Catering’s at The Chantey. You got your vouchers?”
The cop patted his pocket again. “Free food. You know that works.”
McNulty gave a thumbs up to all three uniforms. “Once we’re set up, guy with a megaphone will tell you when to stop ’em for each shot. Thanks again.”
He crossed the walkway and leaned on the railing. The location manager and his assistants were removing posters and flyers from the lampposts that would be in the shot. Have-you-seen-my-dog and missing-person flyers. There were no party ads or personal-services photos. Management of the marina had standards. Anybody could lose a dog. Nobody owning an expensive boat wanted drug and alcohol posters defacing the area.
McNulty spotted Alfonse Bayard halfway along the jetty just beyond the arc lights and dolly track. Amy Moore was touching up his makeup even though they were a long way from ready to shoot. McNulty took a breath and shook his head clear. This was no time for his personal problems. It was time to go to work.
“Remember. Soft eyes. Not a hard stare at any one thing. Take everything in. You’re always looking for signs.”
Alfonse nodded, already getting into character. “Like the missing-person signs?”
McNulty let out a sigh. “Signs that something’s not right. Out of the ordinary. Trouble.”
Alfonse slapped his thigh. “Got it. Looking for trouble but not like you’re looking.”
McNulty nodded. “That’s right. Stay loose. Be ready.”
Alfonse took a deep breath. “Ready. Got it.”
McNulty wasn’t convinced that Alfonse had got anything. There was a vast improvement from the duck walk of yesterday but if he ever tried to arrest anyone, they were going to piss themselves laughing. It was a good thing this wasn’t going to be an arrest kind of day. This was a making-inquiries assignment. Knocking on doors. Or in this case, boats. Amy had retreated to her chair behind the camera position. McNulty indicated the approach along the jetty.
“Okay. Think of it like this. Cops are used to making house-to-house inquiries. Knocking on doors. Anywhere different, they’re a bit more cautio
us. Wary of the dangers. Inquiring at a boat—that’s different.”
He held his hands on either side of his head to indicate the field of vision then swung them from one side of the target boat to the other.
“You’re staying loose on approach. The walk, like yesterday. Nice and easy. But you’re checking the hatches and windows. This isn’t a house. You’re not sure where somebody might escape from.”
Alfonse glanced at the boat. “I thought I was just here to ask questions.”
“You are. But you don’t know if they want to answer them.”
McNulty tried to think of a different way to explain it.
“A cop’s life isn’t scripted. Anything can happen. You’ve got to think on your feet. I remember once trying to find the owner of a dog that’d been turned in. That was all. Knocking on a few doors.”
He clapped his hands to make Alfonse jump.
“Next thing I know, this guy jumps out the side window and makes a run for it. I didn’t know why, so I go chase him.”
Alfonse held a hand up like a schoolboy in class. “Can you do that? If you don’t know he’s done anything wrong?”
McNulty nodded his approval. “Good question.”
He ticked each point off on his fingers.
“An officer may arrest any person if he…”
First finger.
“Knows a crime has been committed.”
Second finger.
“And knows that person committed it.”
Third finger.
“Or, suspects the person has committed it.”
Fourth finger.
“Or, and here’s your point. He suspects a crime has been committed.”
Thumb.
“And knows or suspects that person committed it.”
Alfonse puffed out his cheeks. “Wow. That’s pretty broad. Just having to suspect something.”
McNulty shrugged. “You’d have to explain your suspicions. Can’t just pluck anyone off the street.” He motioned one hand to indicate doubt. “Well, actually, you can. So long as you give a good story in court. But a guy jumping out the window. If that’s not suspicious I don’t know what is.”
Final Cut Page 4