Tracking Shot, Colin Campbell [moboreader TXT] 📗

the office and shut the door to keep the noise down. Part of the location manager’s job was to keep locals happy about the disruption to their lives. Part of the technical adviser’s job was to ensure that all things police-related were true to life. On a Larry Unger set those jobs sometimes merged. That’s why McNulty had been liaising with the businesses along Linden Street on the day of the shooting.

“After the other day I don’t think we’ll be filming here again.”

The foreman put his pen down. His expression said he felt guilty about seeming insensitive. “Yeah. Hell of a thing. Sorry.”

McNulty waved the apology aside. “Reason I’m here. Did the police ask you guys any questions?”

The foreman nodded. “Sure they did.” Again the nod along the street. “Everyone on the strip.”

McNulty looked through the office windows into the workshop. There were workbenches and cars on ramps but what he was looking for was the heavy plastic sheeting that protected the staff from the spray bays. Industrial fans can only clear the air so much. The plastic sheets keep the spray in the booths. “Anybody see the van?”

The foreman shook his head. “We were grabbing a bite to eat. Since you’d shut us down.”

McNulty didn’t feel guilty. Titanic Productions had paid compensation for loss of business. He leaned his back against the door. “I saw it. Dull grey panel van.”

The foreman shrugged. “You’re one up on me then.”

McNulty waved at the cars in for repair. “Thing you can help me with. There’s lots of grey cars. Silver grey. Charcoal grey. Metallic grey. But you don’t see many grey vans.”

The foreman leaned back and folded his arms. “Company signage doesn’t stand out against grey. That’s why you see so many white vans.”

McNulty frowned. “Unless grey is your company’s color. You know any local firms that use grey vans? Could have had one stolen?”

The foreman stretched his back. He’d been sitting too long. “Unless you’re a Civil War re-enactor, nobody uses grey.”

“That’s what I figured.”

The industrial fan cut out and a man in coveralls pushed through the plastic sheeting. He took a gauze facemask off and rubbed his eyes beneath protective goggles. The workshop descended into quiet. There was no more drilling. Whatever painting was being done was over for the day. The smell of paint was heavy in the air. Gloss or undercoat, it all smelled the same to McNulty.

“So my next question is. What color undercoat do you use?”

McNulty got back into his car and wound the windows down. Fresh air was the only way to clear your nose from half an hour in a spray bay. As with all inquiries, one question had led to another, but it was the answers that moved you forward.

“Neutral color.”

“What do you call neutral?”

“One that ain’t going to contaminate the finished color.”

“Like matte grey then?”

The foreman had nodded. “Not too dark a grey. But yes. You aren’t going to use blue if you’re painting the van red.”

Questions and answers. They move you forward. Like where had McNulty seen a shiny red van lately? And would it still have a dent in the roof?

FIFTEEN

The evening sun slanted low out of the western sky and glinted off the Charles River. Opposite direction from yesterday at the Greenway Diner. Today’s sunset was throwing sparkles and reflections across the back of the Crescent Motel, highlighting the security cameras nestled under the eaves. McNulty parked in the far corner and replayed the escape route. From the balcony to the roof of the red van. Then the parking lot to the riverside walk before jumping off the bridge onto a passing leisure boat. He rested his arms on the roof of the car while he examined angles and coverage, wondering how much the motel CCTV had caught on camera.

He glanced across the river again, straining against the sun to see a massive parking lot behind some kind of industrial complex. The parking lot was empty, apart from some activity down near the water’s edge. Somebody fishing, perhaps. McNulty turned back toward the motel. It was time to go fishing himself.

“You should be director of photography, covering this many cameras,” McNulty told the motel clerk.

“I could do even better if they weren’t static.”

As with all budget motels, the young man working the front desk was also the advance booking agent, receptionist and check-in guy. The thing he seemed most proud of though was his skill with the on-site security cameras. One thing McNulty had learned over the years was that the best way to get cooperation was through flattery and compliments.

“Well, you’ve certainly got your finger on the pulse. Thanks for doing this.”

The thing he’d learned more recently was that people will bend over backward if they think they might get into the movies. Having Titanic Productions take up half the rooms was incentive enough. Helping the police liaison adviser with the promise of a bit part was like gold.

“No problem. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The security office was a small room just behind the reception desk. It had all the usual things, like a security log, flashlights and pepper spray. The part-time security patrols weren’t allowed firearms, mainly because they were recruited from the bottom of the gene pool and might end up shooting the guests. If there was any rowdy behavior, it was better to call the police than have security take matters into their own hands. The multi-camera security system was something else though. It was the Crescent Motel’s pride and joy. In glorious color.

“Okay. So here’s what we cover,” said the clerk.

The room was only big enough for one viewing monitor, so instead of having several TVs, the screen was split into four. It had the capability to split into eight or twelve, but the motel only had four cameras. Nevertheless, the lack of coverage did nothing to dampen the operator’s enthusiasm. He tapped the keyboard and brought up the live feed.

“Reception.” He pointed to the top left image on