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Detective Shea,
Daisy and I just wanted to say thank you for your help.
As we told you and Mr. Kelly, we have the best possible intentions for this
project. We're looking forward to working with you.
Best,
Griffin Drake
Jim poked through the package. It was…thoughtful. Put together as opposed to ordered off a Web site. Neatly packed in the box by an assistant, no less, but still—Jim was mildly impressed.
Then he went back to remembering not to trust these people.
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Tere Michaels
Chapter Five
Griffin Drake and his MacBook were the best of friends, more intimate than lovers. He slept with it. He cared for it with specially made cleaning cloths and cans of air to keep it dust free. Plants and fish had died under his watch with alarming regularity, but the computer—the computer was tended like a child.
Now, in the middle of devoting all his time to the Ed Kelly script, Griffin was toting the laptop around his West Hollywood neighborhood. To the park for a few hours, to the coffee store for lunch and a few hours more, mainlining coffee and unsuccessfully resisting the freshly baked macaroons. To the front steps of his condo, where he again opened the blank document and stared.
Nothing. Not a goddamn word. He couldn't even come up with a title beyond “The Ed Kelly Script.”
So he scored the coup of the year in terms of subject and then forgot how to write. Maybe there was a script in that. A black comedy, clearly.
Utterly defeated, Griffin fiddled around in his pocket and got out his keys, juggling the precious laptop. It wasn't her fault how badly he sucked as a writer. Really.
For twelve years he'd been one of the very few writers who made a decent living in screenwriting. No television, no books, no ghostwriting—just screenplays, and all fifteen he'd written (or rewritten) were made.
In this business, it was almost unheard of unless you had an “in.” Which Griffin did, to his credit and shame: Daisy Mae's Deal with the Devil—also known as her marriage to Claus—which had propelled them out of New York Love & Loyalty
31
state, past college graduation, and straight to the hallowed halls of employment at a giant Hollywood studio. Not to mention he could write blow 'em up, shoot
'em down, screwing in an alley to box-office perfection, and had. All fifteen of his movies involved a lot of cursing, an inventory of creative ways to kill people, and at least two tit shots per reel.
It wasn't pretty, but it was lucrative for the studio and for him.
Paid for his nice condo here and his nice condo in Aspen. Paid for his dad's house back in Albany and two nieces going to college. Paid for nice threads and gym memberships and vacations and security; he wasn't going to end up selling real estate or making porn, thank you very much. Griffin Drake was a writer and a good one, and he wasn't done yet.
Ed Kelly's movie was the next step, the higher place. The time when someone, somewhere was finally going to throw around his name and
“Academy Award” in the same sentence, and not the one where a critic had complimented the scene in
Fire Water
where The Rock killed some Euro baddie with an Oscar statuette.
No, he was going to write a killer script, a heart tugger, a movie that had people discussing the life of this man and his terrible luck and his ability to keep going. Then Daisy would produce it, and they would be out from under the firm hand of Claus Miller and Bright Side Studios—quite possibly the least aptly named studio in the world.
Daisy was tired of flashing her tits, and Griffin was tired of writing scripts where she did just that.
This was their big chance.
Now if only Griffin could write one single goddamn word of it.
He kicked the door shut behind him and threw his keys onto the couch.
Outside didn't help, being around people didn't help. His usual haunts weren't working. Maybe their mojo only extended to the car chases and half-naked girls appearing for no good reason that he usually hacked out for a living.
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Tere Michaels
Right now he had nothing, not even an outline—just a timeline of events and every damn article ever written about the case.
It wasn't enough. He needed some connection, some viewpoint into Ed Kelly and Carmen and Della and the case. He was almost too close, feeling the middle-class values gone wrong and the muddled confusion of parents who didn't understand why their best efforts dovetailed into a teenage daughter who hooked up with the wrong people and ran away from home before her seventeenth birthday.
He knew those girls. But he couldn't seem to connect his knowledge to the story.
Jim Shea, Lurch at Tavern on the Green, überdetective, popped into his mind.
He'd gotten a polite thank-you e-mail for the “make nice” package Daisy had insisted they send. The law firm his friends worked at had taken care of Ed's side of the paperwork quickly; everything they'd asked of the other side happened. He briefly tried to imagine shooting the shit with Detective Shea about the case but got distracted by the way he looked in a dress shirt.
Griffin picked up his glove and baseball, pacing around his desk. He got a certain vibe from the detective from their first meeting. Daisy's gaydar was better than his, and she confirmed he and Griffin batted for the same team on their drive back from Ed Kelly's Tacoma home.
What could it hurt? A little flirting, a little convo—maybe it would push him out of this ridiculous slump he was in.
He reached for his phone and wedged it between his shoulder and ear after dialing Detective Jim Shea's cell phone.
Was it too early? Too late? Lunchtime? Was he on a crime scene? Was he going to be irritated by the call? Oh shit, Griffin thought, almost throwing the phone down before he was thwarted by the sound of a gruff “Jim Shea.” Love & Loyalty
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“Detective Shea, Griffin Drake—hope I'm not bothering you,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Uh. No, you're not bothering me.” The tone didn't change at all, no difference to help Griffin discern if the detective was going to call him names and hang up or be chatty. “Can I help you with something?”
“Well, I'm writing today, trying to get the script in shape for you and Mr.
Kelly to read,” he lied, tossing the ball in the air and catching it with a flick of his wrist. “I had a few questions, but you know, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm on LA-screenwriter time and you're on…guy-with-a-real-job time.” A sound came through the line—it might have been the detective's version of a laugh.
“I can call you back maybe, later,” Jim said begrudgingly. “Seven or eight.” He sighed. “Honestly, I don't know when I'm going to be home.”
“You gotta eat at some point, right?” Griffin felt a brainstorm welling up.
Feeling stilted, needing some inspiration—a flight from LA to Seattle was practically a hop, skip, and a jump. “I'll take you out for a late dinner.”
“Uhhhh…” Detective Shea was clearly at a loss of words.
“I can be there about nine.” Griffin opened his computer and went to his bookmarked travel site. “I'm guessing you'll be at your desk at least that late.”
“I—Are you serious? You're flying here tonight to have dinner with me?”
“Yeah. I need some information, you need dinner.” A few clicks later and Griffin was booking a flight. “Nine o'clock, nine thirty at the latest.”
“Uh…okay. Sure.” Jim Shea was so off his cool that Griffin almost felt sorry for him, except where he didn't because it made his ego feel good.
“Great, see you then.”
Griffin hung up before Jim could regain his equilibrium.
* * * * *
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Tere Michaels
By the time Griffin went to the airport, there was actually almost an outline. While none of his usual tricks were working, four minutes with Jim Shea on the phone helped him focus a bit better. That and spending a bit of time on Google researching the illustrious life and times of James Michael Edward Shea, with his fancy-pants lineage, military honors, and several Officer of the Year awards under his belt.
Griffin was impressed and a little intimidated. His own family were no slouches, but no one who Googled them would come up with anything beyond some obituaries and wedding announcements. The Drakes of Albany, New York, generally got birthed, married, reproduced, and died while staying in blue-collar jobs for most of their working lives.
Only Griffin had decided to leave. His father was confused enough by his only son (after eight daughters, he really had no clue what to do with a boy, let alone a gay one) but proud. He faithfully saw all Griffin's films in the movie theater and bought them on DVD, even though Griffin told him he could get them for free. He put clips from
Variety
and
Entertainment Weekly
that mentioned Griffin's name or movies on the fridge along with pictures of the grandchildren and whatever flyer for whatever fund-raiser car wash was coming up at the local schools.
Griffin, the oddity. Griffin, the gay screenwriter who lived in Hollywood.
Griffin, the guy on the plane in his best jeans and a white collared shirt and shit-kicking boots and some gel in his unruly brown hair. He put in his contacts. He threw clothes in an overnight bag, brought his computer, and didn't buy a return ticket.
He was treating this like a date. Ballsy in a way he wasn't, usually. He sincerely doubted Detective Jim Shea was going to be interested, but it was nice to pretend.
* * * * *
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Griffin grabbed a cab at the airport, checking his BlackBerry for messages and texts and other distractions as nerves descended. Really? Seriously? Giant cop whom he's working with, flying to Seattle for
dinner?
Where the hell was this coming from? A potential taste of freedom from Bright Side's stun collar and he was suddenly jetting (okay, using miles for business class) north for wining and dining.
This was so Daisy's territory.
He dialed her cell number, watching Seattle speed by from the backseat.
His knee jiggled nervously.
His palms—sweating.
“Hellllooo—where are you?” Daisy's familiar voice came through the line.
From the loopy trill, she'd started the evening cocktail therapy early.
“Seattle.”
“Well, I wasn't expecting that answer. What's going on? There isn't trouble with the movie, is there?” Panic seeped into her voice; they'd kept things under wraps from Bright Side so far, but nothing was guaranteed in this business, especially secrecy.
“No, no. I just—I was a little blocked, and I thought I would call Detective Shea and…”
Daisy erupted into giggles.
“Why is this funny?” Griffin scowled at his reflection in the cab's window.
“You know, I get he's hot and that whole manly macho thing you find so appealing, but flying to Seattle? That's a hell of a booty call.”
“We're going to talk about the movie. Over dinner.”
“Uh-huuuuuh.”
“We need him on our side, Daisy; we need him on board with this movie, or Ed Kelly will pull out. You know this.” Since he couldn't convince himself, convincing her was not going to happen. But he'd go down with the ship protesting that this wasn't a booty call.
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Tere Michaels
“I know. But is sleeping with him now a good idea?”
“Oh come on! It's dinner. You met him—I'm guessing he's not a first-date drop-trou sort of—”
“You said date! You said date!”
“I'm hanging up now.”
“Wear a condom, and please be good in the sack—if you suck, he's going to be bitter, and we can't afford that.” She giggled, then hung up in a flurry of kisses.
The cab pulled up in front of the police station, and Griffin smacked his forehead against the window.
No pressure.
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Chapter Six
Today was Jim Shea's forty-fifth birthday.
The Heterosexual Power Cabal gave him a set of golf clubs, expensive and beautiful, his name stitched on the side of the stylish green bag. It was a thoughtful gift from all of them, clearly discussed and debated and selected with great care.
He managed gruff and appreciative as best he could.
Terry and some senior detectives bought him lunch at their favorite greasy spoon and wouldn't let him pay for his chicken potpie and iced tea.
His father's former secretary, who still handled his calendar, sent a stiffly formal birthday card and check, like Jim was sixteen and at boarding school, and wow, that brought up a lot of memories right there.
He deposited the check, then immediately wrote one twice the amount and stuck it in the mail to Liddy, Ben's wife. He told her to use it for a client who needed legal advice but didn't have the money up front.
Ed Kelly sent him a birthday card with a photograph of a beagle with a birthday hat on the front. Nothing sentimental or sweet inside, just a thanks and Ed's scrawl.
Jim tucked that into his jacket pocket.
The rest of the day was interspersed with a body found floating in the swimming pool of an abandoned house and Jim having to change his pants after a stabbing at a homeless shelter.
Nothing like dead bodies and bodily fluids to bring you back down to reality.
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Tere Michaels
Then the phone call from Griffin Drake, and Jim was just…caught off guard. Jim was never off guard; he was permanently tense and anticipatory.