Love & Loyalty (3 page)

Love & Loyalty

13

They made a few more seconds of small talk. Heather brought up Friday's dinner party, and Jim dragged his ass back to his desk with the Snickers in his teeth.

There was indeed a voice mail from Ed Kelly on Jim's cell. His reedy voice was calm and centered; he needed to talk to Jim about something regarding Carmen's case—he needed some advice. That was all after a recitation of Ed's number, which Jim knew by heart. Jim played it three times, searching for a small indication of what this was about. Maybe the civil case? A few people had encouraged Ed to sue Tripp Ingersoll for damages, but Ed wasn't interested.

He'd had enough of Ingersoll and courtrooms for his lifetime, he said. Besides—

the money wouldn't bring back Carmen or Della.

All offers from talk-show hosts and pseudojournalists had gone unanswered. Ed was never interested in sitting down with Katie Couric or Oprah. Hollywood got the same cold slammed door. Ed was a man who could not be bought.

Jim gave Ed's home number a dial, tapping a pencil against the desk anxiously. The machine clicked on after a few rings, and Jim gnawed on his lip.

“Hey, Ed, it's Jim. I got your message, giving you a call back. Call my cell, okay? I'll make sure I pick up.”

He hung up and contemplated the endless pile of case files on his desk.

More dead mothers, fathers, sons, daughters. More grieving families who never recovered. The endless cycle of violence that surrounded Jim every hour of every day.

Sometimes he wondered what the hell the point was.

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Tere Michaels

Chapter Three

“Take a left up here…where it says Oak Street. Right, the street you just passed? That would be Oak.”

Griffin Drake rolled his eyes as his driving companion, Daisy Baylor, crinkled the printed-out directions. The rental car had no GPS, and neither of them had the best navigation skills in the world. He walked a lot, and she, glamorous actress that she was, was driven everywhere—by trained professionals with GPS…and most likely a sense of direction.

But here they were, lost in Tacoma—note to self, he thought as he found a driveway to U-turn in, that's a great title—trying to make a meeting with a very important man named Ed Kelly. Griffin didn't want to be late, not for this, and he didn't want to hear Daisy pointing out his supreme lack of driving skills, which would probably end with them “lost in Canada.”

“Okay—left on Oak…”

“No! Right on Oak; we're backward now!”

“You ain't whistling Dixie, Daisy Mae,” he muttered, lifting his sunglasses so he could squint and see the rusted-over street sign.

Oak. Right.

“I think I'm overdressed.” Daisy fretted next to him, smoothing a Paris original over her knees. She would move to playing with her hair next; then, if they didn't get there in the next five minutes, he'd be talking her out of a cigarette. Then talking himself out of joining her. New Year's resolutions sounded a lot easier when you were drunk and hanging out on the roof of a Love & Loyalty

15

millionaire director's mansion as opposed to, say, driving to a pitch that could make or break your future career path.

“You look incredible, and I'm guessing he won't be able to name the designer or price tag on your dress, so we're good.” Although they did want Ed Kelly to know they were good for the funding—in a subtle way. That was important.

“Okay, that was a quarter mile—where should we be now?”

“Left on Mill, right on Percy; then it's the fifth house.” Daisy focused on the directions and not her outfit, which was good for Griffin. They'd known each other for over twenty-five years, and for some reason it never got easier to be anxious at the same time.

One at a time? Usually her. He handled it like a pro. It was practically his full-time job after screenwriting. At the same time? Someone call a shrink and a bartender, stat.

He had the speech in his head, how he was going to pitch this movie idea to Mr. Kelly, how they wanted his and Della and Carmen's story to be heard without the background sensationalism. How he was going to point out the good things that could be done with his share of the profits—a scholarship, a community garden. Anything he wanted. It didn't have to be for
him
. He just needed to keep it simple, honest and sincere—and not tip his hand about just how important it all was to him and Daisy.

He knew Ed Kelly's story from the press surrounding the trial and a few sympathetic pieces in the local and national papers. The man who lost so much but refused to seek revenge or restitution or sell his story. It was the story of a man who could have been someone who lived down the street from Griffin's family—a man living in a run-down house in a lower-middle-class suburb with seemingly nothing to show for his life except an inner peace most people would kill for. Or were currently spending thousands of dollars trying to find through psychics or pills or retreats to ashrams.

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Tere Michaels

Words like “scoop” and “coup” didn't even touch how badly Hollywood wanted Ed Kelly's story, hyped and heightened, of course, mostly because the man was so damn untouchable. In a world of selling your story as the paramedics were cutting a shark off your leg, this guy wouldn't even return phone calls.

But he returned Daisy and Griffin's call.
They
were in possession of his home address and were expected at this moment. Something about their letter intrigued him, pulled him to respond. Griffin was still giddy about the whole thing.

By the time Daisy announced, “Here, right here,” Griffin felt sure his appeal would be accepted. They would do this.

Griffin shut off the car and gave Daisy a pat on the shoulder. She blazed that internationally famous smile in his direction, adjusted her sunglasses, and opened the door with a forceful push.

“Hey, there's someone else here, I think,” Daisy said, eyeing the second pickup truck in the dirt driveway. The one closest to the house had seen better days, rusty but pin neat. The second was a giant black Chevy Silverado, all gleaming and authoritative like a sentry.

“Not even a whimsical bumper sticker,” Daisy said drily, hoisting her handbag over her shoulder.

“I wouldn't want to bump into that thing while I'm on my motorcycle,” Griffin pointed out, hurrying to catch up.

“If you did, I'd be writing the eulogy for your funeral.” Taking his hand, she walked up the creaky wooden stairs to the screen door.

“I'm sure you'd do a lovely job. Do they give Emmys for eulogies?”

“Shut up, or I'll sic that truck on you.”

“Wonder who it is,” he whispered, coming up behind her. Even in her platforms she still only came up to his shoulder. He resisted the urge to pat the top of her head.

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“Lawyer?”

“In a pickup truck?”

“It's
Tacoma
.”

Daisy knocked on the door, peering through the screen door into the dark house.

Griffin heard men's voices from inside, and then out of the dark came a very tall, imposing figure, and he knew in one that wasn't Ed Kelly.

The “might be a lawyer” guy was broad-shouldered and on alert, just a silhouette of aggression behind the strained screen. And he wasn't opening the door.

“Hi,” Daisy said brightly. “We have an appointment with Mr. Kelly. Ms.

Baylor and Mr. Drake.”

From the military haircut to the well-worn jeans, Griffin guessed their mystery man was less a lawyer and more a man who knew his way around a gun. A cop, maybe? Some of the articles on Kelly and the trial mentioned a few detectives he'd gotten very close to.

“You're one of the detectives from Carmen's trial,” Griffin said boldly, going to the top step to match the other man's height—and glare. “I was thinking that Mr. Kelly would probably give you a call.”

The bullshit, “pulled out of his ass” bluff worked, and the man nodded, reaching for the door handle.

“Detective Shea,” he said, taking a step back and gesturing them in.

“Griffin Drake and Daisy Baylor. Pleasure.” Griffin quickly extended his hand, trying to keep the upper hand on Detective Shea.

“Ed called me up, told me about this meeting. I decided to be here for him.” Detective Shea shook Griffin's hand firmly, then reached for Daisy's; she just stared at him, and Griffin knew she was thinking,
Boy, this guy is hot.

Because they always had the same taste in men.

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Tere Michaels

“And we can certainly appreciate that,” Daisy piped up, suddenly finding her movie-star manners. “I think it's really incredible that you're still around for him.”

Something crossed over Detective Shea's impressive face—something like grief or guilt, and Griffin toed his boot into the heavy linoleum of the entryway.

“He's a good guy. I want to make sure people don't take advantage of him,” Detective Shea said quietly. The glower had dimmed, but the warning was clear.

“Bring 'em in, Jim; I think you scared 'em enough,” a voice called from the next room, and the detective's exterior cracked slightly.

Griffin had his hand at Daisy's back, letting her take the lead. People loved Daisy, whether it was on the big screen or in line at the supermarket. She just batted her eyelashes and made everyone adore her.

He referred to it as her “don't club me, said the baby seal” look on more than one occasion. He'd also rode that look and her D-cups into a fairly decent career, so Griffin tried not to mock it too much.

Mr. Kelly was seated in a seventies-era recliner, wearing old jeans and a plaid shirt, glasses perched on his nose. From his notes, Griffin knew Mr. Kelly was a decade younger than his own father back in Albany, but he might as well have been thirty years older. The toll the past few years had taken on him was painful and obvious, as the man was even more gaunt than the pictures from the trial showed.

“Mr. Kelly, thank you so much for seeing us,” Daisy said, extending her hand.

“Pleasure, Miss Baylor.” The man seemed to blush a little in the dimly lit room as he stood up to shake her hand. “I seen a bunch of your films. Carmen was a big fan of yours—I think that's probably why I thought I'd give you a listen.”

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Daisy didn't miss a beat. She gave Mr. Kelly a little hug, then stepped back, embarrassed. “Sorry. I do that sometimes.”

“I'm not gonna turn down a hug from a movie star.” Ed Kelly laughed. He reached around to offer his hand to Griffin. “Mr. Drake, you gonna hug me too?”

“Maybe after you buy me a drink.” Griffin coughed as the line slid out of his mouth, but it seemed to further break the ice. Even the sentry, Detective Shea, had to smile. A tiny smile that might've been a facial tic, but still—he hadn't pulled a gun on them yet, so that was a good thing.

Ed Kelly seated them on a quilt-covered couch, then sat back in his recliner. The detective disappeared into another room, and from the clanging sounds it appeared to be a kitchen.

“We got coffee, tea if you want it. Lipton, hope that's okay. Jim brought up some cookies from this fancy-pants bakery in Seattle.”

“You didn't have to go through so much trouble,” Daisy said, laying her purse near her feet.

“Movie star in my house? Heck, I even vacuumed.” Daisy giggled and did the “oh you” hand gesture that men of Ed Kelly's generation fell for like a redwood at the mercy of an ax. Griffin managed to roll his eyes while he reached into his pocket for his BlackBerry for compulsive e-mail check number seven since they'd left the airport.

Detective Shea—Jim—reappeared with a fancy silver tray full of mismatched coffee cups, a decanter, and a plate of cookies. He looked to Griffin like a very large, cranky yet attractive waiter.

Like…Lurch at Tavern on the Green.

* * * * *

Tere Michaels

them as kids at performing arts camp in the Adirondacks, which ate up a cup of coffee, one refill, six cookies, and almost forty minutes of Griffin Drake's life.

Griffin wanted to get to his pitch, but Daisy seemed bent on making Ed Kelly's day, and the more she did that, the more Ed relaxed, the more Jim Shea eased out of red alert.

So Griffin kept his mouth shut.

Until there was a lull in conversation and Jim Shea looked straight over to Griffin, a Local 458 mug tight in his hand.

“You came here to ask Ed to sell his story,” he said bluntly, his eyes narrowing. “You know you're not the first people to have tried.” This was it. Gauntlet thrown down. He wasn't in a fancy LA office, he wasn't at a trendy restaurant, or even throwing down his pitch in the elevator of a hotel at Sundance. This was as real life as he'd gotten in a very long time, and his usual tap dance didn't fit here.

So he went to the sincere pitch he'd been practicing for months.

“We're the first people to get into his living room,” Griffin said, just as bluntly, giving Ed Kelly a sidelong apologetic look.

“I won't insult anyone by pretending this isn't about a movie and us making money. I won't give Mr. Kelly a speech about doing this for a higher cause. But I'm thinking telling Carmen's side of the story, telling Ed's side of the story—that's not a bad thing to want. The trial didn't tell the full story. The press hasn't gotten a full picture.