Love & Loyalty (4 page)

“And”—Griffin took a deep breath, turning to Ed, his face deadly serious—

“I know you don't want to make money off this. I understand that. If I were in your position, I'd tell me to shove my money where the sun don't shine, because it won't change anything. But…but I'm thinking you're a good-hearted man, and you could do something with the money. Something…that's the right sort of legacy for Carmen and Della.”

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Sweat crept up under Griffin's collared shirt and prickled his forehead. He imagined he could hear a pin drop in between the clicks and ticks of the mantel clock.

He clasped his hands, dropped his gaze to the gold, matted rug under his feet. Please, he thought, please give me this chance.

Ed Kelly cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee, the side of the cup reading
Number 1 Dad
. Suddenly Griffin wasn't sure if he was proud of himself for trying to pull this deal off, or if he was a rampaging asshole for even opening his mouth. It was a total toss-up at that moment.

“I don't want nothing on the screen that would have embarrassed Della,” he said simply, his voice quiet and cracking. “No naked stuff and not a lot of swearin'. And I'd like to read your script before you go on and start the filming stuff. And…” Mr. Kelly was on a roll. “And Jim reads it too, so none of the cops or the prosecutors look bad.”

Griffin wanted to jump and dance on the couch, but he held his composure perfectly. Could it really be this easy? “You have my word this script will be what you're looking for. And we don't want to make anyone look bad, Mr. Kelly—no one deserves that.”

Except for Tripp Ingersoll, but Griffin wasn't going to say the name out loud.

“Okay, then. You got lawyers, I suppose.” Ed looked over at Jim, who hadn't said a word yet. “I should get me a lawyer too.”

“I'll call my friend Ben. He and his wife have a small practice not too far from here. They'll take care of whatever you need.”

“Perfect. You trust 'em, I trust 'em.”

“Oh my gosh, we're going to do this,” Daisy said suddenly, then covered her mouth as her inside voice went to the outside. “You won't regret this, Mr.

Kelly; I promise you that from the bottom of my heart.” 22

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“I'm holding you to that, young lady.” He gestured toward Griffin with his cup. “You too, young man. I don't have much of a temper, but Jim here…” He let his voice drift off, a smile playing on his lips. “He's a hell of a watchdog.” Jim made an embarrassed sound as Daisy clapped her hands. “Okay, that's it—hugs all around.” She got up and gave Ed a squeeze in his recliner.

She sidestepped Jim as one would a hungry mountain lion and threw her arms around Griffin.

“We did it,” she murmured in his ear. “The first step, we took it.” Griffin watched Jim over Daisy's shoulder as he gave her a celebratory hug. Those cool blue eyes were echoing Ed Kelly's joking words—if they fucked this up, Jim Shea was going to take a bite out of both of them, and not in a good way.

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Chapter Four

Jim had driven up to Tacoma after taking a last-minute vacation day; he had about seventy-four years worth built up, so one day wasn't going to kill him. Of course, that meant getting out of the Heterosexual Cabal Dinner with surprise guests Ben and Liddy. But everyone gave him a pass when they heard this was about Ed and some potentially sharklike Hollywood assholes who wanted to make a movie about Ed's ordeal after Carmen's murder.

He promised Ben he'd stop by their new house the next weekend. He swore to Mimi he'd make next month's Friday night Power Dinner. He made a lot of promises he knew he'd have to keep before he'd jumped in his truck and headed for Tacoma.

Everyone thought it was proof of Jim's excellent character that he did so much for Ed. Visits, calls, money—only Terry and Jim's accountant knew about the money—whatever the other man needed, Jim took care of. He even had a local handyman on his speed dial who'd run over to take care of things so Ed didn't have to.

Jim didn't mind carrying the burdens. Ed had a lot; he could use the help.

Others did what they could, but Ed's trust of Jim extended into areas beyond baskets of food and monthly check-up phone calls.

Jim knew Ed was dying.

Insult upon injury, the life of Job. An exam a few months ago revealed Ed had advanced pancreatic cancer, and the only person outside of his doctor who knew was Jim.

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Along with the prognosis, Jim knew where Ed's will was, what funeral home he wanted to be handled by, and where the deed to the plot where Della and Carmen were buried was kept. During the last visit they'd discussed what Jim would do with the house and the truck.

Ed dealt with the whole thing matter-of-factly. In the grand scheme of life, it wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to him.

Jim met his realism with his own brand of protective stoicism. They were quite the pair, that was for sure.

Sometimes Jim wondered if it wasn't misplaced guilt, not just over being unable to see justice served but his own issues with his father, who lived in Vancouver in an upscale nursing home with around-the-clock care and the best of everything—provided by strangers.

Or maybe guilt he hadn't done more to put Tripp Ingersoll in jail. Or just killed him some night, weeks after the trial; old-fashioned vigilante justice with Jim pleading temporary insanity. He knew, with shame and sureness, that if Ed had asked or given permission, he could have done it.

So it was a lot to do with guilt, his relationship with Ed. Too many shades to put a label on.

* * * * *

The writer and the actress were nice, almost too nice. Daisy Baylor was a bona fide movie star—even Jim had seen her in a few things, and he only went to the movies… Well, he never went to the movies—all shiny gorgeous with perfect, tumbling red curls and a dress he suspected cost more than all four of his last snow tires put together. She was affectionate and kind to Ed, and Jim watched him light up for the first time in…possibly for the first time ever.

The only thing that came close was when Ed got into the occasional melancholy mood and decided to talk about Carmen and Della. Jim suspected that Daisy Baylor reminded Ed a bit of Della in her heyday, the years before things got ugly, with Carmen getting into trouble and eventually running away.

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That, combined with the advancing of the cancer, no doubt put into Ed's mind that he wanted to make this deal now.

Jim understood, but he didn't like it.

The writer—Drake—had the right pitch. It was the perfect note to hit with Ed. It made Jim suspicious. All that honesty? That earnestness? That pleading note to his voice? Must be fake. Must be.

He was also handsome in a geeky sort of way; Jim suspected a sharp sense of humor under all that preppy showcasing. He also knew with dreaded certainty if they met in a bar that Griffin Drake would be one of those nameless blowjobs. Unfortunately, they'd met in the real world, and Jim just wrote him off as someone to be watched—carefully.

After they left, Jim and Ed sat for a few hours speculating on how this process would go down. Jim wanted to argue the point, but then Ed—as Ed was prone to do—dropped the latest bombshell in Jim's lap.

“You're gonna be the executor of my will and all, so those legal papers your friends draw up—they need to say that when I'm not here, you're the one who's my voice in this movie. You make sure they do right by everyone.” And Jim—as Jim was prone to do—didn't put up a fight or protest as his stomach did a roller-coaster bump.

* * * * *

Monday morning Jim was back at his desk, late for him. It was almost six a.m. He didn't remember sleeping all that much in the past thirty-six hours, except for a brief nap on Ed Kelly's couch. There was food interspersed in there and a shower before he headed into the station with a gallon or so of coffee in his gut. He figured he'd be good for ten-or-so hours—then he'd probably hit a wall and collapse in the break room.

The squad room was quiet; a few phones rang on and off, hushed conversations drifted above the cubicles. Jim checked his calendar and realized 26

Tere Michaels

two things—his birthday was two weeks away, and Captain Hedges's retirement was tomorrow.

Which meant ironing his dress blues.

And then spending the next two weeks avoiding any attempts by his friends to celebrate his birthday.

Jim sighed. Forty-five. Really? Already? The last birthday he recalled with any type of clarity was his twenty-first. His father gave him the legal papers to his grandfather's inheritance over a stiff, expensive meal at a French restaurant. Then his friends—mostly his compatriots on the football team and his roommate, whom he was also secretly dating—took him to Vegas for enough debauchery that even today he wondered if he should just arrest himself on several counts. Public drunkenness, gambling, and a lot of sex with his boyfriend in their hotel room when everyone else had gone off to find some hookers. God, that had been a great birthday because he was young and hot and rich, independent of his father, and didn't have a care in the world.

Forty-five looked incredibly different and very depressing.

“Hey, Detective Shea, there's a package for you down at the desk,” a uniformed cop walking by broke his reverie. “You want me to bring it up?”

“Is it ticking?” Jim was only half joking.

“No.” The young cop laughed, pausing to lean on the cubicle wall. He gave Jim a once-over and a more flirtatious smile, and Jim felt
old
. Older than dirt, actually. Back in his early uniform days, you'd never even consider flirting publicly with another cop—particularly not in the squad room. “It's not a problem, really.”

“It's okay, I'll get it.” Jim looked down at his desk, trying to shuffle papers in an attempt to look busy.

“All right. I'll talk to you later.” The cop lingered, then walked away slowly.

It was like a bar. Only fully lit and, you know,
work
. Jim's hands shook a little. His sexual orientation was generally known and generally not a problem.

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In liberal, godless Seattle, being a bigot or homophobe is what you held close to your chest—not being gay. All his partners had known; none had ever asked for a transfer. Terry Oh had been “schooled” on his first day and just politely assured Jim he was straight and engaged but would be flattered if Jim wanted to check him out when he wasn't looking. Everyone knew. But no one said anything. No one came on to him. He knew other gay and lesbian cops on the force; there were no meetings or weekly dinners where they had meaningful conversations on being gay and blue.

Jim didn't like to cross streams like that. He didn't like being hit on by a twentysomething who had no clue what it was like to be afraid.

He forgot to be flattered the guy was interested.

* * * * *

Terry arrived with yet another “mistake” onion bagel, plopping it on Jim's desk without a word.

“How'd the thing at Ed's go? You scare off the Hollywood freaks?” Terry sipped his latte, leaning against the cubicle wall exactly where the flirter had been.

“Actually…” Jim sighed, pushing his chair back and testing how far he could lean without hearing a squeak. “Ed accepted their deal.”

“No shit!” Terry looked shocked. “You let him?”

“What was I going to do?” Jim swallowed the information about Ed's health. “They were like, all sincere and nice, and you know who the actress was? Daisy Baylor.”

Terry almost swallowed his tongue. “Holy crap, Jim. Daisy Baylor?” His pale skin pinkened. “She's totally on my list.”

“List?”

“You know, the list you have of the people your wife or husband would let you sleep with if you got the chance—no penalties.”

“Straight people are crazy.”

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“Is she as hot in person as she was in
The Betrayed Night?
Because she was…” Terry's voice trailed off. “Seriously.” Jim tried to remember that one. He thought it was the one where she was naked a lot and cried.

“She looks like a normal person until you remember normal people aren't that perfect.” Jim shook his head. “The screenwriter guy is apparently some childhood friend of hers, and they're making this movie for like…Sundance or something.” Jim shrugged. He'd rather watch the Military or History Channel.

“Artsy, I guess. I gotta read the script—make sure they don't shit on you and me and Heather and Nick.”

Terry's jaw actually dropped. “We're going to be in it?

“I guess characters who're supposed to be us. You'll probably get some paperwork at some point, asking permission.”

“Will Daisy Baylor deliver the paperwork?”

“I'm calling Mimi, you perv.”

* * * * *

It was after lunchtime before Jim remembered the package at the front desk. He and Terry finished some meatloaf specials over at the corner diner, and he stopped on his way back upstairs to ask Sergeant Filipano for his box.

They bullshitted about the retirement festivities tomorrow, people they knew, and then Jim was hoisting a mildly heavy rectangle in his hands. As he stepped into the elevator, he realized the return address was Hollywood.

Were legal papers this heavy?

At his desk he took a pocketknife to the cardboard and flipped the cover off; it wasn't legal papers.

It was coffee and fancy cookies, plus some books on Washington State history. A gray envelope sat on top, and Jim opened the flap. The folded paper inside smelled girly sweet, but the writing was masculine.