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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
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    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?