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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.

    * * * * *

    34
    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.

    * * * * *

    Love & Loyalty
    35

    Griffin grabbed a cab at the airport, checking his BlackBerry for messages and texts and