An Imperfect Process

by Mary Jo Putney

  Sha'wan was already on a ladder painting out the sprawling obscenities on the upper level. Rob opened the graffiti van and set himself up with paint and a roller.

  As he headed for the end wall, Sha'wan lifted his roller in salute. "Hey, boss. There's less tags this time than last, so we're making progress. The supermarket manager and three other business owners have already been out to thank me. They say the company that manages this place wouldn't have done anything for months." He grinned. "The dollar store guy says he'll give us some paint, and the supermarket guy said lunch is on him if we want sandwiches and soda."

  "Sounds good." Rob turned the corner and set to work. There were people who thought that graffiti was art, and maybe some of it was. But mostly it was vandalism—an angry shout that intimidated and signaled a community at risk. Having lived in neighborhoods like this one, Rob felt a deep sense of satisfaction in helping to maintain a civil, stable environment.

  With the two of them working, by noon the graffiti had been vanquished. Rob went to the van where the younger man was starting to clean up. "Sha'wan, do you know this neighborhood well?"

  "Sure, I mostly grew up here in Kensington. Lived with my grandmother over on Hurley. She's been in that house for forty years."

  "Really?" Rob removed the paint-saturated roller and dropped it into a trash bag. Time to start prospecting for new information. "Did you ever hear of a police officer who was murdered in this neighborhood seventeen years ago?"

  "Oh, yeah, I know about that. He was shot just around the comer from Grandma's house. It was a big deal around here." Sha'wan stripped off his painting coveralls to reveal jeans and a garish T-shirt. "It's taken 'em long enough to get around to fryin' the murderer."

  "My new tenant for the church—"

  "The fox?"

  Rob tried not to grin fatuously. "The lawyer, Val Covington, is now Daniel Monroe's attorney. He says he's innocent. I've met him and think he may be telling the truth, so I'm helping with the investigation. Think your grandmother would be willing to talk to me? Maybe she knows something or someone that might help clear Monroe."

  "Gran will talk to anyone and feed you pie along with gossip." Sha'wan pulled an Orioles baseball cap onto his head backwards. "You really think the guy didn't do it?"

  "It's a distinct possibility. He certainly deserves a better investigation than the murder got seventeen years ago."

  "Then Gran's the one to talk to. She's been active in the community association forever, so she knows everyone. She's in Atlanta visitin' her sister until next week, but when she comes home, give her a call and say I sent you." Sha'wan jotted a phone number on a piece of paper and handed it over. "You might want to talk to the old guy who runs the shoe repair shop, too. Mr. Sam is older'n God and has been there forever. He might know somethin'."

  "Thanks. I'll talk to both of them," Rob said, thinking that he was off to a good start. A brief thought of Val flashed through his mind. No, he certainly had no excuse to call her. "Shall we go collect that free lunch?"

  * * *

  After lunch with Sha'awn, Rob bought a steno pad at the dollar store and headed to the shoe shop, but he hesitated outside the display window. He hadn't considered all the implications when he volunteered to help investigate the case. Though he had learned in the Marines that interviewing people got the best results if rapport was established, "rapport" meant at least an illusion of closeness, and that was something he'd avoided for years. The fact that he hadn't even known that Sha'wan grew up in this neighborhood was a sign of how much distance he had been keeping between himself and others.

  If he could bare body and soul to Val, he could let some barriers down with a shoe repairman. Steeling himself, he entered the shop. "Good afternoon."

  The shop was empty except for a wiry older man behind the counter. He glanced up from polishing a lady's shoe. While not older than God, he was well over sixty, with grizzled hair and a shrewd gaze. "Afternoon. What can I do for you?"

  "You're Mr. Sam?" When the man nodded, Rob continued as he had planned. "I wouldn't be able to leave my boots today since I'm wearing them, but would you repair these? I took them into one repair shop, and the man said he threw away boots that looked better than these."

  Mr. Sam chuckled. "Take one off and let me have a look."

  Rob obliged, handing the lopsided, paint-spattered, and scuffed boot over the counter. The story about the cobbler who refused to repair his boots was no lie.

  Mr. Sam examined the boot closely before handing it back. "Yep, these can be fixed if you like 'em well enough to pay the price."

  "I do. It takes years to get boots this comfortable." As he accepted the battered boot, Rob spotted something that might create a sense of connection: on the shoemaker's forearm was a faded tattoo of the Marine Corps insignia. "You were a Marine?"

  "Once a Marine, always a Marine." The old man's teeth flashed white in his dark face as he glanced down at the tattoo. "Da Nang. First Battalion, twenty-seventh Marines."

  "I was a Marine, too, but more recently, when we were between wars."

  "Be grateful. Vietnam taught me a lot more about life and death than I wanted to know." Mr. Sam glanced at the steno pad. "Now what's your real reason for coming in?"

  So much for subtlety. At least the older man sounded curious rather than hostile. "I'm investigating the murder of Officer James Malloy, which took place in this neighborhood seventeen years ago. Sha'wan Baker suggested that you would be a good person to talk to since you were in business here then."

  Mr. Sam squinted at him. "You're one of the graffiti guys. Sure, pull up that stool and ask away, but I don't know much. Want a cup of coffee?"

  "Thanks. I take it black. As to whether you know anything useful—well, I'm just starting out, so I have a lot to learn." Rob sat on the stool as he'd been told. "Just so you know, I'm working for the attorney of the convicted murderer, and we're looking to find evidence that the man might be innocent."

  "You're trying to clear Daniel Monroe?" Mr. Sam set down a mug of steaming coffee that looked strong enough to etch glass. "I've always wondered if he was the shooter. The boy was in here a time or two. He was real hard on sports shoes. Might've been a little wild, but he didn't strike me as no murderer."

  Rob took a cautious sip of the coffee. He'd been right about the strength. "Monroe was convicted by eyewitness testimony, which isn't always reliable. He's a very tall, strong, broad-shouldered man. Distinctive. I'm wondering if someone of similar height and build might have killed Malloy. Do you recall any young men around this neighborhood who could have been mistaken for Monroe, and who might have been more likely to pull a trigger?"

  "Oh, yeah, there were others who fit that description. There was a fellow called Shooter—he was killed a few years after Malloy died. A couple of cousins named Omar and Isaac Benson. Alike as peas in a pod. Both of 'em went to the Pen." He shook his head sadly. "No shortage of punks who fit that description close enough so that in bad light someone might mistake 'em for Monroe. Could be any of a dozen guys."

  "I checked the sunset time for the day of the shooting and it was dusk. The light can be misleading then."

  "There had been rain and overcast all day, so it was darker than usual." The shoe repairman grimaced. "It's easy to remember a bad day."

  "That's interesting." Rob noted the weather comment so he could check it out later. If the evening was unusually dark, it undercut the eyewitness identification even more. "Did you know Officer Malloy?"

  Mr. Sam nodded. "He was a good cop. Young and idealistic. He'd drop in on these shops regularly so we could get to know and trust him. I'm the only owner who's still here—the other businesses have closed or changed hands. The day before he was murdered, he showed me a picture of his wife and kid. His daughter was just the same age as mine."

  Time didn't diminish the sense of tragedy. A pleasant, idealistic young man who worked hard at his job had died for no good reason. "What was the neighborhood like at the time?"


  "There were problems then with open air drug markets and outsiders coming to buy drugs. Wasn't as bad as some of the neighborhoods farther in the city, but bad enough. Luckily a honcho in the police department lived nearby so we got extra attention, which kept the worst of the drug dealers out of Kensington. We still have problems, but mostly this is a pretty good place to live and work."

  "Were there any police detectives who worked the neighborhood regularly then and might remember who was hanging out here?"

  "There were a couple. Saw 'em here regularly. Now what were their names?" Mr. Sam thought for a long time before shaking his head. "One was named Washington. Can't remember the first name. The other was Xenon Barkley. A smart, tough guy. He knew all the players by their street names and rap sheets. Not much got by Barkley. He was part of the Malloy investigation."

  "Any idea if he's still with the police department?"

  Rob didn't expect an answer, but the older man said, "He quit a few years back when a fancy new police chief decided the detectives were thinkin' too highly of themselves so everyone should rotate into different jobs." Mr. Sam snorted with disgust. "So the experienced detectives were forced out and a lot less murders were solved. The newspaper had a big article about it. Barkley was mentioned as one of the detectives who retired rather than be rotated into traffic or somethin' like that."

  "Sounds like an easy name to find in the phone book if he's still around." Rob held out his hand. "Thanks for your help. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, so is it okay if later I come by with more questions?"

  "Sure. Too many black men sittin' in jail who don't deserve it. If Daniel Monroe is one of 'em, more power to you." Mr. Sam's handshake was Marine tough.

  Rob gave him a business card in case he had any other thoughts, then left. So maybe the murder had taken place under conditions more like night than dusk. It was a start.

  Now he had more names to trace. Maybe, after enough slogging, he would come up with something that might save Daniel Monroe.

  * * *

  Like most lawyers, Val was capable of laser-like concentration when she worked, so she managed to keep thoughts of Rob at bay all morning. That ended when she completed her brief. Kendra had picked up a salad for her, and by the time Val had poured on the dressing, her hormones were rioting. If Rob was in the room, she would plaster herself to him like suntan lotion.

  She hadn't felt so crazed since adolescence. Pent-up demand after long celibacy, but knowing that didn't reduce her yearning.

  She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes until her afternoon meeting, and she couldn't think of a single good reason to call Rob. If she were sixteen, she might have done it and been content to giggle into the phone, but she was a grown woman, for heaven's sake.

  The best way to keep from calling Rob was to call someone else, and she owed one to Rachel. Doctors were harder to track down than lawyers, but it was worth a try.

  She got lucky, and Rachel called back within two minutes of being paged. After they traded hellos, Val said, "Thanks for suggesting I look into the Big Sister/Little Sister program. I met a real sweetheart—well, not a sweetheart maybe, but Lyssie is a totally cool little girl—and the paperwork is now in process. Did you know how many forms have to be filled out? Practically every address I've ever lived at, interviews, references—even a police check! Not that I blame them for being careful."

  "You sound as excited as Kate did when she announced that she was pregnant. Are you still having doubts about your parenting instincts?"

  "One thing at a time. The match isn't official yet." Val took a quick bite of salad. "The caseworker said that since I've lived in Baltimore most of my life, the paperwork should be processed fairly quickly. I hope so—I'm really eager to get started, though heaven knows where I'll find the time. By the way, I need references from four people who have known me for at least ten years. Will you give me one? I figure Dr. Hamilton will look good on the list, but I warn you, there's a long form to fill out."

  "I'm a doctor—long forms are my life," Rachel said dryly. "I'd be happy to do it, but maybe you would be better off with my father. Judge Hamilton is even more impressive than Doctor."

  Val shuddered. "Having watched me grow up, I'm afraid what your dad might say. Do you think he's forgotten the time I built a fort out of his law books, including the ones he had carefully laid out for research?"

  "He hasn't, but nowadays, he likes to think that was an early sign of legal talent on your part." Rachel's voice changed. "So how are you doing with the handsome landlord? Do his waters still run deep?"

  Val almost choked on her salad. A good thing Rachel wasn't here to see her blush. "Very deep. We're having dinner together on Saturday."

  "Splendid! Will it be your first date??"

  Val sighed. "Not exactly. Further details classified under the Privacy Act."

  "That was fast," Rachel said with a chuckle. "He must be something pretty special to get you interested in dating again."

  Val wished she could discuss Rob's tortured history with Rachel—her friend was wonderfully insightful about what made people tick. But Rob's confidences were not to be shared. "He is. One of a kind and really, really nice." She thought of something she could mention. "This morning, I found an origami crane that he'd made and left for me to find. I almost swooned on the spot."

  "A romantic! Val, if you decide you don't want him, I want an introduction."

  "Not your type. You don't like beards." Val glanced at the clock. "Have to run. I'll mail the reference form tonight. Thanks for agreeing to vouch for me, and even more, thanks for suggesting I get a little sister. Kids in the program have to lack access to at least one parent, and poor Lyssie has lost both. She deserves special attention."

  "Thank me after you know her better, and she's thrown a teenage hissy fit," Rachel said. "And when you and Lyssie are better acquainted and in the mood, let's all do something together. A trip out on the boat, maybe."

  "It's a deal, Doc." Val hung up the phone and reached for the handle of the wheeled luggage carrier that held three file boxes she must transfer to her replacement on this case. Someday soon, she promised herself, she would have a life where she wasn't always eating and running.

  But for now... she sighed and grabbed the last cherry tomato before heading out the door.

  Chapter 12

  Despite thinking of Rob whenever she slowed down enough to take a deep breath, Val managed to keep her hormones at bay until Thursday. There was no point in wanting to see him when she didn't have the time to do so.

  Yet despite her impeccable logic, she still wanted to see him, dammit, which is why she decided to stop by the church after leaving Crouse, Resnick on Thursday afternoon. It wasn't far out of her way, and if Rob's pickup truck was there, she could stop and ask a question about her rapidly approaching move. Just a couple of minutes of friendly conversation to appease her hunger to see him. Then she would go home and eat before meeting with Mia Kolski, the legally harassed single mother.

  She had half-convinced herself that he would be away, but his truck was in the lot. When she pulled in beside it, she felt unexpectedly shy about going inside. Two years on the wagon had made her rusty on the rituals of the mating dance.

  Or had she always felt this craven neediness? If so, no wonder she had sworn off men.

  Reminding herself that she was changing her life and this time was supposed to be different, she took a slow breath and climbed out of the car. A quick look around the church showed that the final finishing work was complete, but there was no Rob. She would have to be obvious. No, think of it as direct. Direct was good. Yet she still felt like an anxious teenager when she climbed the stairs to the apartment.

  She rang the bell. Nothing. The truck in the lot didn't mean he was home.

  The door opened as she was turning to leave. Rob loomed over her, casual in his jeans and a T-shirt that showed off his splendidly developed muscles. He lit up like a candle when he saw who was on his doorstep.
/>   Val swallowed, feeling even more like a skittish teenager. Ridiculously so, given that they'd already been to bed together. "Uh, hi. Sorry to interrupt you, but I stopped by to see how the office is coming and thought I'd say hi."

  "I'm glad you did. Come on in. Would you like a soda or something?"

  He stepped back so she could enter the apartment. Clean, spare, and white-walled, it made her think of a monk's cell. Not that she had ever seen a real one. "I have to be home to see a client at seven o'clock, but a glass of ice water would be nice."

  "Iced tea?"

  "That would be even nicer."

  He moved into the small kitchen and pulled a jug from the refrigerator. "Drinking iced tea is one of the few signs of my years in the South."

  "You've moved around a fair amount. Does Baltimore feel like home, or was it just a place for you to go to ground?"

  "Some of both." He poured tea into two ice-filled tumblers and handed her one. "Plus, it was about as far as I could get from California and still be in the U.S."

  She leaned against the edge of the table, which was as casual as she could get when wearing one of her power suits. The kitchen matched the living room's austerity. The only color was a set of whimsical ceramic canisters in radioactive shades of fuchsia, magenta, and orange. "Lively canisters."

  "You mean they stand out like a sore thumb. They were a gift from the family that moved into the first house I renovated. The wife made them herself. She likes bright colors more than I do, but she's a good potter. If you'd like sugar for your tea, it's in the orange one."

  Val didn't want sugar, but she liked the canisters. "They're fun. You need more color in your life."

  "You're right." He ran a slow gaze over her. "Your hair adds a nice bit of brightness to the apartment."

  She didn't quite blush. "Any progress with your investigation?"