An Imperfect Process (20 page)

"Graffiti? Like the Graffiti Guy I read about in the newspaper a while back?"

He smiled faintly. "I
am
the Graffiti Guy, or at least the original one. These days, most of the work is done by Sha'wan Baker. He's a terrific kid."

She shook her head, impressed but unnerved. "I feel like you didn't just shave off your beard, but had a personality transplant."

He frowned. "This sounds like something that needs to be talked about. Do you really feel that I'm that different? I can grow the beard back."

"Don't worry, I'll adjust." She studied his face, trying to integrate this glittering man of the world with the warm, sensitive lover. "But you're a real moving target, Rob. When we first met, I thought you were a hardworking, uncomplicated carpenter. Since then you've become a crusader, a Marine, an investigator, a man with a past, and now a philanthropist who looks like a world-class tycoon. Even though all these things are true, it's kind of like sleeping with a male harem." She smiled a little. "Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. But I keep wondering if I really know you."

He pulled the car over to the curb and turned to face her. "Close your eyes."

When she obeyed, she heard the creak of his weight shifting on the seat as he leaned across the console. A large hand smoothed back her hair before cupping her cheek. The callused hand of a carpenter, not the smooth fingers of a businessman.

Then he kissed her with the warmth and tenderness that were so much a part of their lovemaking. This was the man she thought she knew, not the soulless overachiever who had showed up on her doorstep this evening. The vulnerability was still there under his polished surface, as was the indefinable quality that made him Rob.

"Now do I seem familiar?" he whispered before deepening the kiss.

Liquid heat pooled demandingly, making her ache for his touch. "Point taken," she said shakily. "You're still you, and you were right—kissing puts dinner in jeopardy."

"How hungry are you?" His lips moved to her throat, unerringly finding a pulse point that magnified the erotic effect.

She considered and pulled away. "Pretty hungry. Remember, pleasure delayed is pleasure multiplied."

He took a deep breath and put the car in gear again. "You're right. We can continue this later in a less public place."

"Given the attention this car is attracting, that's a good idea." Val glanced in the mirror and decided her new no- smudge lipstick worked pretty well. "Where did you get your computer training? You mentioned it so offhandedly that it sounded like you went to a trade school, but now I suspect it was some high-class place like MIT."

"Why would I want to study at a second-rate dump like MIT?" He gave her an appalled glance. "I went to Stanford."

She laughed, glad his sense of humor was still recognizable. "Silicon Valley. California boy. Of course Stanford. I should have guessed. I've always thought of myself as open-minded, but you're a real challenge to my preconceptions, Rob."

"If I'm hard to classify, it's because I don't fit into any normal framework."

Though his voice was level, Val heard the underlying bleakness. "Normal is a myth," she said quietly. "It sounds to me as if you create a place for yourself wherever you go." She rested her left hand on his thigh. After a moment, his right hand came down to rest on it.

As they drove north into the Maryland countryside, Val observed Rob from the corner of her eye. He was a remarkably fine-looking man with or without the beard, but she couldn't help feeling that their relationship was built on ever-shifting sand.

* * *

Rob should have known better than to try to make the evening perfect. The first crack had appeared as soon as Val opened her door, looking like an invitation to sin, and froze at the sight of his shaved self. Though she claimed she would adjust quickly, for the rest of the evening she seemed more than usually reserved.

He should have warned her that he was taking the damned beard off, but as he'd said, it was an impulse. The decision to come out of his shell was only one of his reasons. Equally strong was looking in the mirror and deciding the beard looked sort of silly with his CEO suit. Since he wanted to impress her, out came the scissors and razor.

Belatedly it occurred to him that since she had spent her formative years in a commune, she might prefer a beard to the clean-shaven look. He'd discovered that the beard made him seem more approachable. His unadorned face made people wary, and it was having that effect on Val.

His attempt to impress her with the Rolls hadn't been much better. Though she liked the car, he should have realized that a woman who was perfectly okay with a battered pickup wasn't going to swoon over an expensive set of wheels.

His optimism revived when they reached the restaurant. Well north of the city, the Milton Inn was a genuine coaching inn built in the first half of the eighteenth century, and as romantic a setting as anyone could want. But a getaway it wasn't. Not only was Val greeted by name, she waved to several acquaintances as they were escorted to a table in one of the charming rooms.

She even stopped at the table of an older couple to perform introductions. "My checkered past is about to be exposed, Rob. As a kid, I was a member of a girl gang, and this tolerant couple here, Judge Charles Hamilton and Julia Corsi Hamilton, were parents of a couple of my buddies. Folks, this is my friend Rob Smith."

The judge, a distinguished man with silvered hair, rose to shake hands. "Val was the gang's attorney," he said with amusement. "Even at age ten she had an amazing ability to construct watertight defenses when the girls got out of line."

"She can certainly talk circles around me," Rob agreed, nodding to Mrs. Hamilton. The judge's sharp glance made Rob wonder if he had been recognized, but if so, he said nothing.

After taking leave of her friends, Val moved on to their table on the other side of the room. "Sorry," she said after taking her seat. "Having lived here most of my life, I just about always see people I know. Incidentally, Julia is the mother of Kate, your friend Donovan's wife. She and the judge are newlyweds. They were both widowed, so when they married, Kate and my friend Rachel became stepsisters as well as friends."

"You mean fellow gang members." Rob studied Val, admiring the way the silk draped over her lush figure. "It must be wonderful to have such long-term friendships."

"Yes, but it's hard to get away with anything when every time you turn around, you see someone who knew you when you were knee-high to a squirrel."

He tried to imagine being so much a part of a place, and failed. Maybe if he stayed in Baltimore long enough, he'd find out.

After a quick scan of the menu, she made her decision and set it aside. "Tell me about being the Graffiti Guy."

Her choice of subject broke the ice, and over food and wine they deepened their knowledge of each other. He approved of her becoming a Big Sister because he knew how valuable such programs could be, but hoped the Little Sister didn't take up too much of Val's time. He wanted as much of that time as he could get.

By and large they stayed away from the subject of Daniel Monroe, except when Rob said, "It's occurred to me that Monroe might be a good one to ask about other young men in the neighborhood who might be confused with him. Do you mind if I visit him in prison without you there?"

"Not at all." She swallowed a bite of fruit tart and closed her eyes in brief ecstasy. "Kendra might also have some ideas. She and Daniel are primary source material, after all."

"Another primary source is the police detective who handled that case, Xenon Barkley. I have a meeting with him on Monday. He might be able to tell me things that never made it into the police report."

Val nodded approvingly. "I'm scheduled to meet with the public defender who handled the original case next week. It's going to be tricky—I don't want him to feel that I'm attacking his work. If he's cooperative, he might have some good information."

Rob said, "Looking the way you do tonight, there isn't a man alive who wouldn't cooperate with you."

She smiled, tilting her head to one side. "You make me feel like the most irresistible woman since Cleopatra."

As she moved her head, one of the tiny shimmering butterflies in her hair came loose and drifted to the table. He picked it up with one fingertip and gently replaced it in her red curls. "If Cleopatra was anything like you, Marc Anthony was a lucky man."

Yet despite the romantic banter and the passionate lovemaking that came when they returned to Val's house, the evening wasn't what he had hoped for. As she slept in his arms, he stared at the dark ceiling, knowing that they were further apart than when she had visited him at his apartment.

He wanted more from her, and didn't know to get it.

Chapter 14

"Mr. Barkley?"

The man at the desk glanced up from his computer. "C'mon in and have a seat. I'll be through with this in a minute."

Rob took a chair, thinking that the private security industry had done well by the former police detective. This discreet, expensive agency offered a range of services from detecting white-collar crime to providing bodyguards for international businessmen. As a vice president, Barkley had a sleek, spacious office that resembled an upscale law firm.

There was nothing sleek about Barkley, though. Muscular and bullet-headed, he'd broken his nose more than once and was clearly not a man to be trifled with. He would have been a scary interrogator in his detective days. Rob's style was quieter, depending on persuasion rather than the coercive power of the law.

Barkley finished at the computer and stood to offer his hand. "I'm glad you called. Always ready to talk about when I was at the cop shop." His shrug indicated the comfortably furnished office. "Private security put my kids through college, but it hasn't got the same excitement." Taking his seat again, he said, "You're writing an article about the Malloy case now that his murderer has run out of appeals?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression. I'm a private investigator, not a journalist."

Barkley's bushy brows arched. "Why are you investigating this case? It has human interest for a news story, but the facts were established years ago. There's nothing left to investigate."

Rob hesitated, sensing that Barkley would not approve of his purpose, but he didn't want to lie. "I represent the family of Daniel Monroe. Monroe has always maintained his innocence, so this is a last ditch effort to find evidence that might exonerate him."

"Innocent!" Barkley slammed his chair forward, his affability vanished. "The bastard is guilty as sin. The night he's executed, I'm breaking out a bottle of champagne I set aside for the occasion."

Rob kept his voice level. "He was convicted on eyewitness testimony, which is notoriously unreliable."

"Tell that to Brenda Harris, the woman Monroe attacked. The other witnesses were across the street, but Monroe physically assaulted her. He was right in her face, and she knew damned well who she was identifying."

"Yet she couldn't pick him out of a photo lineup. It wasn't until later, when he was the only familiar face in a real lineup, that she decided he was the one."

Barkley shrugged. "Harris was badly rattled by the assault and seeing a man murdered right in front of her. Not surprising that she couldn't make a positive ID a few hours later. The other two witnesses picked him out easily enough."

But they had been farther away under poor lighting conditions. Brenda Harris, who had the best look at the killer, hadn't recognized him when she first saw his picture. Only later did she become certain of his guilt. Rob said mildly, "There are cases when a victim has misidentified a rapist.

The assault was over in seconds, and she might have had a much better impression of his general build than his face."

Barkley snorted. "Of course Monroe's family wants to believe it was mistaken identity. Every criminal in the world has a mother who will claim that he's a good boy who fell in with bad company. If you believe 'em, the prisons are full of innocent men, every damned one of them."

"Most convicted criminals are guilty," Rob agreed. "But mistakes are made. DNA tests have proved that."

"Yeah, but Monroe is no mistake." Barkley's face was like granite. "You've read the case files, so you know that he started by shooting Malloy in the face. When the kid fell to the ground, screaming, Monroe stood over him and pumped five more slugs into him. As cold-blooded a murder as I ever investigated."