An Imperfect Process (16 page)

Delicately perched on the Corian vanity in her bathroom was an origami bird. She lifted it wonderingly, balancing the feather weight on her palm. Rob had taken a piece of yellow lined legal paper and transformed it into this magical creature. A crane, she thought.

She unexpectedly found herself blinking hard as she remembered Jimmy, a young musician she had dated in college. Charming, talented, and self-destructive, he was the only other man she'd ever known who might have done something so whimsical and romantic. One of the boyfriends she had tried to save, Jimmy had died of a drug overdose a year or so after they broke up.

Who could have guessed that a carpenter/Marine/computer wizard could be as romantic as a doomed musician? Not that Rob didn't have plenty of baggage of his own, but at least he didn't seem self-destructive. Maybe she was making progress on the relationship front.

Or maybe not. Time would tell. Lightly she kissed the origami beak before setting the crane down and heading into her day.

Chapter 11

Rob found himself whistling as he swung into his truck. Life might have become more complicated overnight, but for the first time in years, he was looking forward to challenges rather than trying to hide from them.

Since he and Val had laid out plans for the investigation, today he'd discover how rusty his skills were. Luckily, his most recent renovation was finished with the new residents ready to move in, so he could devote all of his attention to Daniel Monroe's case.

Despite the years that had passed since the original crime, there would still be some information out there if he dug hard enough. Given how cursory the original police investigation had been, there might be a lot of information if he looked in the right places. The question was where to start.

As he headed toward Northern Parkway, his cell phone rang. He sighed and pulled over to the curb. If there was one thing he should have learned by now, it's that life seldom went according to plan.

"Hi, boss, it's Sha'wan," his caller said cheerfully. "The Crabtown shopping center got hit by taggers again last night. Can you come help clean it up?"

Rob hesitated, thinking of his investigation. But it was important to obliterate graffiti quickly, and Sha'wan was teaching a class at the Fresh Air community center that afternoon. The two of them should be able to take care of this job in a couple of hours if they worked together. "I'll be there in half an hour."

As he headed for his apartment to change his clothes, he realized that the Crabtown shopping center was near where Officer Jim Malloy was killed, and Kendra and Daniel had lived only a few blocks away. It looked like he was being given some direction on where to start his investigation.

* * *

Like Kensington, the neighborhood it served, Crabtown had seen better days but still functioned. The small strip center included a locally owned supermarket, a dollar store, a hair salon, a fried chicken and crab house, a shoemaker, and a couple of other small shops. Today, the center also had graffiti blaring on the sides and the upper level, which was home to several offices.

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."