The Masterpiece

ROMAN VELASCO CLIMBED the fire escape and swung over the wall onto the

flat roof. Crouching, he moved quickly. Another building abutted the five￾story apartment house, the perfect location for graffiti. Right across the

street was a bank building, and he'd already left a piece on the front door.

Shrugging off his backpack, he pulled out his supplies. He'd have to

work fast. Los Angeles never slept. Even at three in the morning, cars sped

along the boulevard.

This piece would be seen by anyone driving east. He'd be at risk until

he finished, but dressed in black pants and a hooded sweatshirt, he'd be

hard to spot, unless someone were looking for him. Ten minutes. That's all

he needed to leave a parade of characters dancing on the wall-all looking

like the top-hatted businessman from the Monopoly game, the last one

leaping toward the street. He'd stenciled the figure laden with money bags

going into the bank across the street.

The paper stencil hooked on something and tore. Swearing under his

breath, Roman worked quickly to tape it. A wind came up, pulling a portion

away. It was a long stencil and took precious minutes to secure. He grabbed

a can of spray paint and shook it. When he pressed the button, nothing

happened. Cursing, he pulled out another can and started spraying.

A vehicle approached. He glanced down and froze when he spotted a

police car decelerating. Was it the same one that had come by an hour ago,

when he'd been heading for the bank? He'd walked with purpose, hoping

they'd think he was just some guy heading home from a night shift. The carhad slowed, checking him out, and then moved on. As soon as it

disappeared down the street, he'd done the work on the glass door of the

bank building.

Roman went back to work. He only needed a few more minutes. He

kept spraying.

Brake lights glowed hot red on the street. The police car had stopped in

front of the bank. A white beam of light fixed on the front door.

One more minute. Roman made two more sweeps and started the

careful removal of the stencil. He'd had to use more tape than usual, so it

took longer. The last section of paper peeled away, and he added three small

black interlocking letters that looked like a bird in flight.

One officer was out of the car, flashlight in hand.

Roman crouched low, rolled the stencil, and stuffed it into his backpack

with the spray cans. The beam of light rose and moved closer. It flashed

right over him as he started moving across the roof. It traveled down and

away. Relieved, Roman shouldered the pack and rose slightly.

The light returned, silhouetting him against the wall. He bolted, face

averted.

The beam of light tracked his escape across the roof. He heard voices

and racing feet. Heart hammering, Roman took a flying leap onto the next

building. He hit hard, rolled to his feet, and kept going. The police

department probably had a file on the Bird's work. He wasn't a teenager

anymore, facing community service for doing gang tagging on a wall. If he

got caught now, he'd do jail time.

Worse, he'd destroy the budding reputation Roman Velasco was earning

as a legitimate artist. Graffiti earned street cred, but didn't help in a gallery.

One officer had returned to the squad car. Tires squealed. They weren't

giving up.

Roman spotted an open window a couple of buildings over and decided

to climb up rather than down.

A car door slammed. A man shouted. Must be a slow night if these two

cops wanted to spend this much time hunting a graffiti artist.Roman swung over the edge of another roof. A half-empty can of spray

paint fell out of his jostled pack and exploded on the pavement below.

The startled officer drew his gun and pointed it at Roman as he climbed.

"LAPD! Stop where you are!"

Gripping a ledge, Roman pulled himself up and went in through the

open apartment window. He held his breath. A man snored in the bedroom.

Roman crept forward. He hadn't gone two steps before bumping into

something. His eyes adjusted to the dim light from the kitchen appliances.

The occupant must be a hoarder. The cluttered living room could be

Roman's undoing. He left his backpack behind the sofa.

Opening the front door quietly, he peered out and listened. No

movement, no voices. The man in the bedroom snorted and stirred. Roman

slipped out quickly and closed the door behind him. The emergency exit

door was stuck. If he forced it, he'd make noise. He found the elevator, his

heart pounding faster as it took its sweet time rising. Bing. The doors

opened. Roman stepped inside and punched the button for the underground

parking garage.

Just stay cool. He shoved the hood back and raked his hands through his

hair. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The elevator doors opened.

The basement parking lot was well lit. Roman held the door open and

waited a few seconds to scope the area before he stepped out. All clear.

Relieved, he headed for the ramp leading up to the side street.

The police car sat at the curb. Doors opened, and both officers emerged.

For a split second, Roman debated inventing a quick story for why he'd

be heading out for a walk at three thirty in the morning, but somehow he

knew no story was going to keep him out of cuffs.

He bolted up the street toward a residential neighborhood a block off the

main boulevard. The officers followed like hounds after a fox.

Roman went down one street, along a paved driveway, and over a wall.

He thought he was home free until he realized he wasn't alone in the

backyard. A German shepherd leaped to its feet and gave chase. Roman

raced across the yard and over the back fence. The dog hit the fence and clawed at it, barking fiercely. Roman landed hard on the other side and

knocked over a couple of garbage cans in his haste to get away. Now every

other canine up and down the street was sounding the alarm. Roman moved

fast, keeping low and in the shadows.

Lights went on. He could hear voices.

Inquiries would slow down the cops, and they'd be less likely to go over

fences and trespass. Roman moved fast for a few blocks and then slowed to

a normal gait to catch his breath.

The dogs had stopped barking. He heard a car and slipped behind a

privet hedge. The police car crossed the next street, not slowing as it headed

back toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Maybe he'd lost them. Rather than

push his luck any further, Roman waited another few minutes before

venturing out to the sidewalk.

It took him an hour to make his way back to his BMW. Sliding into the

driver's seat, he couldn't resist driving east to check out his work.

The bank would have its front door cleaned by noon, but the high piece

on the wall across the street would last longer. The Bird had gained enough

notoriety over the past few years that some building owners left the graffiti

untouched. He hoped that would be the case with this one. He'd come too

close to getting caught to have the work buffed and forgotten in a day or

two.

Freeway traffic had already picked up. Fighting exhaustion, Roman

turned on the air-conditioning. Cold air blasted him, keeping him wide￾awake as he drove up into Topanga Canyon, feeling drained and vaguely

depressed. He should be reveling after his successful night raid, not feeling

like an old man in need of a recliner.

He slowed and turned onto the gravel drive down to his house. The push

of a button opened the garage door. Three more cars bigger than his 740Li

could fit in the space. He shut off the engine and sat for a few seconds as

the door whirred closed behind him. As he started to get out of his car, a wave of weakness hit him. He sat

still for a minute, waiting for the odd sensation to pass. It hit him again

when he headed for the back door. Staggering, he went down on one knee.

He anchored his fist on the concrete and kept his head down.

The spell passed, and Roman stood slowly. He needed sleep. That's all.

One full night would fix him up. He opened the back door to dead silence.

Unzipping and removing the black hoodie, he headed down the hallway

to his bedroom. He was too tired to take a shower, too tired to turn the air

conditioner down to sixty-five, too tired to eat, though his stomach cramped

with hunger. Stripping off his clothes, he sprawled across the unmade bed.

Maybe he'd get lucky tonight and sleep without dreaming. Usually, the high

he got from one of his night raids earned a payback of nightmares from his

days in the Tenderloin. White Boy never stayed buried for long.

Morning shot spears of sunlight. Roman closed his eyes, craving

darkness.

Grace Moore got up early, knowing she would need plenty of time to cross

the valley and arrive on time for her first day as a temp worker. She wasn't

sure the job would pay well enough to get a small apartment for herself and

her son, Samuel, but it was a start. The longer she lived with the Garcias,

the more complicated things became.

Selah and Ruben were in no hurry for her to leave. Selah still hoped

Grace would change her mind and sign the adoption papers. Grace didn't

want to give Selah false hope, but she had nowhere else to go. Every day

that passed increased her desire to be independent again.

She'd sent out dozens of résumés since being laid off over a year ago

and only received a few calls back for interviews. None had produced a job.

Every employer wanted a college graduate these days, and she'd only

completed a year and a half before putting her education on hold so she

could support her husband, Patrick, until he graduated.Looking back, she wondered if Patrick had ever loved her. Every

promise Patrick had made, he'd broken. He had needed her. He had used

her. It was that simple.

Aunt Elizabeth was right. She was a fool.

Samuel stirred in his crib. Grace lifted him gently, thankful he was

awake. She'd have time to nurse him and change his diaper before handing

him over to Selah. "Good morning, little man." Grace breathed in his baby

scent and sat on the edge of the twin bed she'd just made. She opened her

blouse and shifted him so he could nurse.

The circumstances of his conception and the complications he'd added

to her life ceased to matter the moment she first held him in her arms. He

hadn't been an hour old before she knew she couldn't give him up for

adoption, no matter how much better his life might be with the Garcias.

She'd told Selah and Ruben as much, but every day brought its own

anguish as Selah took over his care while Grace went out looking for a way

to support herself and her son.

Others do it, Lord. Why can't I?

Others had family. She had only Aunt Elizabeth.

Father, please let this job work out. Help me, Lord. Please. I know I

don't deserve it, but I'm asking. I'm begging.

Thankfully, she'd passed the interview and tests with the temp agency

and been added to their list. Mrs. Sandoval had a job opening. "I've sent

this man four highly qualified people, and he rejected every one. I don't

think he knows what he needs. It's the only work I can offer you right now."

Grace would have agreed to work for the devil himself if it meant a

regular paycheck.

The sound of chimes pulled Roman up out of the darkness. Had he dreamed

he was in Westminster Abbey? He rolled over. His body had just relaxed

when the chimes started again. Someone had pushed the doorbell. He'd liketo get his hands on the owner who installed the blasted system. Cursing,

Roman pulled a pillow over his head, hoping to muffle the song that could

be heard from one end of the five-thousand-square-foot house to the other.

Silence returned. The interloper had probably gotten the message and

left.

Roman tried to go back to sleep. When the chimes started again, he

shouted in frustration and stood up. A wave of weakness surged again.

Knocking over a half-empty bottle of water and the alarm clock, he caught

himself before he pitched face-first onto the floor. Three times in less than

twenty-four hours. He might have to resort to prescription drugs to get the

rest he needed. But right now, all he wanted to do was unleash his temper

on the intruder who was ringing his bell.

Pulling on sweats, Roman grabbed a wrinkled T-shirt off the carpet and

headed barefoot down the hall. Whoever stood on the other side of his front

door was going to wish they'd never set foot on his property. The chimes

started in again just as he yanked open the door. A young woman glanced

up in surprise and then backed away when he stepped over the threshold.

"Can't you read?" He jabbed a finger at the sign posted next to the front

door. "No solicitors!"

Brown eyes wide, she put her hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

Her dark, curly hair was cropped short, and her black blazer, white

blouse, and pearls screamed office worker. A faint recollection flickered in

his mind, but Roman dismissed it. "Get lost!" He stepped back and

slammed the door. He hadn't gotten far when she knocked lightly. Yanking

the door open again, he glared at her. "What is wrong with you?"

She looked scared enough to run, but stood her ground. "I'm here on

your orders, Mr. Velasco."

His orders? "Like I want a woman on my doorstep first thing in the

morning."

"Mrs. Sandoval said nine o'clock. I'm Grace Moore. From the temp

He spit a four-letter word. Her eyes flickered, and her cheeks filled with

color. His anger dissolved like salt in water. Great. Just great. "I forgot you

were coming."

She looked like she'd rather be any place but here, not that he could

blame her. He debated telling her to come back tomorrow, but knew she

wouldn't. He was up now. He might as well stay up. Jerking his head, he let

the door drift open. "Come on in."

He'd gone through four temps in the last month. Mrs. Sandoval was

losing patience faster than he was. "I'll send you one more, Mr. Velasco,

and if she doesn't work out, I'll give you the name of my competitor."

He was looking for someone to field calls and handle the mundane

details of correspondence, bills, scheduling. He didn't want a drill sergeant,

a maiden aunt, or an amateur psychologist to analyze his artist's psyche.

Nor did he need a curvy blonde in a low-cut blouse who pushed papers

around, but didn't have a clue where to file them. She had ideas about what

an artist might want besides a woman with office skills. He might have

taken her up on her offer if he hadn't had enough experience with women

like her. She lasted three days.

Not hearing any footsteps behind him, Roman paused and looked back.

The girl was still standing outside. "What're you waiting for? An engraved

invitation?"

She entered and closed the door quietly behind her. She looked ready to

bolt.

He offered an apologetic smile. "Long night."

She murmured something he didn't catch, and he decided not to ask her

to repeat it. He felt the onset of a headache, and the click of her high heels

on the stone-tile floor wasn't helping. He was thirsty and needed caffeine.

He went into the kitchen adjoining the living room. She stopped at the edge

of his sunken living room and gaped at the cathedral ceilings and wall of

glass overlooking Topanga Canyon. Sunlight streamed through the

windows, reminding him most people were serving time on their nine-to-five times.Opening the stainless steel refrigerator, Roman grabbed a bottle of

orange juice. He removed the cap, drank from the bottle, and lowered it.

"What'd you say your name was?"

"Grace Moore."

She had the right look for the job-cool, calm, collected. Pretty,

midtwenties, trim and fit, but not his type. He liked voluptuous blondes who

knew the score.

Feeling his perusal, she looked at him. Women usually did, but not with

her guarded expression. "You have a beautiful view, Mr. Velasco."

"Yeah, well, everything gets old eventually." He put the bottle of orange

juice on the counter. She looked uncomfortable. Understandable,

considering his less-than-friendly greeting. He smiled slightly. She looked

back at him without expression. Good. He needed a worker bee, not a

girlfriend. Would she take offense at his first request?

"Do you know how to make coffee?"

She looked over at the one-touch automatic coffee-and-espresso

machine that could grind beans, heat milk, and make a latte in less than

sixty seconds with the press of a pinkie.

"Not a cup. A full pot of real coffee." He left the kitchen to her. "Use the

regular coffeemaker."

"Do you like it strong or weak?"

"Strong." He headed down the hall. "We'll talk more after I get cleaned

up."

Roman stepped into a shower big enough for three. Lathering himself,

he added side jets to the overhead waterfall. If he hadn't made such a bad

first impression on Grace Moore, he'd let her wait while he had a twenty￾minute, full-body water massage. Shutting off the tap, he stepped out,

kicked aside used towels, and grabbed the last clean one off the cabinet

shelf. Clothes spilled over the hamper. He had one pair of clean jeans left in

the armoire. Pulling on a black T-shirt, he looked for shoes. He found the

sneakers he'd worn the night before. No clean socks in the drawer.

The coffee smelled good. She was rearranging everything in the

dishwasher. "I didn't tell you to clean the kitchen."

She straightened. "Would you rather I didn't?"

"Go right ahead."

She opened the lower cabinets and straightened again, perplexed.

"Where do you keep your dishwashing soap?"

"I'm out."

"Do you have a grocery list?"

"You're the personal assistant. Start one." She'd already cleaned the

granite counter. He hadn't seen it that shiny since he moved in. "Where's

the OJ?"

"You said you wanted coffee." She filled a mug and set it in front of

him. "If you use cream or sugar, you'll have to tell me where you hide

them."

No sarcasm. He liked her tentative smile. "I take it black." He took a

sip. She'd passed the first test. "Not bad." Better than Starbucks, but he

didn't want to hand out compliments too soon. There was more to the job

than making coffee-a lot more. He hoped she'd be more amenable to a

variety of duties than the others Mrs. Sandoval had sent. One told him he

could make his own coffee.

"I'll show you where you'll be working." He led her down the east wing

and opened a door. "It's all yours." He didn't have to look inside to know

what she faced.

The other temps all had something to say about it, but none seemed

capable of knowing where and how to start. Would this girl be up to the

task?

Grace Moore stood silent for a few seconds, then carefully stepped past

him. She picked her way to the center of the room and looked around at the

stacks of papers. The closet doors were open, revealing cardboard storage.

Roman debated leaving, but knew there would be the inevitable

questions. "Think you can bring order to my chaos?" The girl was silent so

long, he felt defensive. "Are you going to say something?"

"It'll take longer than a week to organize all this."

"I never said it had to be done in a week."

She looked back at him. "That's the longest you've kept a personal

assistant, isn't it?"

The staffing manager must have warned her. "Yeah. That's about right, I

guess. The last one left after three days, but then she thought all an artist

needed was a nude model."

Grace Moore blushed crimson. "I don't model."

"Not a problem." Roman gave her a swift once-over and leaned against

the doorjamb. "That's not what I'm after." She looked nervous again. He

didn't want to scare this one away. "I need someone detail-oriented."

"Do you have a specific way you want your-" her gesture

encompassed the mess-"information sorted?"

"If I did, the place wouldn't be such a mess."

She frowned slightly as she surveyed the room. "You'll want some kind

of easily maintained system, I would imagine."

"If there is such a thing. Think you can do it?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to try. I'll have a better idea of what you need

after I go through all this."

Roman relaxed. She was frank and honest. He liked that. He had the

feeling this girl would know exactly what to do and how to get it done

quickly. The sooner, the better. "I'll leave you to it, then." He finished his

coffee. "You might last longer than all the rest." He gave her what he hoped

was an encouraging smile and headed down the hall.

She came out of the room. "Mr. Velasco, we need to talk about a few

essentials."

He stopped, hoping nothing was about to spoil his sense of relief.

Roman debated leaving, but knew there would be the inevitable

questions. "Think you can bring order to my chaos?" The girl was silent so

long, he felt defensive. "Are you going to say something?"

"It'll take longer than a week to organize all this."

"I never said it had to be done in a week."

She looked back at him. "That's the longest you've kept a personal

assistant, isn't it?"

The staffing manager must have warned her. "Yeah. That's about right, I

guess. The last one left after three days, but then she thought all an artist

needed was a nude model."

Grace Moore blushed crimson. "I don't model."

"Not a problem." Roman gave her a swift once-over and leaned against

the doorjamb. "That's not what I'm after." She looked nervous again. He

didn't want to scare this one away. "I need someone detail-oriented."

"Do you have a specific way you want your-" her gesture

encompassed the mess-"information sorted?"

"If I did, the place wouldn't be such a mess."

She frowned slightly as she surveyed the room. "You'll want some kind

of easily maintained system, I would imagine."

"If there is such a thing. Think you can do it?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to try. I'll have a better idea of what you need

after I go through all this."

Roman relaxed. She was frank and honest. He liked that. He had the

feeling this girl would know exactly what to do and how to get it done

quickly. The sooner, the better. "I'll leave you to it, then." He finished his

coffee. "You might last longer than all the rest." He gave her what he hoped

was an encouraging smile and headed down the hall.

She came out of the room. "Mr. Velasco, we need to talk about a few

essentials."

He stopped, hoping nothing was about to spoil his sense of relief.

She stepped forward, her hand clenched around the leather strap.

"Please move."

Roman saw she'd already cleared work space on the card table and

made neat piles. He didn't want this girl to leave. "Give me a hint why

you're quitting already."

"I could give you a list."

"Look." He lifted his hands. "You're catching me on a bad day."

"Mrs. Sandoval said you don't have any good ones." She took a shaky

breath and met his gaze.

She clearly regretted speaking so quickly, but he couldn't argue. "Yeah,

well, the people she sent weren't a good fit. The whole process has been

frustrating, to say the least."

"That's not my fault, Mr. Velasco."

"I didn't say it was."

She took a step back. "I'm not trying to make you angry."

Was that it? "I'm not angry with you. I'm just . . ." He muttered a foul

word under his breath. "I don't know what I want, but I think you're what I

need."

She probably came from a nice tidy life. Two parents, nice home in a

nice suburb, private school, college. A class act. He hadn't said anything

worse than what she'd hear in a mall, but clearly, she found him offensive.

He'd have to be more careful if he wanted to keep Grace Moore around.

"You'll be working in here. I'll be in my studio. We won't be around each

other that much."

"A personal assistant has to work in close contact with her boss. It's the

nature of the job."

"Personal is a loaded word." He let his smile turn rogue. Seeing that

didn't go over well, he removed any hint of innuendo. "Maybe I should call

you something else."

"You can call me Ms. Moore."

She was unbending a little, but still setting boundaries. Okay. He'd

honor them. "Ms. Moore it is." He could be respectful . . . when the

situation called for it. She frowned, studying him like a bug under glass.

"At least give me two weeks before you quit."

Her shoulders drooped slightly. "Two weeks." She made it sound like a

lifetime, but she let the purse strap slip off her shoulder. "Please don't swear

at me again."

"If I swear, it won't be aimed at you. But I'll try to be careful when

you're around. Deal?" He held out his hand. She bit her lip before she

accepted the gesture. Her hand was cold and trembled slightly before she

withdrew it.

"I'd better get back to work."

He got the hint. If she proved to be as efficient as she looked, things

might just work out this time. He found himself curious. "Why a temp

agency?"

"It's the only thing I could find." She blushed.

He felt on firmer ground. "Good to know you need this job as much as I

need an assistant." She didn't say anything. He tilted his head, studying her.

"Where did you work before the temp agency?"

"At a public relations firm."

"And left because . . . ?"

"I was redundant, as the British would say." She glanced at him. "I have

a letter of recommendation, if you'd like to see it."

"I'm sure Mrs. Sandoval vetted you."

She took a deep breath. "I do need this job, Mr. Velasco, but I'm sure

you understand I'm looking for something better than temp work. I'll give

you my best while I'm here." She gave a slight shrug, as if not holding

much hope that her best would be good enough. "You're a far cry from my

last boss."

"A Philistine?" There was that blush again. He couldn't remember

having met a girl who blushed at all, let alone three times in a few hours.

"He was a gentleman."

Meaning Roman wasn't. He'd been taught to play the role when

necessary. "Why aren't you still with him?"

"He retired and turned his business over to another firm. They were

fully staffed."

Roman looked her over again. He wasn't sure he liked anyone making

rules in his house, but then this one had done more in two hours than the

combined efforts of the other four. And he liked her. He didn't know why.

Maybe it was her complete lack of interest in him. Might be nice to have

someone who did the work and didn't ask too many questions.

"So, we're good?"

"For two weeks."

He gave a soft laugh. "Okay. We've both got work to do. Let's take care

of the order so you can get going on yours."