Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (17 page)

“Sarabeth,” Monk said, confused. “What are you doing? You promised me you wouldn’t leave the apartment.”

“I know. But I was feeling better. And I knew Mr. Ito would need help keeping the place going.”

“But you promised.” Monk turned to me, accusingly. “You knew she was here, didn’t you?”

“I saw her through the window,” I said, which was almost true.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” said Monk, “instead of dragging me down here like she was some kind of thief?”

“Don’t blame Natalie,” said Sarabeth.

Hold on,
I thought. Wait a minute. He wasn’t blaming me. All of a sudden, she was shifting the focus.

“When Natalie took you away, I started to get stir-crazy. It’s not her fault. It’s mine. I should have kept my word.”

“You should have,” Monk grumbled. I could tell he wasn’t completely convinced.

With a snap and a fluorescent buzz, the overhead lights went on. “Hello? Who’s there?” Down the row of Shivas, I could see the slim silhouette of Takumi Ito, followed by the bulkier mass of Todd Avery.

“Mr. Ito? Todd? It’s me, Sarabeth.”

“Sarabeth,” said Todd, and almost broke into a run. “What are you doing out of bed? Mr. Monk, you shouldn’t have let her get out of bed.”

“Don’t blame Adrian,” said Sarabeth. “It was all my fault.”

“You should be at home,” said Ito, joining in the reprimand.

Sarabeth reiterated her desire to come back to work. Ito
refused and entrusted us to get her home immediately. “Todd and I will take care of business just fine,” he said.

“But you don’t know the system.”

“I’m learning the system very quickly,” Ito told her. “For example . . .” And he pointed to the four Buddhas. “These are the ones we’ve been looking for, Todd. They should be on the loading dock.”

“Are they copies?” I asked.

“Cheap copies,” said Ito. “They don’t even pretend to be good. We need to get these wrapped in blankets and out the door. Am I right, Sarabeth?”

“If that’s what the computer says.” Sarabeth threw them a tired smile. “It looks like I’m not even needed.”

“On the contrary. You’re needed too much. Maybe next week, if you’re feeling up to it. By then I hope to have hired a few people. You’ll have a new boss to boss around.” Everyone chuckled except for Monk and me.

Todd stayed to deal with the statues, getting on his two-way radio to talk to someone in the loading dock. Ito made us promise again to take Sarabeth directly home and escorted us as far as the stairwell before he headed one floor up and the rest of us headed one floor down.

“We don’t have to go, Adrian,” Sarabeth said, looking sweetly contrite. “You came here to investigate and now they’re making you take me home.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I can come back later.”

“If you want, we can stay. Mr. Ito doesn’t have to know.”

“No,” said Monk. “It’s more important for you to keep your word.”

When we got to Haight Street, Sarabeth asked Monk if he wanted to come in, but he said no and she didn’t press the point. He remained silently strapped into the front passenger seat as we watched her unlock the door to the ground-floor apartment and step inside.

I checked the rearview mirror just before pulling out—and caught a glimpse of the red Grand Am pulling into a space near the far corner.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mr. Monk and the Other Man

J
ust a few months ago, Monk almost drowned. I know that doesn’t sound serious. At least not for us. Monk and I are always almost drowning or getting shot or poisoned or pushed out of hot air balloons. It comes with the territory.

But this last time was bad. He’d been in the water for more than fifteen minutes and had to be put into a medically induced coma while the swelling in his brain went down. After he was revived, the doctors were concerned about the chance of permanent brain damage. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when, just a few days later, Monk solved another very thorny case.

But I knew better. I was at Monk’s side the whole time, and his recovery had been touch and go. As for the thorny case, I actually had to do some of the solving myself when he couldn’t quite remember a suspect’s name or a vital clue. Even now, months later, he would have little lapses, especially at the end of a long day. Sometimes I would catch him just staring into space, which is normal for a lot of people, but not so much for Monk.

When we got back to Monk’s apartment that afternoon, he was a little like that. Quiet and moody and distracted.
When he finally did speak, I was relieved to find out he was just mad, nothing more.

“I know what you and Devlin were up to.” He was sitting in the middle of his sofa, his hands on his knees. “A bit of advice. On your next stakeout, don’t use a red car or park illegally. It draws attention.”

“I’m sorry, Adrian. I really am. But you totally dismissed Sarabeth as a suspect and I wasn’t willing to do that. Do you want to know where we followed her?”

I sat in the chair across from the sofa and told him the whole story—how Devlin and I had sent him off to work with Captain Stottlemeyer while we sat in the Grand Am to see where Sarabeth might go. I’d felt bad about deceiving him and just a little better about finally being honest.

“We’re supposed to be partners,” said Monk. “We’re supposed to make decisions together. Or are we only partners when you want to be partners?”

He certainly had a point and wasn’t wrong about it. On the other hand . . . “I know, Adrian, and I’m sorry. But you do have these blind spots. You were opposed to investigating Sarabeth. Now look. She’s our best lead.”

“I do not have blind spots. I’ve arrested loved ones. I arrested more than one of your boyfriends, remember? And Linda Fusco. The captain was all set to propose when I put her in jail for murder. And let’s not forget the girl Randy Disher was dating a few years back, the one who got him believing in fortune cookies. Oh. And Ellen Morse’s brother in Summit? That was just this month.”

“I’m surprised you have any friends left.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re more than willing to arrest other people’s loved ones. But would you be as willing to go after Sarabeth?”

“If there’s a reason to.”

“There’s a ton of reasons,” I said. “She sneaked out the back. She met a man on a bus who could be our bad guy. She promised you she’d stay home and then sneaked into the warehouse, just a few yards from where the SWAT team found her. I don’t know what any of that means, but it means something.”

“It’s a little incriminating,” he had to admit.

“I just wish we could have caught the guy on the bus.”

“Okay. Let me think about it.” Monk was still in the middle of the sofa, hands still on his knees. “Can you get me a bottle of Fiji Water?”

“Anything you want.”

“People think better when they’re hydrated. Not a cold bottle from the fridge. A room-temperature one from the cabinet above the stove. You’ll need to get the stepladder from the laundry room. And make sure you wipe the bottle with a clean towel and get a clean glass. No ice.”

It took me less than three minutes to follow his instructions, but that gave him all the time he needed. When I came back into the living room, he was standing up and on the phone. “I won’t take no for an answer,” he said. His voice was soft and intense. “I’m coming over tomorrow morning and I’m staying until we catch this guy. Around the clock. I don’t want you going off again, not unless I’m there with you.”

I felt like throwing the bottle right at his head—and the glass, too. No ice.

“Yes, they removed your protection, but you’re still in danger. As long as it takes, I’m there. See you bright and early.” He hung up and looked my way. “That was Sarabeth. Did you wipe the bottle?”

“Adrian.” I was livid. “What the hell was that?”

“The phone call?” He looked confused. “I thought this is what you wanted.”

“You thought I wanted you to spend all your waking hours protecting Sarabeth?”

“I thought you wanted another chance to catch Mr. No One.”

“And how will babysitting Sarabeth help us do that?”

Monk has this patient tone of voice that sounds anything but patient. “I wasn’t telling her I would be over in the morning. Well, I was telling her that. What I was saying, in my own way, was that she has until morning to go wherever she needs to go and do whatever she needs to do.”

“Oh.” I had to smile. “You’re right.”

“I assume Devlin won’t let her slip away this time.”

“I hope not.” I was just about to call Devlin and give her a heads-up when she called me. “Is Sarabeth on the move?” I asked.

“How did you know? Yes, out the front. Going west. My gut says she’s heading for the bus again.” Her voice was almost drowned out by the roar of the Grand Am.

“We’re coming,” I said. “Call for backup. We can’t let her disappear.”

When Monk absolutely has to move quickly, he does. As soon as we got in the Subaru, I handed him my phone.
Devlin was keeping us in the loop with a constant stream of texts, and he read them aloud.
“Waiting for Seventy-one.” “Crossing park.” “On Lincoln.”

“I can’t believe we’re getting a second chance,” I said. I was almost giddy and had to warn myself not to speed. The last thing we needed was another diligent traffic cop.

“Off bus. Ninth Ave.”

“That’s where the bald guy got on last time. He must live nearby.”

“You want me to text her that?” asked Monk.

“She knows,” I said. “Besides, you don’t know how to text.”

“I’m neither a scientist nor a fifteen-year-old, if that’s what you mean.”

When we caught up with Devlin, she was out of her car, on Judah between Ninth and Tenth, half a block after the street divides into two one-way sections. She was standing on the westbound section. I parked right behind her in a space reserved for the nursing staff. The words on the sign didn’t even register until we got out of the Subaru.

“Nursing staff?” I asked.

“She went in there.” Devlin pointed to the two-story building, a plain prefab, seventies-style brown stucco with a wheelchair ramp going up the side to the entrance. A discreet plaque on the wall identified it as the Garden Court Cancer Center. “I can’t think of a better place for a fugitive to hide, can you?”

Monk was skeptical. “Was she carrying anything? Flowers? A present? A green backpack?”

“Nothing,” said Devlin. “I’m pretty sure she didn’t make me. But let’s wait until we have backup.”

A few minutes later, after a dozen other members of the task force had quietly surrounded the center, we walked in as casually as possible; Devlin, Monk, and I. The lieutenant carried a transceiver on her shoulder and a sidearm under her jacket. For once I remembered to bring along my Glock, stuffed into my PBS tote. Devlin showed her police ID at the desk and asked where we might be able to find Ms. Sarabeth Willow.

The guard at reception knew exactly whom she meant. “Mrs. Willow should be in room two-two-eight.” We had all heard the word
Mrs
. and had all chosen to ignore it.

The door to room 228 was open, which I suppose saved us some embarrassment. Sarabeth was seated beside the bed, smiling down at a man in his mid-forties. He seemed to be smaller than she, and thin. But it was hard to say how much of that impression was natural and how much was a result of the cancer.

“Adrian,” she said, looking up. Her smile evaporated. “What are you . . . Were you following me?”

“Is this the bus man?” Monk asked.

From the doorway, Devlin took a hard look at his face and nodded. She pressed the button on her transceiver. “Stand down. Maintain your positions.” The transceiver squawked back.

“You were following me? The police, too?” It sounded like an accusation.

“For your protection,” said Monk.

“Adrian, Natalie, Lieutenant Devlin . . .” Sarabeth kept
her resentment in check and motioned toward the man in the bed. “I’d like you to meet my husband, Paul. Ex-husband, I should say. Paul, I believe I’ve told you about Adrian and his friends.”

“Sorry if I’m not more energetic,” said Paul. His voice was weak and raspy. “I had chemo this morning and it takes a lot out of me.”

“Yesterday was a good day.” Sarabeth placed a hand on the white bedcover and he grasped it. “We went to the beach at the end of Noriega and had a little picnic.” Her eyes fell on the green backpack on a chair by the window. I imagined being able to see grains of sand scattered inside the open zipper.

“Did the picnic involve cranberry-prune juice?” I had to ask. “I noticed some the other day in Sarabeth’s refrigerator.”

“Guilty,” said Paul. “My doctor says fruit juices can help in the recovery time after chemo.”

“And was the cranberry-prune a suggestion from Wyatt Noone?”

“It was,” said Sarabeth. “Wyatt gave me a few bottles and Paul actually seems to like it.”

“But you two can’t be married,” Monk protested. “You’re divorced.”

“We are,” said Sarabeth. “It was the only way to get Paul covered by Medicaid. We felt we had to safeguard whatever meager assets we have.”

Paul nodded. “I don’t want Sarabeth paying off doctor bills for the rest of her life.”

“It’s not a very honorable way,” his ex-wife admitted.
“That’s why I kept it quiet. I’m sorry if I misled anyone, especially you, Adrian. Do you forgive me?”

Monk grunted and refused to meet her gaze.

During all of this, Devlin was holding up her phone, bringing up the smiling Christmas party photo of Wyatt S. Noone and comparing it to the shrunken, bald man in the bed. Even from memory, I could tell he wasn’t the guy.

“Why was this such a secret?” Devlin was frustrated and angry. “Why didn’t you say something that first day in the hospital? If I had a loved one, that would be the first thing I’d say. ‘Tell my husband—ex-husband—that I’m alive.’”

“I did say that,” Sarabeth replied. “I told the hospital staff. One of the nurses let me use her phone so I could call, even though you’re not allowed to use phones.”

“I’ll check that out,” said Devlin.

“Please do,” said Sarabeth. “I didn’t realize my personal life was part of your investigation.”

“Everything is part of the investigation,” said Monk, “including your being so nice to me multiple times. Under false pretenses.”

“Sarabeth’s nice to everyone,” said Paul. “Men have been known to misinterpret that part of her personality.” He smiled forgivingly and she smiled back. “It’s one of the things I love about her.”

“I can’t believe this,” muttered Devlin. “This is too much.”

It wasn’t hard to see what was running through the lieutenant’s mind. First the fiasco at the warehouse. Then the mess yesterday, losing a couple of middle-aged fugitives on their way to the beach. And now today, with a dozen officers surrounding a cancer treatment center, expecting to race in
and capture a crazed killer . . . In less than a week, her promising career was heading straight down the drain.

* * *

We left the Willows holding hands in room 228. Then Devlin left us to go outside and work damage control. That left just the two of us to intercept the first nurse we could find and ask for the doctor in charge of Paul Willow’s treatment.

Dr. Simon Rothstein had been making his rounds on the first floor when he answered our page and agreed to meet us in his office. Lucky for us, the man was a true-crime junkie. To him, believe it or not, Adrian was a rock star. Not only could he rattle off a dozen of our most famous cases, but he was also familiar with every detail of the search for Wyatt Noone, at least as much as had been released to the press. If there was any question of doctor-patient confidentiality, it never came up.

“I was thinking you might stop by,” said Rothstein as he settled in behind his desk. “Paul was devastated when he heard about the attack. He’d undergone a little operation that morning, to cut out a polyp we hadn’t been able to reach before. When he came to, it was all over the news. That was not a fun day, I can tell you.”

Lingering in the back of my mind had been the suspicion that, despite his lack of resemblance, Paul Willow was somehow the same man the snipers had had in their scopes. But the doctor’s statement put an end to that.

“Is he dying?” Monk asked.

Dr. Rothstein seemed taken aback. “No. There are various options we have now for lymphosarcoma. Unfortunately, some of the more promising ones are still considered
experimental. They aren’t covered by insurance. But there’s still quite a bit we can do here. It’s far from over.”