Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (2 page)

“Hey, the poster was his brainstorm. He went through the whole morning smiling and focused and not worried about a thing.”

“I know. That's how he gets when he's in the middle of a case. But a case is a lot more productive than insulting a couple of sweet people we have to work next door to every day.”

“So we punked the hippies. Big deal.” Luther lowered his voice to a growl. “We all got our ways of dealing with Mr. Monk. You use your psychology and I use mine. It's as simple as that.”

It wasn't as simple as that. Being a caretaker for Monk is a delicate proposition. In the past I never had to worry about some stranger coming in and leading our little genius astray. For one thing, it takes a rare character to put up with him. For another, Monk has a moral compass of magnetized iron. He won't even warn me about a lurking patrol car on a freeway when I'm going a few miles over the speed limit. “Yes, I saw him, but I'm not a radar detector,” he would say as the officer would be busy writing me a ticket on the side of the road. “That would have been cheating.”

But there are always gray areas, chinks in Monk's armor. One of those chinks is his need for friendship. Luther is Monk's employee and has a vested interest in at least pretending to be a friend. And Luther, I was discovering, had ways of working outside the box.

I don't know which happened first—Luther hanging up on me or Daniela Grace walking through the door. Let's say they happened at about the same time. “Daniela,” I said, putting down my phone and breaking into a big smile. “Good to see you.”

“Don't get too excited, dear. I don't come bearing a new case.”

Daniela is a senior partner in a white-shoe law firm, although with her, the preppy white oxfords had been replaced by black Manolo Blahnik heels. She was skirting the upper reaches of middle age, thin and stylish and reminiscent of my mother. It takes a village to keep these women looking so spectacular.

I tried to hide my disappointment. “You don't have to have a case to come and visit. It's always a pleasure. Do you want some tea?”

“No, thanks. Just a quick question.” She stood in the doorway as if expecting me to get up and go over to greet her—which I did, of course. “The last time I was here, I noticed that printing company next door. Have you ever availed yourself of their services?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I don't know why I say half the things I do. “Just availed ourselves this morning. They did a project for Adrian.” I was telling the truth. And I suppose I was feeling a little guilty and sorry.

“Was Adrian happy with their work?”

“Happy?” I replied. “He was practically giddy.”

Despite the years of expertly injected Botox, Daniela managed to raise her eyebrows. “High praise indeed. My firm is putting together a series of IPO documents for one of our clients. All very hush-hush. We would do it in-house, but frankly our people get paid too much by the hour and don't have the time. You say these printers do high-quality work? Are they reliable?”

“Very reliable and great quality. They did a color match on a sign that was incredible.”

“Good,” said Daniela. “Personal recommendations are always the best.” She took a step out the door and examined the hanging sign. “Paisley Printing.”

“They're good people,” I insisted. “They won't overcharge and they seem very careful and honest.”

“Done,” said Daniela, and made a right turn out the door without ever coming fully inside. “I'll say you recommended them.”

“Please do,” I called out after her, then turned back to face my empty office.

At least someone was getting a job today.

CHAPTER TWO

Mr. Monk Celebrates a Birthday

I
t turns out we got a job, too. Peter and Wendy might have considered this the result of my good karma, but only if they ignored Monk and Luther's bad karma.

Less than five minutes after Daniela went over to introduce herself, my phone rang. It was Captain Stottlemeyer with a consulting gig. We hadn't had a police case in months, not since that infamous triple homicide in that warehouse on Stockton Street. I guess that's the curse of specializing in weird, unsolved murders and living in a relatively safe city.

Once or twice during this dry spell we'd run into the captain. But neither of us had seen Lieutenant Amy Devlin in ages. She was the captain's number two and I was eager to see how she was doing. Even though it had all worked out, I knew the triple homicide had been hard on Amy, both professionally and personally.

As soon as I hung up, I called Monk's apartment. When he didn't answer, I swallowed my pride and called Luther. “Yep, he's with me,” Luther reported. “We're shopping for apples.”

“How's it going?”

“We found eight, so I'm thinking another fifteen minutes.”

I told Luther about the job and gave him the address, a stately single-family home on El Camino del Mar, just a five-iron shot from the Lincoln Park Golf Club.

When I pulled up, they were already on the scene. Luther was leaning against his Town Car, munching around the core of what looked like a red Gala. He didn't like going into crime scenes—squeamish, I guess—which was fine with me. “Sorry about the prank,” he said, not looking at all sorry. “How did the hippies take it?”

“They were amazed and shocked and hurt,” I said. “But they'll get over it.”

“Good. Tell Mr. Monk the cars are all booked this evening and all day tomorrow, so I won't be able to drive him.”

“That's fine. You shouldn't have to do it anyway. Just because he's your boss . . .”

“I don't mind it in small doses. It's kind of like a social experiment.” Luther handed me a brown paper bag filled with small, flawless apples, then got into his Town Car. “By the way . . .” He started rolling up the driver's side window. “There are nine left.”

“Nine? What's he going to do with nine apples?” Luther just smiled and pulled away, leaving me holding the bag.

I was still standing there when Monk came storming out of the house, wearing blue booties and plastic gloves. “Natalie, Natalie, Natalie.” He was almost screaming.

“It wasn't me,” I instantly tattled. “Luther ate one. I couldn't stop him.”

“What? Apples? Who cares about apples? Devlin's gone. And that's not the worst part.”

“How can she be gone?”

By the time I got him somewhat coherent, Captain Stottlemeyer had come out to join us. He was also in booties and gloves and didn't look pleased that his investigation had been interrupted. “What happened to Devlin?” I demanded.

“She took an administrative leave,” said the captain. “But between you, me, and the fence post, I think she's quitting.”

“And that's not the worst part,” Monk repeated.

I didn't know which was more disturbing, the fact that Amy was thinking of quitting or the fact that she hadn't told me. “Quitting? Why didn't she tell me?” I said, covering both bases.

“Wait till you hear the worst part.”

“All right, Adrian. Tell me the worst part.”

It was at precisely that moment that the worst part came out of the doorway, looking as smug as you can in plastic booties and gloves. “Are you girls coming inside or not?”

His name was A.J. Thurman. Lieutenant Thurman. His father, Arnold Senior, had been a captain on the force—a well-respected, stand-up guy who'd retired just a few years back. No one knows how Arny Junior became a lieutenant. It certainly wasn't due to his social skills. Monk and I had known A.J. for years. Even as a rookie, he'd been a rude loudmouth with no respect for anyone.

“The worst part is Lieutenant Thurman,” said Monk.

“I realize that,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

“Then why did you ask?”

A.J. shook his head. He has a look that just screams “cop”: intimidatingly large with a sandy crew cut and enough substance around his middle to let you know he means business. His laugh, right at the moment, was mean and condescending. “There's no love lost on either side of this, Nattie girl. But since the captain is determined to waste taxpayer money on you . . . what do you say? Anyone up for fresh booties?”

“Lieutenant Thurman is my new partner,” said Stottlemeyer, lowering his voice to a growl. “And since we're all professionals, I expect you to get along.”

“You replaced Amy with him?” I had to ask. “Him?”

“That's not what I meant by getting along.”

From then on we tried to keep it civilized. I deposited the bag of apples in my car. Then the captain joined us in donning new footgear and hand gear. Seconds later we were in a huge Arts and Crafts living room that looked like it hadn't been touched in a century, with a beamed ceiling, dark wood wainscoting that came up to my shoulders, and a stacked stone fireplace you could roast an ox in.

Two CSIs were working the room, one of them dusting for prints, the other taking scrapings from under the fingernails of the body on the hardwood floor beside the grand piano. He finished with the second hand, bagged the results, then stepped back and let Monk in there to do his thing.

The victim was an elderly woman dressed in a sky blue bathrobe and matching slippers. The presumed weapon was at her side—a carved stone doorstop, probably used to hold open the substantial front door during the month or two of hospitable weather we get every year. Monk examined the
bloodstains on the stone and the gaping wound on her left temple where a section of her skull had been caved in.

“The name is Margery Burns,” said A.J., referring to a small spiral notebook. “She lived alone. No one else came or went on a regular basis except the weekly cleaning service. Today was their day. Around one p.m. they found her like this. The body was a few hours old, ten a.m. or thereabouts. The ironic thing is . . .” He paused to chuckle.

“Today was her birthday,” said Monk, barely looking up from the body.

“How did you know?” The lieutenant glared at Monk the way a Puritan might have glared at a witch.

“The piano is covered with unopened birthday presents and cards,” Monk pointed out, “meaning that her birthday was coming up but hadn't yet arrived. She didn't open things until her birthday, apparently. I approve of that.”

“So what?” said A.J. “Tomorrow could be her birthday. Ever think of that? Or the day after.”

“No,” countered Monk. “Ms. Burns has a ring of pearl and alexandrite on her right ring finger. Those are both stones for June and today is June thirtieth, last day of the month. Alexandrite is a fairly rare stone and combined with a pearl, it practically screams birthstone ring. Plus, you just said the word ‘ironic' with that mean little laugh of yours. What was I supposed to think?”

“Today's her birthday,” A.J. confirmed, and went back to his notes. “Our reconstruction is that a burglar broke in through the kitchen pantry door. When the victim heard the noise and came downstairs, she confronted the intruder and was attacked with the doorstop. On her birthday. The
burglar then ran upstairs, took a jewelry box and cash from the victim's bedroom, and fled the scene.”

“Why didn't he take the rings from her fingers?” I asked. This was a standard question.

“Because he'd just killed an old lady and wasn't cold enough to pry them off,” said the lieutenant. “Besides, anyone who watches TV knows that handling a corpse can leave tracers—fingerprints, skin fragments.”

“And why did he use the doorstop?” Monk asked. This was not a standard question.

“What do you mean?” asked the captain.

Monk stood up from the body. “I mean there are heavy objects all around.” He pointed. “There's what looks like a Roman bust on the piano, a heavy crystal vase in that niche by the stairs, two matching Chinese pots on the tables under the window. Sharp objects and blunt objects everywhere. Yet the killer walks over to the front door and bends down to pick up a doorstop. Why?”

“Why do you think, Monk?” asked A.J. Monk rolled his shoulders but didn't answer.

“Captain?” The dusting CSI had finished the room and was ready to give a preliminary briefing. “We'll need to take elimination prints from the body and the cleaning service. But it looks like the perp did some wiping down. There are wipe streaks on the doorstop and the doorknob. Also the coffee table top and one of the chairs; chair arms and back.” He pointed to a pair of wood and leather chairs in front of the coffee table.

“Could that have been done by the cleaning service?” asked Stottlemeyer.

“I think not,” said the CSI. His name was Ted and we'd worked with him before. A smart guy. “They were last here a week ago today, so there's a slight dust layer on most things—except the doorstop and chair, et cetera, which, as I said, have been wiped down.”

“Are there prints on the other chair?” asked Monk.

“Yes, sir. My guess is they're old prints from the victim, but we'll have to wait until we get to the lab to be sure.”

“So our burglar-murderer wiped down a chairback,” I said. “Why would he do that?”

“Plenty of reasons,” said Lieutenant Thurman. “After killing her, he sat down to think things over. Or he touched the chair during the commission of the crime, maybe knocked it over and had to pick it up.”

“Pick it up?” The captain shifted his gaze to the chaos of the blood and the corpse not five feet away. “That was very tidy of him.”

“Or the bad guy took a seat and waited for Mrs. Burns to come down the stairs this morning, which goes against your theory of a burglary gone wrong.” That was my opinion.

Ted had no opinion of his own. That wasn't his job. With the room now clear, he excused himself to go upstairs to work on the bedroom, where the jewelry box was missing. A.J. waited until he was gone. “Enough of the fancy questions, Monk. It was a burglar, plain and simple. Come back to the point of entry and see for yourself.”

“I don't need to. You go,” said Monk to the rest of us. Then he raised his hands in his patented style, as if framing the scene, and began focusing on the grand piano.

The kitchen pantry was at the back of the old house,
beyond the parlor and the dining room and the kitchen. On the door to the rear yard, a pane of glass had been broken just above the lock mechanism. A trail of muddy footprints was staggered across the white tile.

There are several ways to tell if a bad guy broke into a house or just faked a break-in. And all these ways are known to anyone who has ever read or watched a mystery. For example, glass shards outside the window would indicate it had been broken from inside. A shard caught in the trough would prove the window had already been open. The lack of footprints on the outside . . . etc. Any of these clues is a red flag and easily avoidable by anyone with half a brain and half a minute.

In this case, there were none of these indicators, which proved nothing. But it was enough to make A.J. adopt a smug I-told-you-so grin. Meticulously, he led us through the lack of evidence, then actually said it: “I told you so.”

“Maybe.” The captain shrugged. “It's a decent theory, don't get me wrong. But let's get Monk's opinion.”

A.J. bristled. “I should have known. What you're saying is you trust Monk's opinion more than you trust mine.”

“No, Lieutenant, that's what I'm trying very hard not to say.”