Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Mr. Monk and the Family Values

O
n our way back to Monk and the grand piano, we passed the dining room again, and for the first time, I noticed two middle-aged women sitting patiently, their hands folded, as if waiting for dinner to be served. “Is she still out there?” the taller, more pulled-together one asked meekly. I could barely hear her.

“Yes, ma'am,” said A.J. “The coroner's people should have her bagged and removed within the next fifteen.”

A.J. would have just left them there and moved on. But the captain decided we could spare a few humanizing moments. We joined him at the table as he sat down to explain what was happening and to express his condolences.

These women were not the cleaning service, as I had assumed from their outfits and their attitude. They were, in fact, two of the five daughters-in-law—Julia Burns and Louisa Burns—who had been informed of the matriarch's death and had come over to do what they could to help out. It was a telling detail that none of the five sons had yet arrived, and only two of the daughters-in-law were there.

A.J. seemed anxious to get back to what he considered the real investigation. But Stottlemeyer behaved like a
regular human, taking time with the relatives of the deceased, prodding them with a few sympathetic words. He seemed eager to listen.

The Burns family, we learned, was a dysfunctional mess, with five underachieving sons, no daughters, and the widow Margery, who had just turned eighty-two today. Happy birthday.

According to the daughters-in-law, Margery had never been a pleasant woman, and her sons had inherited many of her traits. According to the women who knew them best, all five were greedy and cheap, with very little sentimentality about the family, especially Mom.

“What about all the cards and presents on the piano?” I asked. From what I'd seen, there had been at least one red and gold Cartier box gracing the piano top.

“Pure fear,” said Louisa. “Mother Burns was always changing her will or threatening to. None of her boys had any money. One of them runs a bookstore, another does landscape lighting. My Jimmy works part-time as a mechanic.”

Julia sighed in agreement. “The wives call it the inheritance curse, this kind of underachieving attitude. If a man gets promised millions, enough to set him up for life . . . Well, it takes a certain strength of character to forge your own way in the world. The money could come any day, as my Eddie keeps saying. Or it could be twenty more years.”

“They thought they would get some on their father's death,” said Louisa. “But he'd left everything to Mother Burns. They hated him for that. Her, too, for keeping it all.”

“Still think it was a burglar?” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. The lieutenant grunted but didn't answer.

“Did Mrs. Burns know her sons felt this way?” asked Stottlemeyer.

Julia nodded. “She was hurt. Called them ghouls. She stopped asking them to visit, which was fine with them. But the woman still expected her presents and cards. The boys would scrimp and save. And heaven forbid if they bought something on sale. She would somehow always know, like a sixth sense.”

“Are all the sons currently in the will?” I asked.

“As far as we know, yes,” said Louisa. “But that can change at any moment.”

“Actually, it can't.” Monk was standing in the doorway. I don't know how much he'd overheard, but it was probably enough. “The will can't change, now that she's dead.”

“You're right,” said Julia. “Are you a policeman, too?”

“Not quite,” I said, and I took this chance to introduce ourselves—Monk and Teeger, consulting detectives. I expressed my condolences, although it seemed like no one in the family needed consoling.

“We took their statements before you got here,” Stottlemeyer said. “Both Mrs. Burns teach at the Bay School in the Presidio. They were in classes all day until the lieutenant started making his calls to the next of kin.”

“The ME's office just removed the body,” Monk informed the rest of us. The women looked relieved. “Why don't we go back to the living room?” he suggested. “I want to open the presents.”

Before anyone could ask why, Monk was leading us back to the mansion's imposing main room. “Normally I would
need your permission as family members,” he explained. “But since this is a crime scene, I don't.”

“Go ahead,” said Julia. “It's not as if you're ruining the surprise for her.”

“Just be careful,” said Louisa. “I know my Jimmy. I'm sure he'll want to return whatever he bought.”

Monk started with the birthday present closest to him, the small red-and-gold Cartier box. The gift tag said it was from Carl, the eldest. “Did the mail come today?” Monk asked as he carefully untied the ribbon, pressed it flat, folded it neatly, and put it to one side.

“It did,” said A.J. “It was on the floor when the cleaning staff came. No cards or presents, if that's what you're thinking. Just a catalog and the PG and E bill.”

“Got it,” said Monk. A second later, he had opened the box, riffled through the tissue paper, and held up a small gold mesh bracelet. Very elegant. I'm embarrassed to say all three women in the room said “ooh” pretty much in unison.

Monk set the bracelet aside and went on to the box shaped suspiciously like a picture frame. He worked on the ribbon while the rest of us stood there and practiced the art of patience. “Would you care to know why the killer used the doorstop as a weapon?” Monk asked the air in front of him. “Just for your information.”

“Enlighten us,” said Stottlemeyer.

“Because it was cheap and heavy,” said Monk. “The killer didn't want to damage anything that was part of the estate. The Roman bust or the Chinese vases are valuable. Breaking them would have hurt the killer's inheritance.”

“Inheritance?” said Louisa, looking a little insulted. “Are
you saying one of her own sons did this? One of our husbands?”

“Picture frame,” answered Monk. He held up a designer frame. Offhand, I'd say antique platinum with a thin edge of mother-of-pearl. Inside was a photo, almost as old as the frame, of Margery and her five young sons, all smiling, unaware of what the future would bring them.

“That's from Eddie,” said Julia. “I picked it out myself.”

“Lovely. Where did you get it?” I had to ask.

“At Gump's on Post Street. They have some great things.”

“I know,” I said. “My parents used to shop there.”

“Is this chitchat part of the investigation?” asked the lieutenant. He had a point, although he could have phrased it nicer.

Meanwhile, Monk had gone on to the ribbon on the next box. “Does anyone know why Mrs. Burns was killed on her birthday?” he asked the air again. “Any opinions?” I could tell he was goading A.J. And A.J. was just dense enough to take the bait.

“A coincidence,” he answered. “Or maybe the burglar did his homework. He knew there'd be presents worth taking. Or maybe he figured she'd be sleeping late on her birthday.”

“Maybe,” said the captain, meaning
I doubt it very much
. “Monk, why don't you tell us? This is why we're paying you the medium-sized bucks.”

Monk's mouth turned up into a thin smile. Everyone likes being appreciated. “The difference between Ms. Burns' birthday and any other day was that she opened her presents. So, we're opening the presents.” He had already untied, pressed, and folded a third ribbon.

It was an unimposing gift box, the kind you could buy at any Walmart. Instead of fancy tissue paper, it was lined with crumpled newspaper. Inside the layer of newspaper was a simple glass bowl, like a little fishbowl. Monk held it up. And this time no one said “ooh.”

“What the hell?” said Louisa. “How did that get here?”

“Do you recognize it?” Monk asked.

“Yes. It's usually on a shelf in our pantry. I think flowers came in it originally. You know how it is with cheap vases. You always keep them somewhere, just in case.”

Monk checked the card on the piano. “‘From your adoring son, Jimmy.'”

“Whoa,” said A.J. “Jimmy really dropped the ball on this one.”

“Not just the ball,” said Monk. “He dropped the doorstop, too.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Mr. Monk and the Minimum Wage

T
wo days later, I was doing the morning shift.

Business had picked up slightly. Through a personal connection—namely, my daughter, Julie—our firm had been hired to do a few background checks for a software company in Berkeley that had been founded by a few of her ex-classmates. It wasn't something Adrian and I liked doing, and frankly, there were a lot of security companies that did this sort of thing better. But it helped pay the rent.

I was determined to finish up one of the checks before lunch, but I got sidetracked by a call I had to make to Lieutenant A.J. Yesterday I'd sent him an invoice for the Burns case and had just received an authorization for only a fraction of our usual fee. With anyone else, I might have thought it was a mistake. With A.J., I knew it was trouble.

“I'm paying you for two hours,” A.J. said when I asked. “And I was generous enough to include travel time. You and the Monkster were there for an hour, max. Your boy wanders around the house, opening birthday presents and making mysterious pronouncements. Then he spits out a name and expects to get paid for a full day?”

“But it was the right name,” I argued. “You were looking for some fictitious burglar, if I might remind you.”

“We would have checked all the angles.”

“The captain would have checked the angles.”

“I would have, too. It's procedure. The sons had a motive, which was something I didn't know to start with. And if Jimmy ever tried to sell the jewelry he stole from her bedroom . . .”

“Blah, blah, blah. You would have spent days tracking down all the brothers, checking their alibis. The presents on the piano would have been returned unopened, and the one crucial lead in the case never would have seen the light of day. That cheap little bowl would be back on a shelf in Jimmy's pantry. No questions asked.”

Monk had been right, of course. Margery Burns had been murdered by her one son who'd simply grown tired of waiting. Another birthday, Jimmy Burns must have thought. Another obligation to buy something criminally expensive for a sour old woman who kept threatening to disinherit him. This eighty-two-year-old who refused to die.

So Jimmy refused to buy one more thing. Instead, he sent a gift-wrapped decoy. Then he broke in on the morning of her birthday, sat in the living room, and waited for her to come downstairs. When she did, he grabbed the doorstop and gave his mother the one gift that keeps on giving.

Jimmy's wife, Louisa, hadn't known anything. That's what she said. And that's what Jimmy said. When Captain Stottlemeyer and Lieutenant Thurman brought him into an
interview room and turned on the heat and brought out the glass bowl . . . That was all it took.

“Adrian got you the thing that got you the confession,” I pointed out, trying to keep my temper in check. “He saved you days of work and a dozen false leads.”

“I'm not arguing about that. Look, an electrician saves me days of work. That's his job. But if an electrician takes an hour to replace some wiring, I'm not going to pay him for a full day. No way.”

“Yes way,” I said with great eloquence. “We don't do hourly fees. On a case like this, Lieutenant Devlin used to pay a two-day fee or more—until the DA came through with the indictment. That's been our understanding for years.”

“Well, the understanding just changed,” said A.J. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have police business to take care of.”

In response, I probably said something sarcastic and clever, but I don't remember. I do remember slamming down the phone. And I remember stepping outside and pacing the parking lot, trying to calm myself. If I'd had a cigarette, I would have lit up and smoked the damn thing. Well, maybe an e-cigarette.

I was going to have to have a talk with Adrian about solving cases so quickly. I knew it was a matter of pride with him, like a magician popping up at the back of the audience seconds after he's locked into a box onstage. But the magician isn't being paid by how long it takes him to get out of the box.

When my pace slowed and I could finally see straight, I noticed her. She was a woman about my age, also a blonde. But she kept her hair a little longer, a little wavy, and had
highlights of auburn in it, while mine had highlights of mousy brown. Other than that, we were fairly similar, which was probably what made me instantly sympathetic. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can I help you?”

The woman was standing at the curb, not far from the pawnshop entrance. But she wasn't focused on the rings in the window. She was focused on the Monk & Teeger sign. She seemed indecisive, trying not to stare but not ready to walk away, either. I could empathize. It must not be easy to come in off the street and entrust your problems to a complete stranger. “I don't mean to intrude,” I said, “but do you need a detective? I know that's an odd question. But the way you're looking, you either need a detective or a color copy or a fresh baked pie.”

The woman chuckled. “You're right. I do need a detective. I've been standing here for the longest time, trying to get up the nerve. Are you Monk or Teeger?”

I invited her inside, made a new pot of coffee, and informed her that I was Teeger. She was Sue O'Brien.

It took Sue a while to get to her point, but I didn't press her. We just sat in the two client chairs, nothing too businesslike, and chatted—about life and children (she didn't have any) and husbands (I no longer had one) and careers and friends and how her colorist knew how to get just the right auburn hints into her hair with just a touch-up every two weeks. She had a warm, infectious laugh and after a few minutes, I felt as if I'd known her forever.

I did notice that when the subject veered toward her husband, she tensed a little. The third time this happened, I
ventured a guess. It might have been rude of me, but . . . “Sue.” I bit my lower lip. “We don't do divorce work.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “That's too bad. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“I would love to. Truly. But my partner, Adrian Monk, he's our primary investigator. He won't do divorces. You see, he had a wonderful marriage to a woman who died. He looks at divorce as a kind of betrayal of marriage. Nothing personal,” I assured her. “Of course, murdering your wife is also a betrayal, and we've worked on plenty of spouse-murdering cases. Don't ask me for the logic here.”

“No,” said Sue with a nod. “I'm a practicing Catholic. I understand his objections. There is something sordid about skulking around looking for affairs and hidden bank accounts.”

“Is your husband having an affair?”

“He is,” she said. “With someone at his company. But I have no proof. And I'm pretty sure Timothy is hiding money in a secret account somewhere.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” Sue covered her mouth and cleared her throat. “Because at some point soon Timothy is going to ask for a divorce. I can feel it. And when he does, I want to have my ducks in a row. I don't want him shafting me in the settlement. Pardon my French.”

“What makes you think he's planning to shaft you?”

“You tell me, Natalie. Let's say your husband is a top-tier divorce attorney who's fooling around with a coworker who happens to be another top-tier divorce attorney. Wouldn't you want to be prepared?”

“Your husband and his girlfriend are both divorce lawyers?”

“Two of the biggest sharks in the city. Over many a dinner, he's told me tales about hiding assets for his male clients. That's why I need a good private investigator.”

“What you need is a good lawyer,” I suggested.

Sue shook her highlighted locks. “The second I go to a lawyer, Timothy will find out, believe me. Even going to one of the big private investigators could be a stupid move. Timothy uses private investigators all the time. And the second Timothy knows that I suspect him, it'll be over. He'll see that I get next to nothing. A divorce lawyer's divorce? Please. It will be like a living billboard for him. A matter of pride.”

Speaking of pride, mine was now hurt. “So that's why you're hanging out in strip malls. You're trolling for some insignificant, off-the-radar PI. Is that it?”

“Sorry.” Her checks flushed. “Not insignificant. But you have no connection to Timothy. The only chance I have is to be ready when he comes after me. Are you sure you can't help me?”

“I told you. Adrian won't touch it.”

“What about you? You're a private investigator. Mr. Monk doesn't have to be involved. You're the head of the company. He can't tell you not to take a case.”

“It's not that straightforward, Sue. We're partners.”

We went back and forth like this. She was a nice woman in need. She had no career of her own and no other source of income, which made her feel even more vulnerable. But at least there were no children to complicate matters. Sue
O'Brien had done nothing worse than to be married to a cheating divorce lawyer. It was hard to keep saying no to her.

“Adrian's going to be here any minute,” I finally pleaded, checking my watch. “He's never late, and . . .”

“And you don't want him asking questions and getting all excited about a divorce case. I get it. I just hope you can change your mind. It would mean so much.”

Sue O'Brien gave me her card and I gave her mine. Even though there was no reason to, it seemed polite.

I had just returned from washing the coffee cups in the bathroom, eradicating as much evidence of her visit as I could, when I looked out the front window and saw him approaching in that smooth but awkward stride he had when avoiding the perilous cracks in the sidewalk.

“Did you change perfumes?” he asked. Those were the very first words out of his mouth.

“Yes,” I lied. “And I just had a cup of coffee and washed out the cup, in case you're wondering.”

Monk seemed to accept this at face value. He wiped his private peg on the wall and hung up his jacket. “Lieutenant Thurman is only paying us for two hours,” I informed him.

“But I solved the case.” He was still centering his jacket on the peg.

“But it only took an hour. How many times do I have to tell you to take your time?”

Monk looked aghast at the thought. “Taking extra time would be cheating.”

“Cheating? How is it cheating?”

“Because the bad guys would think they're smarter than
they are. It sends a wrong message—like throwing softballs so that your kid can hit a few and not feel so bad.”

“First of all, that's not cheating—that's good parenting. And second, it's not the same thing at all.”

“Plus it's dereliction of duty. If I'd taken an extra day, I wouldn't be doing my best work. And who knows what kind of new mischief Jimmy might have done in the meantime?”

“Really? You think he might have killed another eighty-two-year-old relative if you hadn't so instantly pointed him out? Admit it, Adrian, you were showing off.”

“I do things at my own speed,” Monk said, still arranging his jacket on the peg. “Not because I might get paid more.”

“Well, something had better change, because if the department starts paying us by the hour, we're going to be out of business.”

“You should talk to the captain.” The jacket was finally perfectly centered. If only he spent this much time on the details of solving each case.

“I will talk to him,” I promised. “But consulting expenses are under the control of the lieutenant.”

“Then we need to get rid of the lieutenant.”

“I'll talk to the captain,” I promised again. “Meanwhile, we need new cases, ones that you can't solve in an hour. I realize the money is my part of the business, but you need to start being more flexible.”

“I am not working on a divorce, so you can tell her no thanks.”

“Tell who?”

“The woman who was just here. It's not your perfume. It's
not Daniela's. There's a second coffee cup on the shelf, uncentered, meaning she was here long enough to discuss something over coffee. And since you didn't mention the possibility of a new case, you must have turned it down, meaning a divorce. I don't do divorces.”

“Great. Then I guess we'll just starve.”

Monk laughed. “We won't starve. I have enough canned goods in my kitchen for a month.”

I managed to stay civil and calm—one might say unnaturally calm. I let Monk settle in behind his desk, then said good-bye and left him in charge for the rest of the day.

I was barely behind the wheel of my old Subaru when I pulled out Sue O'Brien's card and dialed the number.