Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (6 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mr. Monk vs. the Rainy Night

R
ight away I knew I had to tell Monk and beg for his help. It would be embarrassing, yes, and he would be raging mad. Or else he would be hurt and disappointed, which would be worse.

In the past, I might have tried to solve the case myself. I might have trudged forward and tried to deduce what had happened to my client. But even I can learn from experience. The sooner I gave Monk all the facts and let him do his magic, the less damage there would be. And I suspected there would be damage somewhere. There usually is with a mystery like this.

I drove directly from the hotel to the Pine Street apartment. The rain was coming down more heavily, not just the annoying drizzle we're all so accustomed to here. I used the doorbell, not my key. The key might have sent a more desperate signal than I wanted, so I stood out in the rain until he buzzed me into the building.

As soon as he opened his door, he lurched back. “Why are you so wet?” It was like I was threatening him with a water balloon.

“Because it's raining.”

“Then you should have used your key. Stay in the hall and I'll get you some towels.”

I stood there, uncomplaining, while he retrieved four fluffy towels and handed them out the door. “If you're planning to step inside, take off your shoes.”

“I need to talk to you about something,” I said as I started to towel off.

“Obviously.”

“I'm telling you in advance, you're not going to like it.”

“Does it involve you bringing water and mud into my house?”

“Worse, I'm afraid.”

“What could be worse?” He continued to block the doorway. Then his phone rang. “Stay there,” he warned. And he retreated into his inner sanctum to answer it. “Trudy. Hello. What's the matter?”

I know I haven't mentioned Trudy much. Not this Trudy. The original Trudy, the one I know I've mentioned, was Monk's wife, the love of his life who was killed in the late 1990s by a car bomb. This Trudy is Leland Stottlemeyer's wife. She's a brunette with longish, wavy hair and an enviably full figure. They met several years ago and got married two months later. For a while, the captain called her T.K., thinking Monk might be uncomfortable with having another Trudy around. But Monk turned out to be fine with it. “Everyone should have a Trudy in their life,” he had said.

Trudy Stottlemeyer has done her best to stay away from our dangerous world. I think she's fooled herself into thinking that Leland is a plumber who just keeps odd hours. So
when Trudy does make contact, it's almost always something important.

Monk listened for a few seconds, then covered the receiver. “Don't take off your shoes,” he shouted in my direction. That didn't mean he'd changed his mind and I could wear them inside. It meant we were going out. This time we had the advantage of umbrellas—Monk's primary umbrella and any one of his three identical backups.

The Stottlemeyers lived in a neighborhood known as Dogpatch, not far from the bay, in a cozy, newish bungalow meant to look a hundred years older than it was. Trudy was on the porch waiting as we shook out our umbrellas and joined her. “I can't convince him to go to the hospital,” she said.

“What happened exactly?” I asked.

“He was out walking the dog. Teddy hates the rain, so it's always a challenge making him do his business. When they came back, Leland was fine for a while. Then he started shaking and feeling nauseous. He said it was just a chill. But then right before I called you, he threw up.”

“What do you think it is?” asked Monk.

“I don't know.” Trudy shrugged helplessly. “But you know how nervous I get about his work. Judge Oberlin was poisoned and everyone thought it was just a virus. Convince Leland to go to the hospital. He won't listen to me.”

“Let me talk to him,” said Monk. He stuffed his umbrella into a huge clay pot by the door and I did the same. Before entering, he wiped his shoes on the mat, but I noticed he didn't take them off. Hypocrite.

“Hey, Monk. Natalie.” The captain was on the couch in
front of the blank-faced TV, wrapped in a blanket and looking miserable. “I don't see what all the fuss is about. If I'm not feeling better by morning . . .”

I don't know if it was just instinct or something specific about the captain's state. But Monk kept his distance and motioned for the rest of us to do the same. “What did you eat, Leland? Anything different from what Trudy had tonight?”

“What are you talking about, Monk?”

“Your color, your tremors, the fact that you haven't taken a sick day in two years and seven months, plus the coincidence of both you and the judge collapsing during rainstorms.”

“Rainstorms? What does that mean?”

“I don't know, but I hate coincidences.”

Trudy's hand went to her heart. “We ate the same food. I bought a lasagna at the market. And a salad. We shared a beer from the same bottle. Do you really think . . .”

“No chewing gum or mints or mouthwash since he got home? Dessert?”

“No,” she replied.

“I'm not poisoned,” growled the captain. “Trudy, honey, you worry too much.”

All three of us ignored him. “How about visitors?” asked Monk. “Has anyone been in the house? I don't care how innocent or friendly.”

“Not for days, no,” said Trudy. “And I always lock the doors and windows. I'm very careful.”

“And you're okay?” I asked her. “You're not feeling any symptoms?”

“Nothing.”

“I have the sniffles,” said Leland. “No big deal.”

“And how is Teddy?” asked Monk. “Your monstrous mutt of a dog. I can smell his wet fur from here. How is Teddy feeling?”

“Teddy?” Stottlemeyer's eyes went cold. “I don't know. Teddy!” With some effort, he pulled himself up. Apparently it was okay for him to ignore any danger he might be in, but when it came to his dog . . . “I haven't seen him since we came back. Teddy Bear. Come here, boy!”

The dog didn't come right away, which seemed unusual behavior, from the way Stottlemeyer reacted. “Teddy? Where are you?” He began to go from room to room in the one-level house. Then he started over. “Teddy?”

Monk was the first to hear the whimpering. It came from under the bed in the guest room/office, soft and pitiful and steady. The captain and I stuck our heads under and saw the long-haired, medium-sized dog. The poor thing stared back at us in guilt and pain, squeezed in under the box springs, staying as far away as he could from a puddle of green vomit in the corner.

“Oh, my God,” said Stottlemeyer. “We gotta get him to the vet.” He reached under and began to gently pull Teddy out. “Come on, big boy.”

“You're not going to the vet,” Trudy informed him. “You're going to the hospital. Now.”

“Did you and Teddy run into anyone during your walk?” asked Monk. “Anyone at all? Think.”

“No,” the captain said. “It was raining. No one was out.”

“Did the mongrel pick up anything off the street? Did you
both touch anything?” Monk shivered. “Did you pick up the dog's poop in some unsanitary way? Not that there is a sanitary way.”

“Teddy didn't poop and I didn't touch anything.”

Trudy took her husband by the hand and started leading him toward the door. “We're going to the emergency room. Natalie, there's a number on the fridge for the emergency vet. Also the address. It might be quicker. . . .”

“I'll take care of Teddy,” I said, and I rushed off to get the information. Then the captain let me take Teddy out of his arms. I could feel the poor thing shivering through his fur.

Monk and I hadn't bothered to take off our coats, so we were on the porch, ready when Leland and his wife emerged wearing theirs. The rain hadn't let up in the least. “Adrian, you go with the captain. I'll drop off Teddy and join you as soon as I can. What do I tell the vet?”

“Tell him to check for heavy metals. Probably thallium.”

“Is there an antidote to thallium poisoning?”

“Prussian blue,” said Monk.

“Prussian blue?” I asked. “What is that, a color?”

“It's a pigment. The Germans used it in their uniforms for centuries. It's lighter than cobalt but darker than sky blue. It's close to the classic Levi's blue in color. If the vet happens to be a painter, he might have some on hand. Obviously, if you're poisoned, you're not supposed to just wear the color; that would be silly. You have to eat the pigment.”

I had to ask. “How do you know these things?”

“How do you not? It's basic survival.”

“Just save Teddy, okay?” the captain said, then reached for his black golf umbrella. “Let's go.” But Monk had already
grabbed the captain's hand, pulling him off-balance. He almost fell. “Monk? This is no time for sentiment.”

“Don't.” Monk took a second, his hand still clutching his friend's hand, his eyes focused on the three umbrellas dripping in the clay pot. “It must be in your umbrella.”

“What?”

“Thallium powder. That's why Teddy's sick. That's why Trudy isn't sick. That's why there wasn't a trace in Judge Oberlin's house. That's why you and the judge both collapsed on rainy days.”

“In the umbrella?” I asked.

Monk almost smiled. “It's a brilliant plan. The killer wouldn't need access to your house, just your umbrella. The second you opened it . . .”

“Adrian, thank you, but shut up,” said Trudy. Then she beeped open her husband's car and began to drag him out into the rain.

CHAPTER NINE

Mr. Monk and the Visiting Hours

A
s Monk had said, it was brilliant—a heavy dusting of thallium powder inside the folds of a closed umbrella. When the umbrella was opened, the powder would be released and be either inhaled or absorbed by the skin. If the killer had been careful enough to keep the powder in the outside folds, the rain would wash away the remaining evidence into the street. As for timing, the poison could have been put in place weeks ago, anytime after the last good downpour. The murderer wouldn't need to have access to the house.

“It could have killed Trudy,” the captain said over and over. He was in a hospital bed at SF General, barely wheezing out the words.

“Does she ever use your umbrella?” I asked.

“A big, black golf umbrella? No,” he admitted. “She has her own. But they were side by side in the damn pot. What kind of coward endangers a man's wife?”

We were talking about her as if she weren't there. But Trudy was in the room with us—physically, at least.

“I don't think he was concerned about collateral
damage,” Monk said calmly. “He was after you. Not your wife. Not your dog.”

“Really, Monk? You're going to school me in keeping things logical? In a situation like this?” The captain didn't have to say any more, not with a wife named Trudy who could have been killed.

“You're right, Leland. I'm sorry.”

Everyone had survived that rainy night in Dogpatch. The emergency room staff had done an immediate blood test. When they found a dose of thallium in the captain's system, a nurse went running to the drug dispensary, where they kept a poison control cupboard, complete with an airtight canister of Prussian blue. They fed four of the Levi's-hued pills to Stottlemeyer, twenty milligrams, then sent a messenger in an ambulance to the Paw and Claw Vet Clinic on Indiana Street, where I was waiting at the door. Teddy didn't feel like eating, of course. But a calm, highly skilled vet managed to pry apart his teeth, get a single pill into the dog's mouth, and massage his throat until it slid down.

The rest of us tried not to overreact. We had a lot to be thankful for. The captain was alive. Teddy was alive and spending the night at the vet's. A forensics team had taken the umbrella pot and its contents to the lab. Unfortunately, that left Monk with only two backup umbrellas, but he could deal with that. It was probably our refusal to overreact that sent Trudy over the edge. She stayed at Stottlemeyer's side all night, holding his hand, shivering almost as much as the dog had been. When I returned to the hospital at nine a.m., I had to practically drag her out and drive her home for a few hours of rest. Captain's orders.

On my way back to the hospital, I stopped to pick up Monk. He had been up all night, too, vacuuming his apartment and making waffles. I could tell how disturbed he felt about the captain and his Trudy. It must have brought back all sorts of memories. But we didn't talk about it. Instead, I sat down at his kitchen counter and shared in some waffle therapy, with a dollop of syrup centered in every square. When it comes to making square food, he's actually a pretty good cook.

An hour or so later, when we walked back into the captain's private room, we were thrilled to see Lieutenant Amy Devlin sitting by his bed, looking as buff and hard as ever. “Hey, guys. Long time.” It was as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't taken an administrative leave and dropped off the face of the earth, not even bothering to call. “Did you hear that his poop is blue now? Not that I've personally seen it.”

“It's true,” confirmed the captain. “That blue stuff absorbs the thallium and flushes it out. Literally.”

“No more poop talk,” said Monk. “Isn't it enough that we have to put up with cold-blooded killers?”

Amy got to her feet. “Well, Leland, now that my replacements are here, I can go.” She almost never called him Leland. It seemed both too personal and too distant. “It was great to see you. We shouldn't wait until the next attempt on your life to be in touch.”

“You know where to find me.” The captain spread his arms. “At least for the next few days.”

“You're leaving?” I said. “But we just got here. We haven't seen you in ages.”

“We'll catch up,” Amy promised. “But you guys are in the middle of an investigation. I don't want to interfere.”

I didn't know how to respond. “Let me walk you out,” I said, hoping the right response might come to me along the way.

“I spoke to the doctor right before you came,” whispered Amy as we headed down the hall side by side.

“And?”

“Leland will be fine. A day or two more of the blue stuff, just to make sure. Then he'll be released.”

“That's good. Are you really quitting the force?” It was something I had to ask. Straight out.

“I am quitting, yes.”

We had arrived at the elevator bank and I faked pushing the down button, hoping she wouldn't notice. “How can you leave? You can't.”

“My uncle and cousins are officers in Boston. The force there is actively recruiting women for the major crimes division. I know I seem tough, Natalie.” She ran a hand through her spiky black hair. “But the ordeal I went through with the warehouse shootings, it made me think about family. I miss them. I would have come through something like that better if I'd had some family around.”

“I understand that,” I said. “I meant, how can you leave now? With the captain in the hospital and someone trying to kill him?”

“I'm on leave,” said Devlin. “I couldn't help if I wanted to.”

“Don't you care about him?”

“Of course I care. He's been a great mentor, like a dad.
And more patient than my real dad, believe me. But he has you and Monk and the whole department. Look, if you need me for anything, I'll be around for another week. Call me. But the captain's in good hands. Don't sell yourself short.”

When the elevator dinged, it startled me. I still hadn't pushed the button.

“Natalie. Devlin. How's the old man doing?” It was Lieutenant A.J. Thurman. Amy's replacement stepped out of the elevator, holding forth a grocery store bouquet.

“Another reason for you not to leave,” I whispered in Devlin's ear. She shot me a sympathetic grin before stepping past him into the elevator. Would I ever see her again? Of course, I told myself.

“Take care of yourself,” Amy said just before the doors closed.

I escorted A.J. back to the room, all the while thinking how the captain's ex-partner had come to visit before his current partner. “I didn't find out until I showed up at the station,” A.J. said, almost reading my mind.

“I guess you got left out of the loop.” I didn't mean for it to sound quite that dismissive.

The captain seemed genuinely glad to see A.J. walk in. I busied myself arranging the tiny bouquet in a milk glass while Monk went back and forth between the two windows getting the venetian blinds to line up just right.

“How is your dad doing?” asked Stottlemeyer. He had more interest in talking about other people's health than his own.

“Hanging in there,” said A.J. “It's just a matter of time. We've talked to the doctors about a heart transplant. But the
waiting list is so long. And he probably wouldn't survive the operation.”

“I'll come by the house as soon as they let me out.”

“Good,” said A.J. “Dad would like that. He keeps talking about the old days, you know, about the fraternity. How your father owned a bar and how you all used to sneak in and drink the hard stuff and refill the bottles with colored water. Is that true?”

Stottlemeyer smiled. “We just fiddled with the cheap stuff. My pop was a real connoisseur, not just a bartender. The man knew his whisky. We'd do summer vacations visiting the best distilleries. Even to Inverness, Scotland, one year. So I knew better than to go near the good liquor.”

“Sounds like a character, your pop. And you guys never got caught?”

“I think he knew. His customers must have figured it out. But I think that was his way of keeping tabs on our drinking, checking the bottles the next day and not saying anything. The year we all turned twenty-one, Pop threw us a party. Nothing but cheap stuff. We all had such hangovers the next day, we swore we'd never drink again. Not that the resolution lasted, mind you, but it was a good lesson.”

“The lesson was don't drink the cheap stuff,” said A.J. with a charming smile. I still didn't like the man. He was still an incompetent bully, but I could see how the captain might have a soft spot for him. And A.J. must have sensed that the last thing the captain wanted to talk about right now was his own situation. “Oh, I almost forgot. Captain, this came for you at the station. Someone left it on your desk.” And out of
his jacket pocket, the lieutenant pulled a folded letter-sized envelope.

“On my desk?” He took the envelope and unfolded it. “Captain Leland Stottlemeyer” was hand printed in block letters, the three words underlined.

Whatever Monk and I had been doing before, we were suddenly on alert. So was the captain. It was experience that taught us this, but also common sense. If you're a police captain and someone just made an attempt on your life, and the next morning there's a hand-delivered envelope on your desk . . . What kind of idiot wouldn't be suspicious?

Monk was at the bedside before me. Out of nowhere, like a magician, he produced a ziplock baggie. Without a word, the captain slipped the envelope inside and sealed it shut. “Lieutenant? What the hell?”

Monk was just as furious. “The second you saw it, you should have bagged it with tweezers. What is wrong with you?”

“What?” said A.J. “Is something wrong? I thought it was a get-well card.”

“A get-well card?” said Stottlemeyer. “On my desk? After a murder attempt? It's not even the same size as a get-well card.”

“You want gloves?” Monk asked the captain. “I've got gloves.”

Stottlemeyer mulled this over. “What the hell, sure. I'm already in a hospital.”

A pair of clear vinyl gloves, size large, came out of Monk's inner jacket, probably from the same reservoir that had held
the baggie. As Stottlemeyer put them on and unzipped the baggie, we all instinctively took a step back.

He used a knife from his set-aside food tray to slice open the bottom of the envelope, just in case there might be any DNA on the glued flap. He pulled out a single sheet of paper, carefully unfolding it. All our eyes were focused. If there was any dusting of gray powder, we didn't see it. The captain cleared his throat and read aloud the two handwritten sentences.

“You and Oberlin stole seven years of my life. Next time you won't be so lucky.”