Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii (2 page)

“And based on that flimsy alibi, you wrote her off as a suspect?” Monk said.

“Yeah, I did,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Even though you told me she was his surgical nurse and his mistress for five years?”

“That’s right.”

“Even though when Dr. Douglas finally left his wife, it wasn’t for her but for a twenty-two-year-old swimsuit model?”

“Look at her, Monk. She was having a quadruple bypass when the murder was committed. She nearly died on the operating table.”

“That was all part of her cunning plan.”

We all looked at her. She stared back at us wide-eyed, not making a sound. All we heard was the beeping of her EKG—which sounded kind of erratic to me, but I wasn’t a doctor.

Stottlemeyer sighed. It was a sigh that conveyed weariness and defeat. It was tiring dealing with Monk, and futile arguing with him about murder. When it comes to homicide, Monk is almost always right.

“How could she possibly have done it?” Stottlemeyer asked.

I was wondering the same thing.

Disher snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. Astral projection!”

“You’re saying her spirit left her body and poisoned him,” Stottlemeyer said.

Disher nodded. “That’s the only explanation.”

“I sure hope not. I’d like to keep this badge for a few more years.” Stottlemeyer faced Monk again. “Tell me it’s not astral projection.”

“It’s not,” Monk said. “There’s no such thing. Her body was the murder weapon.”

“I don’t get it,” Disher said.

“When Stella discovered she needed heart surgery, she realized it was an opportunity to commit the perfect murder,” Monk said, shooting a glance at Stella. “Isn’t that right?”

She tried again to shake her head.

“You appealed to Dr. Douglas’s ego by begging him to save your life and then talked him into performing the surgery here, at the hospital where you work.”

“What difference did it make where the surgery was done?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Because here she had access to the operating room, the supplies, and the equipment before the surgery and could doctor them, no pun intended,” Monk said. “The iodine Dr. Douglas applied to her skin before making his incision was laced with poison.”

“Wouldn’t that have poisoned her, too?” Stottlemeyer said.

“It did, but she was getting the antidote in her IV,” Monk said. “Take a look at her chart. It shows higher than normal levels of atropine.”

Stottlemeyer took the chart that was hanging from the end of her bed, opened it, and stared at it for a long moment before closing it again.

“Who am I kidding?” he said as he put the chart back. “I don’t know how to read a medical chart.”

“Neither do I,” Monk said.

“Then how do you know what is or isn’t in her blood?”

“Because she’s alive,” Monk said. “And Dr. Douglas isn’t.”

“But what about the other doctors who were working on her?” Disher said. “How come they weren’t poisoned, too?”

“Because they weren’t wearing the same gloves as Dr. Douglas,” Monk said. “He used only Conway gloves; the other brands gave him a skin rash. Before the surgery Stella put tiny pinpricks, invisible to the naked eye, in all the gloves in his box, so he would absorb the poison through his skin.”

Stottlemeyer looked at Disher. “Contact the crime lab, Randy, and make sure they hold on to the box of gloves Dr. Douglas used. Have them examine the gloves for perforations.”

Disher nodded and scribbled something in his notebook.

I looked at Stella. She was so pale and weak, she seemed to be melting into her bed. Her eyes were filling with tears. I remembered hearing how Dr. Clark had to reach into her open chest and save her life after Dr. Douglas collapsed.

“But Mr. Monk,” I said, “even with the antidote in the IV, it would have been suicidal for Stella to kill her surgeon while he was operating on her heart.”

“It was a risk she was willing to take,” Monk said. “It was poetic justice. She used her heart to kill the man who broke it.”

Stella closed her eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks. I couldn’t tell whether they were tears of sadness or anger. They might have been both.

Stottlemeyer shook his head in amazement. “I never would have caught her, Monk.”

“You would have, sir,” Disher said. “It might have taken longer, that’s all.”

“No, Randy, I wouldn’t have. Not ever.” Stottlemeyer regarded Monk with genuine appreciation. “How did you figure it out?”

“It was obvious,” Monk said.

“Go ahead, rub it in,” Stottlemeyer said. “Don’t let my remaining shreds of self-respect stop you.”

“There is no way any of the doctors or other medical personnel could have poisoned Dr. Douglas without being seen,” Monk said. “That left only one possible suspect.”

Stottlemeyer frowned. “Makes sense. I wonder why I couldn’t see it.”

The captain turned toward Stella, so he didn’t notice Monk studying him, regarding his friend as if he were a complex painting.

Disher marched over to Stella’s bedside. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“Randy,” Stottlemeyer interrupted. “She’s got a breathing tube down her throat. She couldn’t say anything even if she wanted to.”

“Oh,” Disher said, then dangled the handcuffs he was holding. “Should I secure her to the bed?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Captain,” Monk said, “I could never drink out of a water fountain.”

“Is that so?” Stottlemeyer seemed a little confused by the non sequitur.

“Not if my life depended on it,” Monk said. “You probably do it without a second thought.”

Stottlemeyer looked at Monk for a long moment. “All the time.”

Monk shrugged.

Stottlemeyer nodded.

I guess what Monk was getting at is that life has a way of balancing out. It figured Monk would notice that more clearly than the rest of us.

Monk has a standing appointment every Tuesday afternoon with his psychiatrist, Dr. Kroger. I’ve known this for over a year, and yet it somehow slipped my mind that his appointment fell on the day before my trip until it was time for me to drive him to Dr. Kroger’s office.

That’s when I came up with a scheme so evil and so perfect, it’s amazing that I didn’t think of it before. I decided to tell Monk about my trip as we were walking into Dr. Kroger’s office; that way the shrink could deal with Monk’s meltdown while I enjoyed a cup of coffee and flipped through the latest issue of
Esquire
in the waiting room.

It was such a brilliant scheme that anybody looking at it in retrospect, especially Monk, would be convinced I had planned it that way from the start. Not that it mattered when I came up with it. What mattered was that I did it.

I parked my Cherokee on Jackson Street in Pacific Heights and we started walking down the steep hill to Dr. Kroger’s office, a recently constructed two-story concrete-and-glass building in the aerodynamic Streamline Moderne style that fit poorly amidst a row of stately Victorians.

The sky was a cloudless, dazzling blue, and a cool breeze was sweeping up off the Pacific and through the trees of the Presidio, carrying the scent of sea salt and pine. In front of us we could see the Marina District, the Golden Gate Bridge and clear across the bay to the wooded hills of Marin County.

We were halfway down the block, both of us admiring the view, when I told Monk, in an offhand sort of way, that I was leaving the next day for seven days in Kauai to be maid of honor at my best friend’s wedding.

Monk blinked hard, but otherwise kept right on walking without changing his expression.

“You can’t go,” he said. I noticed he was still limiting his breathing.

“Why not?”

“You don’t have any vacation days.”

“Of course I do,” I said. “I haven’t used any yet.”

“Because you don’t have any,” Monk said. “I thought you were aware that this is a full-time job.”

“Full-time doesn’t mean all the time,” I said. “Everybody gets a vacation.”

“Working for me is a vacation.”

“No offense, Mr. Monk, but it’s not.”

“I’m a fun guy, aren’t I?”

“Yes, of course you are,” I said. “But I have a life outside of my job.”

“I think not,” Monk said between gasps. “So we’re agreed. You’ll stay.”

“Mr. Monk, I’m going to Hawaii, even if it means you’ll fire me,” I said. “Candace has been my best friend since we were kids. She was there for me on my wedding day. She was there for me when Julie was born. And she was there for me after Mitch was killed in Kosovo. I’m going to be there for her.”

Monk gave me a forlorn look. “But who is going to be here for me?”

“I’ve contacted a temp agency and they’re sending someone.”

Monk let out another deep, rasping gasp and then sucked in a lungful of air. It was really beginning to get on my nerves.

“We’re not in the hospital, Mr. Monk. You don’t have to limit your breathing anymore.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m having a stroke,” Monk said, and fell against me. I grabbed him under the arm, opened the door to Kroger’s building and half dragged him into the empty waiting room.

Dr. Kroger emerged from his office at that same moment, no doubt alarmed by Monk’s histrionics.

Monk’s psychiatrist is a fit and trim man in his fifties, the kind of guy who doesn’t try to hide his age because he’s proud that the years look so good on him. I found his presence naturally calming, but I could see how it could become irritating if you had to live with him. I’d be tempted to do horrible things just to get a rise out of him and maintain my own sanity. Does that make me a crazy person?

“What’s wrong, Adrian?” Dr. Kroger asked in a gentle voice, taking Monk’s other arm and helping me lead him to an armchair in his office.

“Massive. Heart. Attack,” Monk said as he collapsed into the armchair in front of the window, which looked out over a concrete-walled courtyard and a burbling fountain.

“I thought you said it was a stroke,” I said.

“And a stroke,” Monk said. “I can feel my internal organs shutting down one by one.”

Dr. Kroger turned from Monk and focused his intense shrink gaze upon me. “What happened, Mrs. Teeger?”

“I informed Mr. Monk that I’m leaving town tomorrow and that I won’t be back for a week,” I said, wondering if Dr. Kroger’s even tan came from the sun, a salon, or a spray can.

“I see,” he said, squinting into my eyes. “And you told him just now, outside my door.”

I knew what he was thinking—no,
insinuating
—and I didn’t care. I figured that dealing with stuff like this was what he got paid for anyway. And he must have liked doing it or he wouldn’t have made it his profession.

So I nodded and smiled.

“You got it,” I said. “Has the new issue of
Esquire
come in this week?”

What I liked best about Monk’s appointments was that Dr. Kroger subscribed to a wide array of magazines and I got to thumb through stuff I wouldn’t ordinarily read. Over the next forty-five minutes, I browsed
Maxim, GQ,
and
FHM
and learned that all women have a “secret button” that, when touched, triggers uncontrollable multiple orgasms. I also discovered there’s a pickup line that all women are incapable of resisting. It’s not so much a line as it is a little story that’s full of powerful psychological triggers that will subliminally spark in a woman an instinctive need to copulate immediately.

All you’ve got to do is tell her about this amazing roller-coaster ride you went on, how it started with a slow, steady climb that made every muscle in your body tense up with excitement and anticipation.

And that the coaster crested at the top of an incredible peak, where it teetered for one tantalizing moment before plunging over the edge, taking your breath away. You’ve never felt anything more exhilarating in your life and were shocked to hear yourself screaming with wild abandon with each breathtaking curve.

And when it was over, your entire body tingled and all you could think about was how much you wanted to experience it again…and again.

I set the magazine aside and sat there for a moment, waiting to see if I felt an overwhelming desire to find that special button of mine.

I was still waiting when Monk came out of Dr. Kroger’s office. Monk seemed unusually subdued. Come to think of it, so was I, considering I was supposed to be foaming at the mouth with uncontrollable lust and two men were there for the taking.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Peachy,” Monk said, and walked past me out the door. I glanced at Dr. Kroger.

“You didn’t give him a tranquilizer, did you?”

Dr. Kroger shook his head. “Adrian has simply accepted the situation.”

“He has?”

“He’s in a good place emotionally right now.”

“How long do you think he’ll stay there?”

“Adrian knows how to reach me if he finds himself in crisis,” Dr. Kroger said.

“Every day is a crisis. Mr. Monk couldn’t sleep after watching Alfred Hitchcock’s
The 39 Steps
on TV the other night. He spent the next day on the phone with the studio trying to convince them to add another step to the title.”

“Don’t worry about Adrian. He’ll be fine.” Dr. Kroger smiled and patted me on the back. “Have a nice vacation.”

Monk lived in an apartment building on Pine, just a few blocks south of Dr. Kroger’s office, in a homey neighborhood that had somehow avoided being stripped of its natural charm and upscaled beyond affordability like the rest of the city.

Since he lived so close by, Monk didn’t wait for me to drive him home. Instead he gave me a dismissive little wave and started trudging sadly up the hill on his own.

Fine,
I thought.
Be that way. Walk home. Be a petulant child. I don’t care.

But the truth was, I
did
care. I felt a deep stab of guilt and cursed myself for it. I refused to feel bad about needing some time to myself or for supporting my best friend on her wedding day.

And what did I have to feel guilty about anyway? I was Monk’s employee and his friend, but that was it. I wasn’t responsible for him.

I wasn’t taking my daughter with me, and she wasn’t upset. Julie was happy for me, and for Candace, and while she would have liked to visit Hawaii, she didn’t want to get behind on her schoolwork. And there was another reason she didn’t mind my going.

“We’re together all the time, Mom,” Julie said with a weariness only a put-upon adolescent can convey. “I love you, but sometimes it’s a little much. I really need a break.”

I’m sure there was some truth to that. Hey, I was a kid once myself. I knew how she felt. But there was more to it than that. She was looking forward to spending a week with her grandmother. Not only does my mom let Julie stay up late and eat whatever she wants, but they love to go shopping together. Mom doesn’t get up to San Francisco very often and has a notorious open-checkbook policy where her only granddaughter is concerned. I was sure I’d come back to find a closetful of new clothes in Julie’s room. Maybe even a pony.

I figured if my twelve-year-old daughter could handle my going away for a few days, Adrian Monk certainly could. He was a grown man. He’d survive without me around to hand him disinfectant wipes.

Well, he might survive, but could he
function
?

Sure he could, I told myself. He’d functioned for a long time before he met me.

Of course, those were different times—at least, that was what Stottlemeyer explained to me.

Although Monk has always had obsessive-compulsive tendencies, he was once able to control them enough so that he could get a job on the SFPD and rise from a patrolman to homicide detective.

But then Monk’s wife, Trudy, a freelance reporter, was killed by a car bomb. She was the most stabilizing influence in his life. Without her, he was lost. His grief, combined with his inability to solve her murder, ate away at him. His phobias and compulsions took over his life. That cost him his badge, which was as dear to him, and as vital to his mental stability, as his wife.

I didn’t have compulsive tendencies, but I certainly knew how losing a spouse could tear you apart in ways you never thought possible. What saved me when Mitch was killed was my daughter. I focused entirely on the fact that I was the only parent she had left. That knowledge, that commitment, kept me firmly centered when the gale-force winds of grief threatened to sweep me away.

There were two things that saved Monk: Stottlemeyer threw some consulting work his way and, at Dr. Kroger’s insistence, Monk hired a full-time nurse to help him get back into the world again.

After a few years, his nurse abruptly moved to New Jersey one day and remarried her ex-husband. Monk had recovered enough by then to know he didn’t need a nurse anymore but that he still could use some help.

That was when he met me, but that’s a whole different story.

I didn’t do anything for him that anybody else with a lot of patience couldn’t do just as well. Or that he couldn’t do for himself if he put his mind to it.

I was convinced that Monk didn’t really need an assistant anymore; he just liked having someone there to talk to and to deal with the little things in life that might otherwise distract him from what he did best, which was solve murders.

So was I really messing up his life that much by leaving for a week?

No, I reassured myself, of course not. It wasn’t as if he were all alone in the world. He had Dr. Kroger and Captain Stottlemeyer and the temp worker to turn to for help.

That was more than enough.

At least I hoped so.

And I hoped that I’d stop feeling guilty long enough to enjoy my trip.