Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse (12 page)

The revised plans showed the building encircling Esther’s house on three sides, shrouding it in almost complete darkness and robbing her of any privacy at all. With the way the building was designed, however, Esther’s house didn’t look out of place at all, but instead like a quirky, intentionally amusing design element. It was a nasty way of dealing with Esther, though I suppose it was a lot nicer than murder.

“She never would have gone for this,” I said.

“She wouldn’t have had a choice,” Breen said. “The planning commission was scheduled to vote on the project next week, and she was the lone voice of opposition. I have it on good authority that we were likely to win unanimous approval from the commission. The project would have been built with or without her.”

“You were going to drive her out by making her life absolutely miserable,” Monk said.

“On the contrary, we would have been friendly neighbors, I assure you,” Breen said. “She and her cats could have stayed there as long as they liked. That said, we designed the building so that when she eventually passed away, we would have the choice of either letting her home stand or tearing it down for a plaza.”

“So you’re saying that Esther Stoval’s murder didn’t change a thing for you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Not as far as the project is concerned,” Breen said. “However, as a San Franciscan, and a human being, I’m truly horrified about what happened to that poor old woman. I don’t think her murder had anything to do with our building. She was probably killed by some crazed junkie looking to steal something to finance his next fix.”

I couldn’t recall seeing any junkies, crazed or otherwise, on the street when Monk interviewed the neighbors, but at least that theory made more sense than Disher’s theory of crazed cats smothering the old lady and setting the house on fire.

“Well,” Stottlemeyer said. “I think that covers everything, don’t you, Monk?”

“Where were you Friday night between nine and ten P.M.?” Monk said.

“I thought we just established that I had nothing to gain, either directly or indirectly, from her death,” Breen said. “What difference does it make where I was when she was killed?”

“Actually, Monk is right; it’s one of those procedural questions we’re always supposed to ask,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’d hate for someone like you, on the Police Commission and all, to think I wasn’t doing my job.”

“Very well,” Breen said. “I was at the ‘Save the Bay’ fund-raiser at the Excelsior Tower Hotel from eight P.M. until midnight.”

“With your wife?” Monk pointed to the pictures on the wall. “This is your wife, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I was there with my wife, and the mayor, and the governor, and about five hundred other concerned citizens,” Breen said. “Now, if there are no other questions, I have a very busy day.”

He took a key-fob-size remote out of his pocket, aimed it at his office doors, and they slid open again—a real subtle hint that our meeting was over.

“Thanks for your help,” Stottlemeyer said as we left the office. Monk trailed behind, taking one last glance back at Breen.

“There’s a
big
difference between Raisin Brans,” Monk said. “Trust me on that.”

It wasn’t until we were at the elevators, out of earshot of the receptionist or anyone else, that Stottlemeyer turned to Monk, who was heading for the stairwell door.

“You want to tell me why you were needling Breen?” Stottlemeyer punched the call button for the elevator as if it were someone’s face. “And it’d better not be because he uses the wrong brand of disinfectant wipe or wouldn’t come down to the lobby to meet you.”

“He’s the guy.” Monk covered his hand with his sleeve and opened the door to the stairs.

“What guy?”

“The guy who killed Esther Stoval,” he said. “It was him.”

And with that, our elevator arrived and Monk disappeared into the stairwell. Stottlemeyer started to go after him, but I gently tugged his sleeve to stop him.

“Do you really want to chase him down thirty floors?” I said. “It can wait.”

He looked at me, sighed with resignation, and stepped into the elevator.

“Sometimes I could kill him,” he said. “And it would be justifiable homicide.”

 

After Stottlemeyer called the office to get Disher started on confirming Breen’s alibi and exhuming the background on train robber Roderick Turlock, the two of us enjoyed a leisurely lunch at the Boudin Bakery in the lobby.

We both ordered Boston clam chowder in fresh sourdough bread bowls and took a table by the window, where we could watch all the accountants, stockbrokers, bankers, and homeless people go by.

We talked about our children and the schools they were going to, and how kids don’t go outside and play anymore; they schedule playdates instead. I know; it sounds like awfully mundane, boring stuff to talk about, which is why I’m sparing you the actual conversation.

But here’s why I even mention it at all: It was the first time the two of us had ever really talked, and while it wasn’t what you’d call a particularly scintillating or intimate conversation, at least it wasn’t about Monk or murders or law enforcement. It was about life.

I believe that it was sitting there, eating our soup and picking at our bread bowls, that I saw Leland Stottlemeyer as a person instead of a homicide cop for the first time.

We sat at a table where Monk would be sure to see us when he finally got to the lobby, which ended up being about a half hour after we’d left him on the thirtieth floor.

Monk staggered out of the stairwell looking as if he’d just trekked on foot across the Mojave Desert. He undid the top two buttons at his collar and, without even acknowledging us, shuffled into Flo’s Floral Designs.

“You think he saw us?” Stottlemeyer said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Neither one of us got up to check. We weren’t finished with our soup and we both knew Monk had to pass us if he wanted to leave the building. But the incident was a conversation killer. We were both silent, watching the florist shop, waiting to see what would happen next.

After a few minutes he came out holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers and collapsed into a seat at our table.

“Water,” he croaked.

I took a Sierra Springs bottle out of my bag and passed it to him. He guzzled it down and sagged into his seat.

“How was your walk?” I asked.

“Invigorating,” Monk replied.

“Who are the flowers for?” Stottlemeyer said.

“You.”

Monk handed them to the captain, who took them, a befuddled look on his face. I doubt he appreciated the beautiful mix of lilies, roses, orchids, and hydrangeas. It was a stunning bouquet.

“Is this some kind of apology?”

“It’s evidence that Lucas Breen is guilty of murder.”

Stottlemeyer looked at the flowers, then back at Monk. “I don’t get it. What do the flowers have to do with anything?”

That’s when I recognized them. I’d seen them before and I remembered where.

“I talked to Flo.” Monk gestured to the florist shop. “This bouquet is one of her original designs. She’s very proud of it.”

“Good for Flo,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Lucas Breen bought one just like it from Flo on Thursday,” Monk said.

“So?”

“They were for his mistress, Lizzie Draper,” Monk said. “I saw the same bouquet in her house yesterday.”

I don’t know how Monk noticed the bouquet, since his gaze was locked on Lizzie Draper’s cleavage the whole time we were there. Monk must have astonishing peripheral vision. It was the same extraordinary bouquet Lizzie was using as a model for the painting she was working on.

“Even if that’s true,” Stottlemeyer said, “what does that have to do with Esther Stoval’s murder?”

“Esther Stoval spied on her neighbors. She used binoculars to look into her neighbors’ homes and took pictures,” Monk said. “She once turned a neighbor in to the cable company for watching ESPN with an illegal converter box.”

“I’m surprised she lived as long as she did,” Stottlemeyer said. “You don’t come between a man and his sports.”

“I think Esther had incriminating photos of Lucas Breen and Lizzie Draper and threatened to show them to his wife if he didn’t halt the condominium project. A divorce could have cost him tens of millions of dollars. That’s why Breen killed Esther.”

Stottlemeyer shook his head. “That’s a mighty big leap, even for you, Monk.”

“That’s what happened,” Monk said.

I was sure he was right. Stottlemeyer was sure, too. Because if there is one thing Monk is always right about, it’s murder. And Monk knew that we knew. Which made the situation all the more frustrating for the captain.

Stottlemeyer held up the bouquet. “And
this
is all you’ve got?”

“We also have her buttons,” Monk said.

“Her buttons?”

“I couldn’t help noticing them,” he said.

That was probably the biggest understatement of the day.

“The letters ‘LB’ were written on them,” Monk said. “At the time I thought it was a brand name, but it wasn’t. It was a monogram. The shirt she was wearing was handmade for Lucas Breen.”

 

 

 

 

We reconvened in Stottlemeyer’s office, where he put the bouquet in an empty Big Gulp cup and filled it with water. Vases aren’t easy to come by in the homicide department of the SFPD.

Disher came in and stared at Monk with dismay. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling all right?”

“I feel fine,” Monk said.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Monk said. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen you so, so . . .” Disher searched for the right word. “Unbuttoned.”

“Unbuttoned?” Monk said.

Disher motioned to his collar. “Your top two buttons are unbuttoned.”

“Oh, my God.” Monk immediately flushed with embarrassment and buttoned his collar up. “How long have I been naked? Why didn’t you say something?”

“It was two buttons, Mr. Monk,” I said.

“Word is probably spreading all over the department right now!” Monk said.

“I’m sure nobody noticed,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I strolled in here half-naked. They aren’t blind.” He buried his face in his hands. “I’m so ashamed.”

“You’re among friends, Monk.” Stottlemeyer came around his desk and squeezed Monk’s shoulder reassuringly. “Nobody is going to say anything. You have my word.”

Monk looked up, stricken. “Could you talk to them for me?”

“Sure,” Stottlemeyer said. “Who?”

“Everyone,” Monk said. “Every officer in the building.”

“Okay, I can do that,” Stottlemeyer said. “But could I wait until after we discuss how we’re going to prove that Lucas Breen killed Esther Stoval?”

“That’s not going to be easy,” Disher said. “There’s no physical evidence that puts him in that house when Esther was killed.”

“Or anybody else,” Stottlemeyer said.

“He did it,” Monk said. “If we work backward from there, we’ll find something.”

“He’s got a rock-solid alibi.” Disher went to Stottlemeyer’s computer and clicked a few keys. “I’ve pulled dozens of press photos off the net of Breen and his wife arriving at eight P.M. and departing at midnight. I talked to the photographers and got the approximate times the photos were taken from them.”

“Good work,” Stottlemeyer said.

Disher angled Stottlemeyer’s monitor so we could see the pictures on the screen. Sure enough, there were photos from various angles from different photographers of Breen and his wife in their raincoats, huddled under an umbrella and rushing into the lobby from the rain. There were also photos of the Breens leaving at midnight with the governor and his wife.

“There were five hundred guests at that event. I doubt anybody can account for his movements the whole night,” Monk said. “The Excelsior has dozens of exits. He could have left the hotel and come back and no one would have noticed.”

“Pull the security-camera footage from the hotel,” Stottlemeyer told Disher. “Maybe there’s something. And talk to some of the guests and hotel staff, see if anybody noticed he was gone.”

“Breen built the Excelsior. I’m sure he knows how to get in and out without being seen,” Disher said. “Besides, leaving the hotel doesn’t put him in Esther’s house, holding a pillow to her face.”

“One step at a time,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Okay,” Disher said. “So what does a train robber who died in 1906 have to do with all this?”

“Nothing,” Monk said. “That has to do with the murder of a firehouse dog.”

“You’re trying to solve a one-hundred-year-old murder of a dog?”

“Sparky was murdered Friday night,” I said.

“By a ghost?” Disher said.

“Whoa.” Stottlemeyer raised a hand. “Could somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

“In the late eighteen hundreds, Roderick Turlock and his gang robbed trains that were carrying bank cars filled with gold coins,” Disher said. “The Pinkertons finally tracked him down to a boardinghouse in San Francisco, where he was killed in a shoot-out, taking his secret with him.”

“What secret?” Monk asked.

“What he did with the stolen gold,” Disher said. “Most of it was never found. Legend has it that he buried it somewhere.”

“That’s real interesting, but can we discuss San Francisco’s rich and colorful history another time?” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ve got a murder to solve here and no evidence whatsoever.”

“You’re forgetting about the buttons,” Monk said. “And the flowers.”

“Right, of course. The flowers.” Stottlemeyer snatched the bouquet out of the Big Gulp cup. “Tell you what, Randy, I’ll take these over to the DA right now while you and Monk go arrest Breen.”

Stottlemeyer marched to his door. Disher stood in place, not sure what to do.