Mr. Monk Helps Himself (16 page)

As for Teresa and Damien, avoiding them was easy. I just didn’t take any of Damien’s classes and never scheduled another massage. During the other hours of the day, I think they were as eager to avoid me as I was to avoid them.

After the last kumbaya on Sunday evening, I drove directly from Half Moon Bay to Monk’s apartment and knocked once before barging in. I found him sitting centered on his living room couch reading a manual. “Guess what I did this weekend,” I gushed.

“Guess what I did this weekend,” he gushed back.

“I overheard Damien Bigley admit to murdering his wife.”

“I got a new toilet.”

Needless to say, in this crazy world, Monk’s news trumped mine.

Monk dragged me down the hall to his bathroom. For a man who hated touching, this consisted of pulling an invisible rope, like a mime playing tug-of-war. “There it is,” he said as he stopped pulling and opened the bathroom door. I don’t know what I expected, but a toilet had to be pretty special for him to even acknowledge its existence.

It looked just like a toilet, perhaps a little more substantial, with a square control box mounted next to it on the wall. “Walk up to it. Go ahead. But don’t use it, for Pete’s sake. Don’t use it.”

“I’m not going to use it,” I said, stepping up to the porcelain bowl. I have never used Monk’s bathroom, even when I’ve been there for twelve hours straight. But those are stories for another day.

“See?”

And I did. The lid was magically easing up, like a clamshell. “If you don’t turn around in five seconds, the seat will lift up, too. You know, for number one. For boys doing a number one.”

“Where did you get this?” I asked. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Japan.”

If there was one culture that Monk admired above all others, it was the Japanese. At least he had the most in common with them. He had discovered their customs through Yuki, his brother Ambrose’s young bride.

To my mind the Japanese took cleanliness to an obsessive level, but to Monk they were people who barely got the picture. So far they had supplied him with a dust magnet, which was literally a magnet that attracted dust, plus the lightbulb-cleaning kit, the scissor sanitizer, and other gadgets I couldn’t even begin to guess at.

“It warms the seat. Then it washes your rear and dries it. It even has a stream of warm water aimed at your front parts. I don’t know what it’s for, so I didn’t push that button.”

“You don’t know?”

“About washing the front? I think it’s a prank. You know, for when you have guests and they press the wrong button. Those crazy Japanese.”

“You honestly don’t know?” How does one try to explain douching to a man like Monk? I decided not to try. “Neither do I.”

“Plus it cleans itself after each use and it plays music. Nice music, not rock and roll.”

“Why would you need music?”

“For encouragement. Oh, and look.” He took a little gadget out of his pocket. “It has a remote control.”

“And why does a toilet need a remote control?”

“So you can operate it from a distance.”

I was confused. “But you’re not doing it from a distance. You’re already on the toilet.”

He thought for a second. “This gives you a chance to operate the toilet when someone else is on it.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“As a prank? You can combine it with the prank that sprays you in front. A person sits down and . . . surprise!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Natalie, you’re killing the buzz.”

“You’re right, Adrian,” I apologized. “This is the nicest toilet I’ve ever seen. It’s nicer than my house.”

“We’re not at work, Natalie. You can call me Mr. Monk.”

I smiled. “Nice try. Now, do you want to hear about my homicide or not?”

“If I have to.” Reluctantly he left his new gadget and we settled on the sofa.

I’ve had a lot of experience telling him things. I’ve learned exactly what to include and how much detail to go into and how not to set him off on a magpie tangent. For instance, I went light on the details about the massage, but I repeated word for word everything that Damien and Teresa said.

“‘I don’t like the idea of her snooping around,’” Monk said, repeating what I’d overheard Teresa saying outside the window. “‘The woman works homicide.’”

“Yes, and then Damien said, ‘No one’s suggesting homicide. Not even her.’”

Monk shrugged. “That’s true. You weren’t suggesting homicide.”

“I know. But she was freaked out because I’m a homicide detective. Why would that freak her out unless she’s hiding a homicide?”

“Homicide detective?”

“Okay, I’m not technically. But I do investigate homicides and I am a private detective—at least I will be once I pass the exam. That’s not the point. I need you to focus.”

And he did. “Okay,” he said. “Best-case scenario: Damien and Teresa killed someone else and that’s why they’re freaked out.”

“Who?”

“That’s not my problem. Most probable case scenario: They have something to hide, nonhomicidal, and are freaked out that you, Natalie, the crème de la cops, hate them and are snooping around.”

“No, no,” I insisted. “The guilt was in their tone. ‘The woman works homicide.’ ‘No one’s suggesting homicide. Not even her.’” I repeated it several times, lowering my voice, trying to make it as evil as possible. I wound up sounding like a bad Bond villain. “Look, I know it’s not possible. But you solve impossible cases all the time.”

“But there’s no case,” he said. “The San Mateo sheriff is happy. The captain’s happy. There’s no client asking us to investigate. No one thinks anything is wrong but you.”

“That should be enough. Adrian, I’m your partner.”

“Do you want to see my toilet again?”

“No! I want you to be a partner and help me. Just look at the files from the sheriff’s office. See if you notice anything odd. I’ll bring them over early tomorrow.”

“How did you get the files?”

“Devlin gave them to me.”

“How did Devlin get them?”

“She worked her charm.”

“Is this the same Devlin?”

“She went out of her way, okay? She’s on my side, Adrian, like you should be.”

“All right, I’ll look at the files.”

“Thank you.” I would have been even more grateful if I’d thought he was paying the slightest attention. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re playing with something in your pocket.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. What is that? Is that the remote for the toilet?”

“No. What makes you think . . . ?”

A second later, when the toilet flushed and the music started to play, I punched him on the arm. Then I punched him on the other arm, just to make it symmetrical.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mr. Monk Gets Mail 2.0

M
onk had promised to examine the file, and I meant to hold him to it.

Years ago, I memorized his morning routine. Shower. Exfoliate. Shower again. Floss. Brush teeth. Exfoliate the gums, whatever that means. That’s just the first twenty minutes of a two-hour process, starting at six a.m. on the dot—except for daylight saving time. That’s when the whole schedule gets pushed up to seven a.m., although Monk would argue that he’s still starting off at six while the rest of the world plays fast and loose with the natural order.

Except for emergencies, like crime scenes or death threats or the menace of a spider or aardvark, the routine is sacred. I remember one night when the city underwent a blackout. By the time Monk woke up, he was eight minutes behind. For the entire rest of the day, he was exactly eight minutes behind and we had to reschedule a meeting with the mayor from four to four-oh-eight in the afternoon.

I had calculated exactly when to knock on his door the next morning. I had to squeeze in after he finished his routine, but before Captain Stottlemeyer showed up to discuss the clown-Cemedrin case. Our secret team was having as many meetings as possible outside the station, just to be safe. I tacked on an extra ten minutes for Monk to play with his toilet and arrived at the perfect moment.

“Well?” I was sitting across from him, the file on the coffee table between us.

Monk thumbed through the paper-clipped pages. “The good news is motive,” he said. “All of Miranda’s money will be taken by the courts to pay off her embezzlement. The same with the assets of the cult of the Best Possible Her.”

“Best Possible Me.”

“Sorry. Best Possible You.”

“Whatever.” I’m not always sure how much of Monk’s behavior is naturally irritating and how much is an act. This, I’m pretty sure, was an act. “Go on.”

“It looks like the Bigleys, alive or dead, will be wiped out.”

“So where’s the motive?”

“Insurance,” Monk said. “Miranda had three policies, one personal, one as CEO of the company, and one as president of the nonprofit.”

“Her insurance pays out for a suicide?”

There was a case we had worked on a few years ago. I don’t think I’ve ever written about it. But a famous ventriloquist was deeply depressed and in debt and committed suicide. He tried to make it look like murder—specifically, a mugging gone bad—so that his wife would get the insurance payout.

The wife, it turned out, had no clue about the suicide and wound up being at the wrong place at the wrong time. She came to Monk when the San Francisco police arrested her for her husband’s murder. It was one of those impossible crimes where no on else could have done it. Except the victim, who just happened to be a ventriloquist.

The ending was bittersweet. The woman was exonerated by Monk’s brilliant work. But she lost the insurance settlement and wound up broke. She never could pay her bill.

“Some policies will,” he informed me. “In Miranda’s case, there were suicide provisions. After you have the policies three years, your heirs can claim full suicide benefits.”

“All of her policies were like this?”

“Not so unusual,” said Monk. “I have four policies like that myself.”

This could have been the start of a two-hour conversation about Monk and insurance and his beneficiaries, et cetera. You’ll be glad to hear that I refrained from going there.

“So, all three of Miranda’s policies pay out.”

“Yes. And since Damien inherits as an individual and not as a part of Best Possible You, he won’t be forced to pay off the debts. It’ll be his, free and clear. A little more than five million.”

“You see?” I felt vindicated. “That’s a great motive. Kill the wife and start a new life with your mistress and a ton of money.”

“Now all we need is a murder. That’s the bad news that comes with the good news.”

I’d been prepared for this, but it still stung. “Are you sure?”

“I’m ninety-seven percent sure, yes.”

“Ninety-seven percent?” All right, there was hope. “What’s the three percent?”

“Allowing for the existence of magic.”

“No. There has to be something or you wouldn’t have said three percent. What is it?”

Monk rolled his eyes. “The cult leader’s cell phone. When the body washed up, they found a cell phone twisted in one of her pockets.”

“I remember from the report. Is this important?”

“Not important. Three percent.” He twisted his neck and rolled his shoulders. “It seems slightly odd to make a premeditated jump with a cell phone on you. Most jumpers divest themselves of things—glasses, wallets, phones. It’s not like you’re going to twitter your fans when you’re freefalling off a cliff.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“It means nothing. It means ninety-seven percent instead of a hundred. Still . . .”

“Still what?”

“It might be a good idea to check with the phone company. See if any calls were made to the woman’s cell phone after she died. Between her jump and when the body washed up”

“And if I find something? If someone called her phone? You’ll be willing to work on the case?”

Monk responded by growling under his breath. He actually growled. It might have even developed into a bark, but we were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Captain Stottlemeyer.

“Monk, Natalie.” He walked in, right past us. “Bad news about the Harrimans.”

Okay. Time to change gears. From the suicide to the Cemedrin murders. Just like that. Dealing with multiple cases seemed to be a regular part of our lives.

“Devlin couldn’t find a motive,” Monk guessed.

“None. Neither John nor Alicia had any connection to the oh-nine victims.”

The captain settled into Monk’s favorite white leather chair. “The first, you might recall, was Craig Tuppering, a nine-year-old boy in Damien’s Point. He woke up one morning complaining of a headache. His mother thought the boy was faking it and didn’t want to go to school. But she gave him a Cemedrin just in case. Two hours later, little Craig was dead.

“The second case was two days later. A girl in Excelsior got hit on the head by a softball. Ginny Costello.” The captain knew all the names, probably by heart from 2009. I half remembered them myself; the cases had been that traumatizing for the city. “Her Little League coach gave her two Cemedrins and sat her out for the rest of the game. An hour after her team won, Ginny died.

“This time the medical examiner could trace it. The poison was quick-acting and Ginny hadn’t eaten anything that morning except the pills. Within twelve hours, the city was on alert. Within twenty-four, the parent company had cleared the shelves of their product.