Mr. Monk Helps Himself (18 page)

“Come to lunch?” he repeated. “Okay. Your place or mine?”

“In a restaurant. We’re having lunch in a restaurant where you are welcome to join us.”

“Is it Rassigio’s?”

Rassigio’s was the one restaurant where Monk would eat. It’s a long story, but it involves several kitchen inspections, a very kind man named Tony Rassigio, a menu that never changes, and a fake, nonexistent AAA rating from the board of health, posted in the window whenever Monk shows up.

“It’s not Rassigio’s,” I said. “But it’s a nice place. Very clean. With an A rating.”

“Not a triple-A rating? What’s wrong with it?”

“Look, if you want to come, it’s totally your decision. I’m sure Ellen would love to see you.”

He cricked his neck and rolled his shoulders. “I’ll think about it.”

“Well, don’t think too long. We’re already late.”

“You mean today? Not possible. It’ll take me at least a day to think about it.”

I tried for another minute to convince him, for his own good if not mine. At the end of the minute, I left him behind his pillar and crossed over to Poop.

Ellen was waiting for me in a nearly empty store. There was one middle-aged couple, browsers not buyers, in my expert opinion, and a fascinating-looking girl with a half-shaved head, several piercings, and a tattoo running up and around her neck. She was at a counter sniffing a bottle of guano perfume and turned out to be the part-time help.

“Suzie,” Ellen said. “I’m going to lunch.”

“No problem,” Suzie said, then went back to sniffing the bird-poop.

“So, what’s Adrian up to?” Ellen asked as we emerged onto the street. I could see the top of Monk’s head as he peered around his post.

“Nothing. Just hanging around.”

The Peruvian bistro was a midpriced white-tablecloth establishment that used to be a French café and still looked a little French. We settled in with a couple of Diet Cokes and took our first look at the menu.

“I wish I could have come to the memorial,” Ellen said. “I tried to get a reservation. Was it everything you expected?”

“Everything and more,” I said without exaggeration. “What are you having?”

Most of the dishes seemed familiar enough. Pork and fish, yuca and beans. A lot of things with garlic. Ceviche was a popular item, as was some type of meat called
cuy
.
Picante de cuy
and
Cuyes en salsa de mani
.

“What’s
cuy
?” I asked. I’m never shy when it comes to menu items. How else do you learn?

Ellen leaned across the table and whispered, “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Why?” I whispered back. “Isn’t it fresh?”

“It’s guinea pig.”

I yelped and almost dropped the menu. “Guinea pig? We used to have one when Julie was growing up. Ralphie. I can’t imagine eating Ralphie.”

“It’s their national dish. They probably think it’s weird we keep them as pets.”

“I hope these didn’t come from a pet store.”

“Why? Do you prefer your guinea pigs free-range?”

“I prefer none of them. I’m glad Adrian’s not here. He’d be halfway home.”

Ellen chuckled and shook her head. Then she blinked. “Wait. You’re calling him Adrian? Since when?”

And so, for the next fifteen minutes, through the ordering process—no guinea pigs, although the waiter said they were the daily special and very fresh—and our second round of Diet Cokes, we discussed Monk.

“If he would just give me a little support . . . ,” Ellen said.

“He never gave you any support,” I pointed out. “Since the day you met.”

“I know,” she admitted. “But I used to be strong enough to deal with it. Now, ever since Miranda’s suicide and . . .” She took a break and sipped from her fizzy brown drink. “I may have to close the San Francisco Poop.”

“Oh, my God. Really?”

I don’t know if this was a complete shock or not. I knew business was bad. Anyone who’d been in her store lately could have figured that out. But closing it? That had all sorts of implications, especially for Ellen and Monk.

“Does this mean you’re leaving?”

“If I close the shop, there’s no reason to keep my house. And I should be spending more time in Summit. The store there is doing well enough, but it needs more attention than I’m giving it.”

“So the answer is yes. You’re leaving.”

“Maybe. I opened a San Francisco branch because it seemed a good idea and because Adrian was here. I’m not sure either plan is working out.”

I could only imagine what she was going through. You devote your life and all your savings to a daring new concept. And then, when you take a chance and move cross-country to be with the man you love . . . Well, you’d expect a little support. Instead, Monk seemed to be almost gloating at her failure.

“I’m surprised you only slammed the door. I would have done more.”

“I still believe in Poop,” Ellen said. “It adds such a fun, earthy element to the whole idea of recycling and conservation. But if I concentrate on the one store and focus more on our online presence . . .”

What she was saying seemed smart and logical and absolutely right, but . . . “Don’t go,” I pleaded. “Adrian will miss you terribly. I’ll miss you.”

“I haven’t made any decisions.”

“And you’ll be thousands of miles away from BPM,” I added, without really thinking, “which might not be a bad thing.”

“I know.” Her face clouded over. “I can never look at those cliffs the same way again. Can you? My guess is Damien will shut the place down and sell it to a hotel.”

“Speaking of Damien Bigley . . .”

“What?” She could hear the hesitancy in my voice. “Tell me everything. What have you found out?”

So I told her everything, from the footsie incident to Damien’s claim to be the real Miranda to Teresa’s talk of homicide out of the clear blue. I ended with Monk’s question about Miranda’s cell phone and the three percent chance.

“I don’t know what he’s looking for, but he wants to know if anyone called her cell. And for that, we need the number.”

“No problem. I have Miranda’s number right here. She made me promise not to give it out, but it doesn’t matter now.”

Ellen reached into her purse for her own phone, and within a minute, I had texted the number to Amy Devlin.

“I can’t believe Damien would say that.” Ellen was angry.

“About being the real Miranda?”

“It’s inconceivable.” The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. Not about murder, which was still a far-off concept, or about infidelity, which was none of her business, really. But the idea of Miranda being a fake. “There was nothing phony about her.”

“He’s not saying she didn’t believe it.”

“No.” Ellen’s jaw was clenched. “He’s saying she was a conniving schemer who saw BPM as a business she could exploit. Well, that wasn’t the woman I knew. That wasn’t the woman who kept me on the phone at midnight, helping me try to make sense of my life.”

“People are complicated,” I said, which was lame but true.

“I hope Damien is responsible somehow. Then Adrian can go after him and make his life a living hell.”

“It’s only three percent,” I reminded her.

“I don’t care. If Adrian doesn’t go after him, we will. You and I. There’s something fishy about this whole thing.”

“Exactly.” I lifted the dregs of my second Diet Coke in a toast. “To vindicating the good name of Miranda Bigley.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mr. Monk and the Test

“J
ane, a private investigator, is hired by a lawyer to gather information for a liability case. While interviewing witnesses, Jane enters the garage of one witness and is attacked by the man, a registered sex offender. Jane sprays him with pepper spray that she carries openly on her belt and escapes unharmed. She has not taken any training courses for the use of pepper spray. What are the consequences of Jane’s actions?”

My first reaction on reading this was “Monk was right. Garages are dangerous.” My second reaction was “It’s happening in two hours. I should have prepared better.” As my study guide says in big print: seven out of ten people who take the California Private Investigator Exam fail. It’s far from a sure thing, even for someone like me.

My third reaction was “Concentrate, Natalie. You can do this.”

My multiple choice options were:

(a) Pepper spray is not illegal. It was smart of her to be prepared.

(b) Jane has violated the B&P code and the Penal Code and may have her license suspended.

(c) Jane has not violated the law, which allows for private investigators to use such sprays as long as they are carried openly.

(d) Jane was required to take a course in the use of any tear gas spray. The standard penalty is a citation and a fine.

Ah, this brought back fond memories. How many times have I been in situations with a bad guy where I would have given my eyeteeth for pepper spray? Not having a can of spray, however, I usually made do with a wine bottle or a kick in the groin or, on one memorable occasion, the wand of a heavy-duty vacuum cleaner. So, striking a blow for Janes everywhere, I answered c.

I was wrong. The answer was b and I would have my license suspended, if I was ever lucky enough to get it in the first place, which remained to be seen.

The phone rang and I was not at all in the mood to pick up, until I saw it was Julie.

“Hey, Mom. Just called to wish you luck.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” Just hearing her voice was enough to lower my heart rate by ten beats. “I needed that.”

“Just remember, it’s multiple choice, so answer everything, even if you don’t know. Personally, I like to alternate between b and d, unless I knew the answer right before it and that was b or d. Then I go for a.”

“Are you telling me you guess? I thought you spent every night studying.”

“Yeah, just like you.” She laughed. “When was the last time you took a test?”

We went back and forth like this for a while. It was a welcome break. And I got to hear more about Maxwell the boyfriend and how, after she told him he was getting too serious, now he didn’t seem serious enough.

“Is Mr. Monk going with you to Hayward?” she asked. That’s where the test was being administered.

“No. His way of being supportive is to stay home and clean something in my name.”

“Did he at least call and wish you good luck?”

“Of course.” Of course, he hadn’t. But I never expected him to.

Julie had just hung up and I was gearing myself up for one more crack at my study guide, when the phone rang again. For some reason, I assumed it was Julie, so I didn’t even check the display.

“Natalie?” It was Amy Devlin, calling from the captain’s office. “I just got the file from Verizon.”

My heartbeat went back up ten beats. “Did someone call Miranda? Who?”

“We’re talking about a twenty-six-hour period, between the jump and the body’s recovery.”

“That’s the period Adrian’s interested in. Yes.”

“Okay.” I could tell she was reading it as she spoke. “This is her personal iPhone, which seems to be the only phone she owned . . .” Devlin paused. “Nothing.”

“What? That’s impossible.”

“Not so impossible. From the rest of her records, it seems Miranda wasn’t much of a texter or a talker. There were a few calls early on Saturday. But nothing in your time frame.”

I was confused. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll send you the file.” She paused a second. “There. You can see for yourself.”

“Thanks. And I know. I can’t spread this around or let anyone know where I got it.”

“Sorry about the bad news. It was just a three percent chance.”

“Right.” I guess, having dealt with Monk all these years, I’d gotten spoiled. Somehow the three percent chances and the far-out theories have almost always paid off. Except in this case.

Over on the dining room table, my computer dinged. “Got it,” I said. “Thanks, Amy. Oh, and don’t forget to pick up Adrian for the meeting this afternoon.”

“That’s right. You have your exam today. Good luck. And don’t forget. If you don’t know an answer, pick c. It works for me.”

After Lieutenant Devlin hung up, I should have returned to my cram session. Instead, I checked out the Verizon attachment she’d just sent. Like she said, no texts or e-mails or voice mails. That would have been extremely unusual on my own phone, but everyone’s different. And Miranda’s phone records seemed to confirm that she wasn’t a smartphone junkie like the rest of us.

As long as I was on my computer, I went to YouTube and clicked on my least favorite video, which I couldn’t keep myself from watching.

It was the Saturday before last, a bright, warm day by the sea, when the world still made sense and Miranda was alive. Someone having lunch on the Sanctuary lawn—a Joshua Council from Seattle—had been filming her with his phone. I don’t know how much he’d caught, but the part he’d uploaded—the part that had garnered more than three million hits and had been showed on every news program in the world—was of Miranda in the distance, standing by the cliff, doing a slow, relaxed yoga stretch, then walking to the edge and jumping.

The aftermath wasn’t nearly as clear. The phone jiggled and bucked, turning away and back again. The audio was a confusion of disbelief and screams. And it ended with Damien running, leading the way. The phone ran behind him. In the last moments, it was pointing down to the empty sea and the crashing waves. The minute and thirty-seven seconds that were starting to dominate my life.