Mr. Monk Helps Himself (24 page)

Grooms pursed his lips. “As long as you’re sharing with the appropriate agencies. Isn’t that the point of this post-nine-eleven world? We share our information and cover our butts.”

“The second we have any evidence that involves the FBI’s interests, we’ll share,” Devlin promised.

“Absolutely,” Stottlemeyer seconded.

Monk’s mouth was too dry for him to add anything but a grunt.

“I hear there’re clowns involved,” said Special Agent Cardea maliciously. “That’s what your prelim says.”

“Hey, Monk,” said Grooms, “I thought you hated clowns. Oh, maybe ‘hate’s’ not the right word. ‘Scared.’ ‘Frightened to death.’ Are those the right words?”

“Monk’s got it under control,” said Devlin.

“Under control?” said Grooms, fixing Monk with another snake stare. “Really? Without little Natalie around to act as your human tranquilizer?”

“How do you solve a clown case?” Cardea asked Monk.

“Are you going to interrogate a roomful of them?” said Grooms. “Maybe you should do a lineup.” They were on either side of him now, ping-ponging it back and forth.

“Or get a sketch artist. ‘Yes, Officer, I think his nose was a little bigger.’”

“Just don’t get into a car chase.” Grooms went into a high-pitched clown voice. “Oh, the humanity!”

They could see the effect this was having. That’s why they were doing it. It was the one way these bullies could get even after all the times he’d shown them up. They certainly couldn’t outpolice him or outthink him.

“I can see the wreck now. A few unicycles. A tiny car. The world’s smallest bike.”

“Enough!” Stottlemeyer shouted, and pointed to the door. “Out of my office. If you have any more clever things to say, put them in writing and go through the proper channels. This meeting is over.”

“No, Captain, they’re right.”

Monk was shivering head to foot. Devlin told me later that she’d never seen him shake so badly. “I thought I could do this, Leland, I really did.”

“You can, Monk. Don’t let these animals—”

“I can’t. I know I’m letting a germ brother down, but— ” And he turned and fled the room.

•   •   •

I don’t know what I’d been planning to do for a full weekend, besides sitting around being Ellen’s backup.

My first time killer consisted of taking a hike around the B-and-B. The gravel drive opened onto a dirt road that wandered behind the house, down to a small secluded inlet. It always surprised me how towns that seemed so overbuilt and that prized their priceless beachfronts would have so many secluded spots, little beaches like this with nary a house in sight.

I looked north along the cliffs to where I knew the Sanctuary must be, nestled between its tall stucco walls and the sea.

For the next hour I wandered the town’s Main Street, going into shops crowded with antiques and knickknacks and making a mental list of all the adorable things I couldn’t afford. Not that I’m complaining, but it gets a little old, always pinching pennies. I wondered how our partnership, Monk and Teeger, might positively affect my income—if there ever was to be a Monk and Teeger. At this point it looked iffy.

After sufficiently depressing myself, I strolled back to my Subaru and noticed my binoculars in the backseat. Ellen hadn’t called or texted since breakfast. She wasn’t scheduled until after lunch, so I was just a little bit anxious. I’m not sure “anxious” is the word. Concerned? Aware? I should ask Monk. He’s like an Eskimo. You know, the guys who have thirty words for snow? Monk must have at least fifty words for his various levels of anxiety.

Before I realized where I was going, I found myself driving to a turnout not far from the white stucco wall that marked the northern boundary of the BPM Sanctuary. Two weeks ago, this had been the prime gathering point for the TV trucks and photographers. I bowed to the wisdom of professional snoops and pulled in.

Taking my pair of vintage Bausch and Lombs, I crossed the Cabrillo Highway and began to scout out a place in the sandy scrub, a little shielded from the road, but still with a view over the north wall.

Sure, this was a pointless exercise. So is Pilates, at least for me.

But it made me feel better. It gave me a sense of control, knowing that, if Ellen was in trouble and had the wherewithal to stand on the lawn and wave a colorful distress flag, I would be there to see it and come to her rescue.

I’d been sitting there for perhaps forty minutes, just long enough to have my left leg fall asleep, when I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was a flash of color—red, maybe—moving between my cubbyhole and the road above.

I trained my binoculars on the spot. A second later, I saw it again. Could those be roses? Growing in this sandy terrain? No.

But, yes, I decided after taking another look. These were roses, profoundly red ones. And they were bobbing up and down and coming closer. Not only roses, but long-stemmed. Exactly ten of them, being held above someone’s head like a white flag.

“Natalie,” he moaned from a distance. “Please come back.”

I moaned as well. “Adrian.” Then I got up to shake my sleepy leg. “How did you find me?”

Monk wobbled closer and closer, trying desperately not to let the sand get into his pant cuffs. “I knew you were still obsessed. So I called the Sanctuary and you weren’t registered. So I had Luther drive me here and we saw your car parked off the road.”

“Who is Luther?’

“He’s this guy. Here!” Monk stood in front of me, pushing the plastic roses into my face.

I had to hang the binoculars around my neck to accept them. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

“I don’t know. It’s part of the ritual. It seemed to work with Ellen.”

“Well, it’s not going to fix this. Who is Luther?”

“He’s this guy. What do you expect to see with those binoculars?”

“None of your business. Who’s Luther?”

“This guy. Can we please discuss this someplace not so sandy?”

“Sure.” Why not? This spying wasn’t getting me anywhere, and I had to find out who Luther was. I stretched my dozing leg again and handed him back the roses.

“No, those are for you.”

“I don’t want ten artificial roses.”

“Fine,” he said sulkily. “I’ll save them for someone else.”

“You do that.”

“Can you carry them back up to the car for me?”

“Carry them back yourself.”

“I’d prefer not to. They set me off balance. We can leave them here in the sand. Why don’t we do that? They’ll just return to nature.”

“They won’t return to nature. They’re plastic.”

I wound up carrying the roses in one hand and my binoculars in the other.

Up at the turnout, I was finally introduced to Luther and his car. “Good to meet you, Natalie.” The man was in a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie and wore a cap that he tipped my way. “I’ve heard a lot.”

Monk nodded. “Mostly about how dirty your car is and how unreliable you are.”

I took Monk a few yards away, although I’m sure Luther could still hear. “A chauffeur? You hired a limousine and chauffeur?”

“Not a chauffeur,” Monk said.

You could have fooled me. The car was a black Lincoln sedan, spotlessly clean. Luther himself was a youngish black man, large, lean, and well-spoken, with just a little salt-and-pepper at the temples. Monk had created his own dysfunctional version of
Driving Miss Daisy
.

“It’s a car service,” Monk said, as if this explained everything.

“Since when can we afford a car service?”

“It’s not so bad when the owner gives you a rate.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“I am.”

“You are?” I was starting to sound like a straight man in a bad comedy sketch.

“It’s a foolproof investment,” Monk said. “You remember the reward I got from solving that billionaire’s kidnapping?”

“No, I remember the reward
we
got. You said it was going right into our emergency fund.”

“Transportation is an emergency. I believe it was one of FDR’s Four Freedoms. Freedom of Transportation.”

“What about my bonus?” I asked. “I seem to recall you promising me a bonus on that case.”

Monk shook his head and chuckled. “At the time I was semiconscious, hanging upside down, and encased in paper mache as part of the killer’s sculpture installation at the Palace of Fine Arts. I don’t think it’s ethical to hold someone to that kind of promise.”

“So, I’m just an employee who gets nothing?”

“That’s why you should knuckle-down and pass your exam and become my partner. Someday.”

“Someday? Until then I get nothing but the occasional paycheck.”

“Not nothing,” he protested. “Not nothing.” I could see him eyeing the plastic roses in my hand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mr. Monk and His Germ Sister

T
here were so many reasons to be mad. But, more than mad, I was hurt. Buying a car service, which basically meant limousines? How could he have kept this from me? We were best friends. We’d spent hundreds of hours together, and that was just a typical week. He seemed unable to do anything without me. And yet he had managed to buy a company with a fleet of four cars and six drivers.

Of course, now that I think of it, I had been away in New Jersey, and his life hadn’t stopped. Even if my daughter, Julie, did pitch in as his temporary assistant, he’d had plenty of time to get into trouble.

But still . . . If I’d bought a car service company, even a small one, I certainly would have told him.

On the plus side, Luther Washington was a sweetheart. He had a true empathy for human foibles, a wicked sense of humor, and extreme patience, all the things you tend to run out of while dealing with my boss. He could also, when push came to shove, turn on a no-guff attitude that Monk somehow responded to.

They had met through cleanliness, of course. Before my last return to San Francisco, Monk had my Subaru towed to a car-detailing shop for a complete antigerm, microbial cleaning, with extra emphasis on the front passenger seat. It was supposed to be a present.

Luther owned the detailing shop, and he and Monk started talking, mostly about the fact that my insurance didn’t seem to cover this kind of “required maintenance.”

When Luther mentioned his entry into the limousine business, Monk saw this as a perfect opportunity to make an investment and provide himself with a perk. It made a kind of sense, I had to admit, although this didn’t mean I was relinquishing my right to be upset.

I drove back to the Myrtle & Thyme, and Luther followed with His Highness majestically centered in the backseat. With Monk now turned over to my custody, Luther drove back to San Francisco and his life.

Monk and I quickly commandeered the lounge, a front room that seemed to be outfitted with half the knickknacks I’d just seen on Main Street. Darlene popped in to offer us tea, which we declined. She didn’t mention it, but I could tell she was confused by my choice of companionship.

“Natalie, come back,” Monk pleaded. “First, Ellen leaves me, then you. By the way, do you know where Ellen is? She’s not at home and not answering her phone.” If Darlene was still nearby, listening in, I’m sure she was getting an earful.

“Forget about Ellen for now,” I said. “This relationship can only work if you and I are full, equal partners.”

“That never bothered you before.”

“Well, it does now. I’ve changed, Adrian. I know how much you hate change. But it’s part of life.”

“No, it’s not. It’s part of death.”

“Let’s not talk about life and death. What we need to talk about is trust. If you want me to help you with your murder, you have to trust me about my suicide.”

From off in the kitchen, I could hear a plate dropping to the floor.

The rest of our conversation was a lot more normal. Well, a bit more normal, considering the source. Monk repeated how he couldn’t deal with clowns, not without me. And how he was germ brothers with Stottlemeyer and couldn’t go back on his word.

Meanwhile, I countered with theories about Miranda—and threw in some punches about how partners shouldn’t take company money and spend it on chauffeurs, not without discussing it.

By the end we had come to an understanding.

“Okay,” he sighed, exhausted by the effort. “As long as I’m here, I’ll check it out.”

“No,” I insisted. “You have to treat this like a real case. You can’t just look at a few things and give me a three percent. You have to promise. Germ brothers.” And I held out my hand.

He thought about it. “Can I wipe before shaking and let the disinfectant linger?”

“No. You’re not going to wipe and you’re not going to run away. We’re partners. Take it or leave it.”

Monk gulped a lungful, then extended his hand. After the shake, I watched but didn’t see him try anything funny. “Good,” I said. “Now I’ll bring you up to date.” As a precaution, I crossed to the lounge door, closed it, and lowered my voice.

There wasn’t much to tell. But I reviewed my scanty evidence and ended by showing him the photos: the row of vitamins, the pill on the floor, the monogrammed hand towel.

I could see Monk focusing on the lone pill. “Enlarge!” he ordered the phone, as if it would respond on its own. I zoomed in on the pill as much as I could. “This is from her bathroom, not his?” he asked.