Mr. Monk Helps Himself (27 page)

For the first whole day, Ellen and Monk were holed up at Ellen’s house. I had no idea what the living arrangements were there, but I assumed they were hygienic. More than that, I couldn’t guess and didn’t want to know.

The Best Possible Me Corporation ceased operations on the same day as the sheriff’s third press conference. Also on that day, the YouTube video soared to more than ten million views. As for my involvement with BPM, the Miranda CDs quickly found their way into the trash. Nonrecyclable.

It wasn’t that I was rejecting her insights. I think she was basically a good person who’d helped millions. Whether she believed in it didn’t matter. She had served a purpose in my life, and as Miranda herself would have said, it was time to move on.

•   •   •

By Tuesday afternoon, Monk and I were back at his Pine Street apartment, getting ready for Celine Harriman’s seventh birthday celebration.

The plan was that Monk would never have to put on a “facial disguise,” as we called the red nose and makeup, or wear a “uniform.” That was out of the question and would probably cause a Chernobyl-like meltdown. But he would have to act enough like a clown to get Harriman’s permission to enter the garage.

We were rehearsing his patter and were making progress. He could actually say “clown” ten times in a row without stammering. But then came Andrew the mailman, ringing the buzzer with another package.

I’d actually been looking forward to package number four. I just hoped this one wouldn’t be too obvious and give the whole thing away.

Monk closed the front door on Andrew and handed it to me. “You open it.”

It was like the others, brown paper wrapped, addressed to Mr. A. Monk in the same scratchy handwriting. This one had been postmarked Miami and was about the size of a hardbound dictionary, for those of you who remember dictionaries.

Inside was a child’s play kit—for ages eight and up. The name, printed in multicolored balloon letters, was “Insta-Mime” and included, according to the box, “everything you need to turn yourself into a professional-looking mime”: white face paint, black and red accent paint, while gloves, and a beret. The box said “mime,” but all Monk could see was “clown.” As soon as I ripped off the wrapping paper, he fled into the bedroom and slammed the door.

“We have to call off the mission,” Monk shouted. “They know what we’re up to.”

“Who knows?”

“The clown mafia. They’re onto us.”

Sometimes I wish I was better at fooling people, at drawing out a joke and keeping a straight face and making the most of it. But beyond a certain point, it’s just not in me.

“It’s not a clown. It’s a mime,” I shouted through the door. “Just like the book was about clowns and mimes. Just like your brother, Ambrose, used to love mimes when he was a kid. Just like he used to collect Confederate money. Remember? Just like Yuki, his wife, is Japanese and likes to give your brother different kinds of massages.”

The good thing about Monk is that it takes him just a second to put things together. He swung open the door and glared at me. “Well, that’s just stupid.”

“Not so stupid,” I said.

Okay. A little bit of background is probably in order.

Monk’s brother, Ambrose, is, as I mentioned before, an agoraphobe. For years, he never left his house, which had also been his childhood home, which had also been filled with thirty years’ worth of mail, all indexed and cataloged.

The person responsible for bringing some much-needed change into his life was Yuki Nakamura, a twentysomething biker chick with tattoos and a manslaughter conviction in her past. She began by working as Ambrose’s assistant. The two—improbably, illogically—fell in love and got married.

Now Ambrose and Yuki were on a prolonged honeymoon, circling the country in an RV, which was acting as Ambrose’s temporary home. He might not step outside the RV for an entire year, but at least he’ll be able to look out and see the world.

Before they left, I remember talking with Yuki one evening over a few glasses of wine. “We’re naturally going to buy things,” Yuki said, sounding a bit concerned. “What’s the point of traveling if you don’t buy things?”

“Sure,” I agreed wholeheartedly. “Half of traveling is the shopping. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is space. Have you seen that RV? There’s no room for anything. We’d have to rent a trailer or tie things to the roof.”

“You could just mail them home,” I suggested.

“And have them pile up on the front porch?”

“Or you could mail them to me. Or to Mr. Monk.” That’s what I was calling him back then.

“Good idea,” said Yuki.

That was about the extent of the conversation. And that was the inside information I had that Monk didn’t. I never really thought of it again, not until after Monk told me about his brother’s early fascination with mimes and
The Big Book of Clowns and Mimes
appeared on his doorstep, connecting the dots for me.

“Obviously, that’s her handwriting,” Monk said, getting all mentally caught up.

“The packages weren’t addressed to you. Yuki addressed them to your brother: Mr. A. Monk. She must not have thought about the possible confusion.”

“Why didn’t she put in a note? Or let one of us know what she was doing?”

“I don’t know,” I said, only half lying.

“And you figured this out on your own?”

“Yes, Adrian. On my own. You can thank me anytime. Without me, you’d be running to the captain right now, trying to get a task force to track down the clown mafia.”

He nodded in full agreement. “You’re right. I owe you an apology.”

I waited a few seconds. “And?”

“Not now. I’ll catch you later.”

Instead of apologizing, Monk had me call Yuki, just to confirm and say hello. He couldn’t call himself. It’s not that he wasn’t fond of her; he wasn’t. But more than unfond, he was a little intimidated. Not to mention perplexed by how a young, strong rebel could have fallen so completely for his middle-aged brother, whose idea of death-defying adventure was a walk around the block.

I found Yuki and Ambrose in Key West, where they had lucked into a trailer park not far from the center of town. The love birds seemed extremely happy with their long honeymoon, even though Ambrose had never left the RV, not so far. “Oh, I just got another tattoo,” Yuki added. “Tell Adrian not to worry. It’s someplace he’ll never see.”

“I’m not sure he wants to hear that, either.”

“What don’t I want to hear?” Monk asked. “No, don’t tell me. Ignorance is bliss.”

Yuki confirmed my theory and apologized for not including notes—a real apology, not an IOU. “Things are so hectic every day, I didn’t think about reminding you.”

Hectic? I thought. What could be hectic about lazily driving around in an RV?

“Sorry, Nat. Gotta go. Ambrose is going crazy with the chickens. He doesn’t think a city should allow chickens roaming the streets.” She covered the phone but I could still hear. “Honey, no. You can’t run them over. It’s against the law.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Mr. Monk Sends in the Clowns

M
onk wouldn’t be wearing a wire on this one. Not that his track record with wires was all that great. Even the tiniest microphones would make him feel off-balance and tilt him to one side. Plus there was the matter of the annoying wires and the tape itching against his skin. It would be like trying to mic the princess from “The Princess and the Pea.”

In this case, the police couldn’t be directly involved. That would constitute an illegal search. So when Monk showed up at the house on Sacramento Street, he was on his own, a private citizen invited through the door. His only backup would be a cell phone, a small red clamshell lent to him by Ellen for good luck. If Monk got into trouble, he would have to call.

Stottlemeyer, Devlin, and I were parked in my trusty Subaru across the street, feeling pretty helpless. We hadn’t even been able to check out a surveillance van. All three of us had binoculars, although they wouldn’t be of much use.

John Harriman had come out to meet Monk on the front porch, wearing a 49ers sweatshirt and a pink paper hat. We caught a glimpse, just before slumping down in our seats. Devlin giggled.

The stockbroker seemed startled. “Smith, where’s your costume?”

“I don’t have a car, so I’m going to have to change here.” Monk pointed to his red-and-white roller suitcase, bought especially for the job. It was filled with costume, shoes, wig, and makeup, all borrowed from the late Dudley Smith. Everything Monk would need to become J. P. Tatters, even though we’d solemnly promised he’d never have to open it.

“Right,” said Harriman with a shake of his head. “I think Alicia mentioned that.” He reopened the front door. “How’s the downstairs powder room?”

As soon as the door was open, the sound of screaming kids wafted down the hallway. One particularly shrill voice dominated. “Daddy! Daddy!”

“Coming, sweetie,” Harriman shouted back.

“Where’s Mommy? Mommy said she’d be here.”

“Mommy is far away. She’ll be home next week.” Harriman raised his voice. “Marina, please settle the children.”

“Yes, Mr. Harriman. I do my best.” Marina was Bulgarian, Monk deduced, between forty and fifty, and, from the timbre of her voice, on the verge of quitting.

“I want Mommy here. It’s my birthday.”

Harriman turned to Monk and whispered with great force, “I need you to take care of these monsters. Now.”

“I need to leave,” Monk said, then corrected himself. “I mean, I need to change outside. Last time, I used the garage.”

“Used the garage?” Harriman studied him with some interest.

“So I can ring the bell and make an entrance,” Monk explained. “We don’t want to spoil the illusion.”

“Where’s the clown?” the same shrill voice shouted. “J. P. Tatters. J. P. Tatters.”

A dozen other shrill voices took up the chant. “J. P. Tatters. J. P. Tatters.” To Monk, they must have sounded like French peasants chanting for the head of Marie Antoinette.

“All right, all right,” Harriman said. “Make it fast.” Reaching into the Chinese bowl just inside the door, he grabbed a set of keys and used one to unlock the pedestrian door next to the double-bay garage doors.

We watched from the lip of the car windows as Monk walked his rolling bag in. “He’s inside,” Devlin said. “Good luck, Monk.”

“Good luck,” Stottlemeyer and I said in unison.

We settled into our car seats, expecting a nail-biting wait of five to ten minutes. Maybe longer. But we were pleasantly surprised when one of the two garage doors shuddered and began to roll up.

“Way to go,” Stottlemeyer whispered. And then he looked off to his left. “Damn.”

What had grabbed his attention and dampened his spirits was a black Mercedes sedan slowing down and turning into the newly opened bay.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“I’ll run the plates,” Devlin said, reaching for her phone.

“Don’t bother,” said the captain. “I caught a glimpse. It’s the wife.”

And then, as quickly as it had rolled up, the door rolled down.

•   •   •

Monk’s memory of what happened next is a bit sketchy. Blunt-force trauma to the head can do that.

He thinks he’d been in the closed garage for just a minute. He’d barely had time to adjust to the normal grunge and disorder of a typical garage—a hunter green SUV in the one bay, the other one empty—when he heard the gears grind and the second door begin to rise.

Alicia Harriman didn’t see him at first. A tall woman, very thin, very blond, and suspiciously free of wrinkles. She emerged from the Mercedes and retrieved a wrapped box with a pink bow from the backseat. Only then, as she was walking around the rear of the car, did she notice the man, stooped over and rolling a red-and-white suitcase toward the pedestrian door.

“You. Stop,” she demanded without an ounce of fear. “Who are you?”

Monk stopped and stood. “I’m J. P. Tatters.” He realized his mistake the second the words left his mouth.

“No, you’re not,” said Alicia.

“I am,” Monk insisted, and tried to smile. “Technically. The original J. P. Tatters died. I’m his brother. Carrying on the tradition.”

“Died?” she asked. Her brow would have furrowed if it could have. “What did he die of?”

“No one knows,” Monk improvised. “Some clown disease.”

“Wait a minute.” Alicia took a step closer. “You’re Adrian Monk.”

“People say I look like him.”

“No, you’re that police detective. What are you doing in my garage?”

With all the publicity Monk gets in this city, we’ve been lucky that more bad guys haven’t recognized him. Our luck just ran out.

“I told you, I’m the clown for what’s-her-name’s party.”

‘No, you’re not. You were snooping. Are the police outside—is that it? I saw a car parked across the street.”

“No, no,” Monk stammered.

“Is John in trouble?” Alicia whispered, her face clouding with disappointment. “I knew it.”

“No, he’s not in trouble,” Monk lied.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Monk. My husband does stupid things. What is it this time? Insider trading? Did his crazy partner talk him into something?” She seemed genuinely upset.