Mr. Monk is a Mess (4 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Mr. Monk Goes Home

D
isher drove us to Newark Airport in the morning for our flight back home. Before we got out of the Suburban, he handed us leather wallets containing our badges.

“You may be going back to San Francisco,” he said, “but you’re still Summit police officers.”

It was a very shrewd move on his part, a way to make sure we didn’t get too comfortable back home and begin to second-guess our decisions to make our temporary jobs permanent.

It also played on his understanding of our histories and vulnerabilities. Monk had fought for years to get reinstated to the SFPD after being thrown off for psychological reasons following his wife’s murder. Now Disher was showing his confidence in Monk by handing him a badge without making him struggle to earn it.

I’d bounced around for years, doing all kinds of jobs, before I stumbled into the role of Monk’s assistant. Even so, I wasn’t sure if I had any real, marketable skills or if I’d made any meaningful contributions to his investigations. Only recently had I begun to think that police work was something that I might not only have an affinity for, but might actually enjoy doing. By handing me a badge, Disher was officially recognizing my abilities. It was like the Wizard of Oz proving the Scarecrow had a brain by giving him a diploma.

We didn’t have any luggage, since our belongings had burned in a hotel fire (which is another story), so we checked in at one of the computer terminals and made our way to the gate.

Monk brought plastic booties to wear on his feet when he went through security without his shoes, and he didn’t object to walking through the X-ray machine this time.

Perhaps it was because he felt a kinship with the TSA agents. When they saw our badges, they asked us if we had any weapons to declare, and I said just my hands. I think they thought I was serious. They seemed to treat us with a deference reserved for law enforcement officers and Monk wasn’t going to jeopardize that by making any kind of scene.

One of Monk’s big phobias is flying. Usually, the only way to get him on a plane for a long flight is to give him an experimental drug that diminishes his OCD but turns him into a jerk. The other is to slip him a mickey, which is what we did to get him out to New Jersey. Much to my surprise, and despite his fury about being drugged before, he actually requested a strong sedative before getting on the flight. Once again, I credit the badge.

So while Monk slept through most of the five-hour flight, I sat in quiet contemplation, thinking about the tumultuous changes I was about to make in my life. After weeks of sleeping on Disher’s couch, I was looking forward to my own bed and the comforts of my own home, one I was about to abandon for a new career on the other side of the country.

As a cop.

Officer Natalie Teeger.

Wow
.

It was hard to believe, but I had the evidence right there in my hands.

My badge.

I spent hours staring at the badge and appreciating what it represented about me and what it promised for my future.

I also had to admire once again how clever Disher was to give us those badges. Up until then, I’d never thought of him as being that smart or manipulative. Then again, I never saw him as chief-of-police material, either. I was obviously a lousy judge of character.

I wasn’t looking forward to packing up and saying good-bye to everyone, and yet I was eager to see how my parents, my daughter, Julie, and Captain Leland Stottlemeyer—Monk’s oldest friend and our boss at the SFPD—would all react to my badge.

We arrived at San Francisco International Airport in the early evening and I led a stumbling, very groggy Monk to my car in the long-term parking lot.

It’s a good thing that Monk was practically sleepwalking, because if he’d been alert and had seen the thick layer of dirt and bird crap on my car, he would not have gotten in, and would probably have called the Department of Health. Lucky for us both, he fell asleep moments after I sat him down and buckled him in.

I paid the attendant at the exit booth a parking fee roughly equal to the Kelley Blue Book value of my car, an expense that Disher would reimburse, and drove us into the city.

I hadn’t taken a sleeping pill and yet there was a dreamlike quality to the drive. All the passing scenery was familiar, but I felt removed from what I was seeing, as if it were already a memory.

San Francisco was the same as it was when I left it, but I didn’t return as the same person I was before. I’d changed in fundamental ways, and not just because I had a badge in my pocket.

While I was in Summit, I shot a man in the line of duty. I did so without the slightest hesitation. He’d survived and I felt no remorse for my quick action. It wasn’t just pulling the trigger that changed me—it was the knowledge that I
could
and that I
would
.

It surprised me. And I knew I’d be making more discoveries about myself in the coming months. It was scary and exciting at the same time.

I glanced over at Monk and wondered if, when he wasn’t sedated, he was feeling the same mix of excitement and anxiety that I was. Then again, feeling anxious was his usual state of mind.

I pulled up to his Art Deco–style apartment building on Pine, a shrinking pocket of affordability tucked between the old money and Victorian mansions of Pacific Heights to the north and the new money that was gentrifying the Western District to the south.

I walked him to his door, opened it for him, and then led him all the way in to his bed. He collapsed facefirst on his comforter. I took off his shoes, but beyond that, I left him as he was. If I so much as removed his jacket, he’d be humiliated and outraged when he woke up.

Most homes that have been closed up for weeks smell musty and stale, but not Monk’s place. It smelled as if it had just been thoroughly cleaned. I credited that inexplicable freshness to the accumulation of disinfectants and cleansers over the years. I was certain that I could bottle the air in his apartment and use it to disinfect operating rooms. On my way out, I checked a few tabletops and shelves and couldn’t find even a particle of dust.

But I was sure that when Monk awoke he would survey the apartment and decide it was caked in filth and nearly uninhabitable. At least it would make moving out easier for him to accept.

I slipped away, locked the door behind me, and headed south on Divisadero, across Market Street, and into Noe Valley, the quirky, self-consciously bohemian neighborhood where I lived on a tree-lined street of Victorian row houses, most of which were occupied by young families with lots of kids and dogs and credit card debt.

I parked in the driveway and immediately felt the emotional tug of home. I fought the urge to run to the door and, instead, walked slowly across the grass and up the steps of my front porch to appreciate my little piece of San Francisco real estate.

I unlocked the door and turned on the lights as I stepped inside. My house didn’t smell musty and stale, as I was expecting it to. Instead, it smelled like pizza, which was odd, since I couldn’t remember having one before I left.

Not only that, but there were two empty beer bottles on the coffee table.

And I don’t drink beer.

That left only one inescapable conclusion.

Someone has been living in my house
.

My first thought was that Julie had used my house to party while I was away and, since she didn’t have any warning that I was returning, hadn’t had a chance to clean up the evidence.

I didn’t see her car out front, but just in case she and some boyfriend were in the house in the middle of something I didn’t want to walk in on, I announced my arrival.

“Julie, I’m home.”

I was standing there, waiting for a reply, or for some sound of movement, when I noticed something else unusual.

All the family photos of me, Julie, and Mitch were gone from the walls and bookshelves.

Why would Julie remove those?

She wouldn’t.

Something wasn’t right. I reached for the gun I didn’t have in the holster I wasn’t wearing. Since I had no weapon, I dropped my purse and grabbed an umbrella from the stand by the door. Hefting it like a batter waiting for a pitch, I moved slowly into the kitchen.

The table was set for a breakfast for two. There was an assortment of cereal boxes and jams, two cups of coffee, a carton of milk, a mushy bowl of cut watermelon, and a plate of dry toast.

Someone has been living in my house
.

There was a pizza carton on the kitchen counter, four empty wine bottles in the recycle bin, and the dish rack was full of clean dishes.

Someone has been eating my food.

At least whoever it was had the courtesy to wash my dishes. So why did he leave the empty bottles in the living room and the untouched breakfast on the table?

I left the kitchen and crept down the dark hall toward my bedroom, cursing the old floorboards for creaking under my feet. The bedroom door was ajar. I used my foot to slowly open the door.

There was a pair of red-soled Christian Louboutin high-heeled shoes, a Chanel silk blouse, a short skirt, a lacy bra, and G-string panties.

They certainly weren’t my clothes or my daughter’s. The shoes alone cost more than Julie’s tuition.

The discarded clothing made a trail to the bed, where the sheets and comforter were a rumpled mess.

Someone has been sleeping in my bed.

As I stepped into the room, I heard water dripping behind me. I turned around and headed toward the half-open bathroom door down the hall, midway between my room and Julie’s old bedroom.

But that’s when I picked up a metallic odor in the air that stopped me cold, my heart thumping hard and heavy in my chest.

I recognized the smell.

And, in a way I was thankful for it, because it gave me a warning and a moment to prepare for the horror I was going to see.

It was the smell of blood.

Gobs of it.

I’d never been more afraid in my life.

I held my breath, my heartbeat resonating through my whole rigid body, and with a shaking hand, I used the tip of the umbrella to ease open the bathroom door.

The first thing I saw was the puddle of blood and water on the linoleum.

And then I saw the pale female arm draped over the side of the tub, crimson water spilling over the edge, a bloody straight razor dangling from her hand.

And then I saw the naked red-haired woman sitting in the tub, her head lolled back against the white tile wall and staring at me with wide, dead eyes, her throat slit open in an obscene smile.

I took a sudden breath, as sharp and painful as a knife, and fell to my knees, my body racked by deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

Of profound relief.

There was a dead woman in my bathtub.

And it wasn’t my daughter.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mr. Monk Has a Dream

I
got a grip on myself, stood up, and backed out of the room. I retraced my steps through the house, dropped the umbrella back in the stand, and grabbed my purse on my way out the front door.

I sat down on the porch, took in a few deep breaths, then got some tissues out of my purse, wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

An attractive young couple walked by, pushing a stroller. They smiled and waved and I smiled and waved back at them as if I were one of those nice neighbors who didn’t have a dead naked woman in my bathtub. It made me wonder what might be hidden behind the smiles and draped windows of my neighbors.

I reached into my purse, took out my cell phone, and called Captain Stottlemeyer. He answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Captain, it’s Natalie.”

“How are things in Summit?”

“I’m here in San Francisco,” I said.

“It’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you and Monk were ever coming home,” he said. “When did you get back?”

“I just walked in the door,” I said.

“And Monk insisted that you alert me right away that he’s ready and available for work,” Stottlemeyer said. “Consider me alerted. Now get some rest. I’ll be sure to light up the bat signal as soon as there’s a tricky murder I need his help with.”

“Actually, Mr. Monk didn’t ask me to call. He’s at home in bed. He took a sleeping pill before we got on the plane and probably doesn’t even realize that he’s in San Francisco yet. So he’s going to be a bit disoriented once you manage to wake him up.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you’ll want to stop by and get him tonight on your way over to my house.”

“As eager as I am to hear all about your trip,” he said, “I think I can wait a few days until you get settled in.”

“Yeah, but by then the corpse in my bathtub will have decomposed so much, the neighbors will be complaining about the smell.”

There was a long moment of silence. “There’s a dead body in your bathtub?”

“There is,” I said.

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I came home from the airport and there she was, naked with her throat slit, sitting in a tub full of water. From what I can tell, she’s been there since this morning.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“Just the front door and an umbrella,” I said. “As soon as I saw the body, I retraced my steps and went back outside. But it’s my house, so my fingerprints are going to be everywhere anyway. I am now out front, securing the crime scene.”

“Okay, sit tight. Someone will be there within five minutes. I’ll be there shortly with Monk. Are you going to be okay until then?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen a murder victim. It’s not even the first time I’ve seen one in my house.”

“That may be the most depressing thing I’ve heard all day,” he said.

“The day isn’t over yet,” I said.

* * *

Two squad cars showed up a few minutes after my call and four officers got out. I identified myself and remained on the porch with one of the officers while the others got to work. One went into the backyard to secure the back door of the house, another established a perimeter with crime scene tape, and the last posted himself on the street to keep the curious neighbors away.

The medical examiner, the forensics team, and Lieutenant Amy Devlin arrived at about the same time, nearly causing a pileup. But Devlin won out, cutting off the other vehicles and skidding to a stop at the curb in her 1990 Firebird.

She slammed her door and marched up the front walk toward me.

“Welcome home,” Devlin said. “Do you really have a stiff in your bathroom?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said.

Devlin wore her standard uniform—blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket that looked like it had been salvaged from a fire and attacked with the same weed whacker she used to style her hair. Her badge was clipped to her belt right beside her gun, which I bet she even wore with a bathing suit.

“Anybody you know?”

“Nope,” I said, hoping she didn’t plan on asking me every question that I’d already answered for the captain.

The forensic team and Dr. Daniel Hetzer, the medical examiner, went past us on their way into the house. I’d met Hetzer a few times before. He was a balding man who carefully maintained two days’ worth of stubble on his face as if the hair were a rare orchid. I acknowledged him with a nod, and he nodded back at me, which provoked a glower of irritation from Devlin, who’d only recently transferred over to replace Disher. She resented my familiarity with everyone in homicide, especially while she was still finding her footing.

“Did you have anyone taking care of your house or picking up your mail while you were away?” she asked.

“The gardener comes once a week and mows the lawn, but that’s it,” I replied. “I put a vacation hold on my mail and newspaper.”

“Who has keys to your house?”

“Just me and my daughter.”

“Where is she?”

I shrugged. “At her apartment in Berkeley, I suppose. I haven’t called her yet.”

“Could the dead woman be one of her friends?”

“This woman looks older,” I said. “I peg her to be in her late twenties, early thirties.”

“That doesn’t mean your daughter didn’t befriend her, give her a key, and let her crash at your place while you were away,” Devlin said.

“That’s true,” I said. “But Julie wouldn’t do that.”

Devlin started toward the front door and I followed her. She stopped at the door and turned to me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

“Into my house,” I replied.

“It’s a crime scene.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“That means it’s cops only inside until the captain decides it’s okay for civilians to come in.”

“No problem,” I said and flashed her my badge. “I suggest you get some booties on your shoes before you go inside. I don’t want you contaminating our crime scene by tracking in stuff from your car.”

“Let me see that.” Devlin gestured to my badge and I handed it to her. She examined it closely. I thought she might even bite it to see if it was metal instead of tinfoil. “How many rings did you have to toss to win this at the county fair?”

“It’s authentic,” I said and pointed to the Summit Police photo ID on the opposite flap of the badge wallet. “I’m a police officer now. I’m only here long enough to settle my affairs, then I’m going back east.”

“They’ll give these to anybody these days.” She tossed the badge wallet back to me. “Are you taking Monk with you?”

“That’s the plan,” I said.

“At least there’s a bright side to this.” She shouldered past me and headed over to the CSI van, where she helped herself to plastic booties from a box by the door.

I’d thought that after all Devlin and I had been through together, I’d proven myself as reasonably competent and we’d finally worked through her hostility toward me and Monk.

Apparently I was wrong.

I marched up to her. “You looked at my badge like it’s a personal insult.”

“It is,” she said.

“Whether you like it or not, it means I am a cop now,” I said. “Just like you.”

“You’re nothing like me,” she said as she slipped the booties over her shoes. “You haven’t been through the Academy, you haven’t put in years walking a beat, you haven’t spent months at a time undercover where the slightest mistake could put you in the ground. You’re a dilettante.”

We’d been through variations of this dance many times before and I was tired of it. The difference now was that I had a badge, and while I could see how that might add some salt to her perceived wounds, it also gave me an advantage I didn’t have before.

I reached for a set of booties from the van and tugged them over my shoes.

“What you think of me or of my experience doesn’t matter, because as far as the law or anybody else is concerned, my badge makes me as much a cop as yours makes you.”

“Except that I’m a homicide detective, you’re a patrol officer, and you’re thousands of miles outside of your itty-bitty jurisdiction. So your badge might as well have come from a cereal box for all it’s worth here.”

I stepped in front of her and looked her right in the eye. “I’m tired, I’m jet-lagged, and there’s a dead body in my bathroom. I don’t have the patience to argue with you, so listen up. I’m a cop and that’s my house. I don’t need your permission to go inside. You, on the other hand, need mine. So shove the attitude or you’ll stay here directing traffic while I begin the investigation.”

She took a step toward me. We were so close that our noses were almost touching. “You try to get between me and that house and I will take you down so hard you’ll think you were hit by a bus.”

And that’s how we were standing when Stottlemeyer and Monk approached us. We were so caught up in our contest measuring a particular part of the male anatomy that neither of us possessed that we hadn’t heard them drive up and get out of the car.

Whatever hostility I felt toward Devlin evaporated when I saw Stottlemeyer. I felt a wave of affection for him. He was his usual rumpled, weary self, his bushy mustache in need of a trim, his clothes wrinkled, his tie loosely knotted at his neck. I’d missed him.

“I see you two are as chummy as ever,” Stottlemeyer said to the two of us.

Devlin and I, suddenly both self-conscious, took a big step back from each other.

I looked over at Monk, who was glassy-eyed and a bit wobbly on his feet.

“Are you okay, Mr. Monk?” I asked.

“I’m just a little sleepy. The captain woke me up from a nap,” Monk said. “You wouldn’t believe the dream I had. It was so vivid. You were in it. So were Sharona and Randy. And a lady who sold poo. We were police officers.”

“That wasn’t a dream,” I said. “That really happened.”

“We were really police officers? In Summit, New Jersey?”

“Yes, we were. We still are.” I showed Monk my badge. “You’ve got one, too.”

Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Randy let you keep them?”

I wasn’t ready to answer the question yet so I ignored it.

Monk took his badge out of his pocket and stared at it like it was the spinning top totem that Leonardo DiCaprio kept around in
Inception
to remind him of what was real and what was not.

“What about the poo lady?” Monk asked.

“Ellen Morse. Her store is called Poop. You had dinner with her last night.”

“She really sells crap?” Stottlemeyer asked me.

I nodded. “Stuff like fossilized dinosaur dung and an array of artwork and products made from excrement, like cooking oil made from goat droppings, coffee made from civet poop, and shampoo made from cow patties. She caters to a very wealthy and discerning clientele.”

“And Monk ate with her?” Stottlemeyer said.

“Often,” I said. “He likes her.”

“Maybe I’m the one who’s dreaming.” Stottlemeyer lowered his head and massaged his brow. “Or having a stroke.”

Devlin cleared her throat. “I hate to intrude on this touching reunion, but there’s a corpse in the bathtub and it’s getting ripe. Maybe we should go inside and start processing the crime scene.”

Monk blinked hard, suddenly alert, like a bloodhound picking up a scent, and pinned Devlin with his gaze.

“You’re not going in Natalie’s house wearing that,” Monk said to her.

“Wearing what?” Devlin said, checking herself out.

“That leather jacket,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer looked up at him. “I know you’ve never liked the idea of people wearing animal hides or upholstering their furniture with them, but I thought you’d made peace with it a long time ago.”

“That was before Ellen told me how they tan leather,” Monk said. “They soak the hide in a mixture of wood ashes and urine to make it easier to scrape off the fibers and then, in a process called bating, they soak it in a vat of hot dung, gathered from dogs and other carnivores. The dung has an enzyme that breaks down the collagen in the hide and gives it a soft, supple texture. So basically, Lieutenant Devlin, you’re wearing a latrine.”

Devlin groaned with irritation, took off her jacket, and tossed it on the hood of her Firebird. “Happy now?”

“It would be better if you incinerated it.”

“Now
that’s
the Adrian Monk I know.” Stottlemeyer smiled with relief and clapped Monk on the back. “Let’s go solve a murder.”