Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (20 page)

“Or maybe it’s her payoff for helping Noone get away with murder,” said Monk. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mr. Monk and the Lao-Sy Dinner

F
or the second time in two weeks, Monk and I were having dinner at his brother’s. Yuki had called me that afternoon and, after some small talk, asked if we could join them and if we could bring along Takumi Ito.

“I know he’s busy dealing with his company,” she said. “But we had just a great time last week. And I decided to do an evening of Lao food. Japan’s not that far from Laos, taste-wise. I think. Please invite him. Otherwise most of the spices will go to waste. Ambrose and Adrian are not fans of anything spicier than a saltine.”

I was a bit surprised by Yuki’s enthusiasm. “I thought you hated suits,” I said, referring to the people, not the outfits.

“Just because I like tattoos and have a few Hells Angels for friends? No, Takumi was a lot of fun. And I’m sure he could use a little distraction.”

I accepted her offer at face value and told Monk the news. I’ve learned over the years that telling him is often better than asking. And anything is better than giving him choices. I once made the mistake of asking him what color I should paint my living room. He was still deciding a week later after the second coat had dried and the furniture was all back in place.

Takumi Ito was also up for another evening with the Monk brothers, although he was swamped with work. How about a little later, he asked. Later was fine. We agreed to pick him up at East Decorative Imports and found ourselves walking out of the elevator at a few minutes after seven, facing the reception desk and the warm, smiling face of Sarabeth Willow.

“Adrian. Natalie. So good to see you.”

“Mrs. Willow,” said Monk in the tone he usually reserved for cold-blooded killers and people with stains on their shirts.

“No need to be formal,” she said as if nothing had happened. She pressed a button on the intercom. “Mr. Ito, they’re here.”

“Have you been working all day?” I asked. “I thought you weren’t coming back until next week.”

“I tried to keep her away,” said Ito. He was down the hall, putting on his suit jacket as he came toward us. “But Sarabeth insisted, didn’t you?”

“You couldn’t do without me. Don’t even pretend.”

“Maybe not. But you have to go home now—right now—or I’m locking you in. I mean it.”

Sarabeth agreed reluctantly and gathered her bag from behind her desk. We ushered her into the elevator.

We kept the small talk going with Ito, who seemed to be in a better mood today. He had hired three new people, he said, who were starting tomorrow, all three with experience in the import trade. And he was thinking of promoting Sarabeth to Wyatt Noone’s old job as finance manager. “She has a feeling for numbers,” he said. “And she’s the only one who knows all the ins and outs.”

Right now I wasn’t interested in Sarabeth knowing the
ins. Just the way out. During our small talk by the elevator door, I kept my eye on the lighted display. It didn’t stop on two but proceeded to the ground level. Half a minute later, I glanced out one of the front windows and could see the office assistant crossing the street and walking away.

The three of us arrived at the Monk homestead a few minutes before eight. Adrian and Ambrose had been raised in a Craftsman bungalow, never restored but perfectly maintained. I suppose you could make a comparison between this and the period perfection of the Henry Pickler house, although this one didn’t have a vacant lot next door with three buried bodies.

Yuki answered on my first knock. She was just taking off her apron and pulling a lock of hair off her face. If I didn’t know this biker chick better, I’d have thought she was trying to imitate the perfect feminine hostess. “Welcome to our home. May I take your coats?”

“We left our jackets in the car,” I pointed out.

“So you did. Well, I hope you’re prepared. Ambrose decided to help in the kitchen.”

“Oh no,” I said. It was an involuntary reflex. I really know nothing of Ambrose’s cooking expertise except that he likes to eat tricolor pasta on three separate nights. He also eats alphabet soup in alphabetical order. “That’s the whole point of the letters,” he would point out. It was hard to argue with that.

“Yuki!” a voice shouted from the kitchen. “The rice is sticky. What do I do?”

“It’s supposed to be sticky,” she shouted back. “That’s why it’s called sticky rice.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ambrose, leave the rice alone.” She turned back and gazed up into Takumi Ito’s eyes. The man was nearly a foot taller. “I’m so sorry. But I have to go put out some fires. Literally put out some fires.”

“No problem,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Do you know how to make unsticky rice sticky again?”

“I think you have to start from scratch,” said Ito, and followed Yuki into the kitchen.

Nearly an hour later, after several lengthy battles between Ambrose and rice, dinner was served. Being a good hostess, Yuki sat our guest on her right and made sure he was engaged in the conversation. The Monks made the expected schoolboy quips about Lao food being Lao-sy. And Mr. Ito was as gracious a guest as always.

This time, as before, we tried not to discuss business. And as before, the spices were set up in a separate room. At the dinner table, over the shrimp dish, Ito made a casual inquiry about Lao seasoning and Yuki escorted him into the living room to teach him all she knew. “It shouldn’t take long,” she quipped, then smiled back at the rest of us.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Monk started hissing under his breath. “What is Yuki doing?”

“What do you mean?” asked Ambrose.

“She’s smiling and flirting and practically throwing herself at him.”

“She is not,” said Ambrose. “She’s being a consummate hostess.”

“Since when is Yuki a hostess? She’s an
H
-
E
–double hockey sticks–
S
Angel. With tattoos.”

“No, no.” Ambrose waved away his brother’s concern.
“There’s a reason. We just finished writing the assembly instructions for a traditional English tea cart. The manufacturer asked us to add a few paragraphs about tea time etiquette. Yuki’s just practicing.”

“Maybe,” said Monk. “Maybe. But you can’t be too careful with women. That’s all I’m saying.”

“What does that mean exactly? Are you saying I don’t have to be too careful with women or that I should be extra careful? The way you phrase it is kind of ambiguous.”

“I mean women will seem all sweet and caring, and then they’ll fall for the first ex-husband they run into. Believe me, it’s true.”

“Don’t listen to him,” I told Ambrose. “Adrian just had a bad week. A bad month.”

“Are you sure?” Ambrose’s face darkened and he glanced off toward the living room. “She is being extraordinarily servile.”

“Don’t start,” I said. My whisper was fierce but audible. “Yuki has done everything in the world to prove her love for you, Ambrose. Everything. Including putting up with a Monk husband and a Monk brother-in-law. She’s not flirting.”

“But he is a tall, handsome Japanese fellow. They could be perfect for each other.”

“First of all, Yuki is not Japanese. She’s more American than I am. Second, Mr. Ito is married with five children. I’ve seen the pictures. Third, no one in his right mind would take relationship advice from your brother. Sorry, Adrian, that’s just the way it is.”

“Your opinion is duly noted,” said Monk. “But you still can’t be too careful.”

An unusual, tinkling laugh announced Yuki’s return to the
dining room. Instantly, we jerked our heads away from one another and adopted painfully fake smiles. “How are the spices?” Ambrose asked. “Spicy enough for the two of you?”

“You wouldn’t like them,” said Yuki. “But they’re quite tangy in their way.”

“Your wife is a treasure,” said Takumi Ito with a little bow. “You are a very lucky man.”

The rest of the meal felt awkward and stilted, at least to the majority of people seated at the table. The Lao offerings ended with some kind of mango Jell-O cut into perfect squares and served with a side of coconut milk. The Monk brothers ate only the sweet squares.

Since we hadn’t arrived exactly on the hour this time, I wasn’t sure when Ambrose would choose to usher us out. I was just about to start making some excuse about having an early day tomorrow when my cell phone started calling from the living room. “Excuse me.”

It was Amy Devlin. I lowered my voice and crossed to the front door. “Hi. What’s up?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m going crazy.” She didn’t sound good.

“Crazy how?”

“Even a simple furniture-store burglary has me stumped. That’s how low my self-confidence is.”

“The City Smart stores? Are you talking about the first one, or the second, or both?”

“I’m talking about the first, the second, and the third.”

“The third?”

“It just happened, an hour after closing time. It’s exactly the same as the others.”

“Do you want Monk and me to come over?”

“Would you?” Amy gave me the address, in Potrero Hill on the other side of the 101.

I went back into the dining room to make our apologies and drag Monk to another crime scene. “I’m sorry for cutting your evening short, Mr. Ito. Adrian and I can drop you off at your hotel on our way to the scene.”

“There’s no need to do that,” said Yuki. “Takumi can stay as long as he wants.”

“What about the three-and-a-half-hour rule?” asked Ambrose.

“There’s no rule on how long guests should stay,” said Yuki. “It’s a suggestion. When Takumi is ready to leave, I’ll drive him—if he doesn’t mind riding on the back of a Harley.”

“I love Harleys,” said Ito. “I have one myself, a Dyna Fat Bob. I had to modify it for noise regulations in Tokyo, so I would love to ride a Harley with full sound. That would be a treat.”

“Are you sure?” Monk asked. “It’s just as easy for us. Natalie’s not that bad a driver.”

“If it’s all the same, I would prefer a ride from Mrs. Monk.”

“I have a Street Glide,” Yuki bragged. “Upgraded to a hundred and ten horses.”

“I want to come along,” said Ambrose. “I like Harleys.”

Yuki had to laugh. “We can’t put three on a motorcycle. Besides, you never leave the house. Maybe another time, sweetie.”

“Another time?” Ambrose shuddered. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t be caught dead on that deathtrap.”

I felt bad about leaving Ambrose in this situation. But I’d promised Devlin we’d be right over. And I couldn’t very well argue with two adults who wanted to share a motorcycle ride back to a hotel. At the end of the day, I trusted Yuki just as much as Ambrose had trusted her before Adrian had gotten into his head.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Mr. Monk and the Space-Saving Buddha

C
ity Smart Furniture has three retail outlets in San Francisco. All three had been victims of break-ins. And according to Monk’s strict rules about coincidences, it wasn’t a coincidence.

I’m not sure how many City Smarts there are. But the store’s concept is very urban and wouldn’t make much sense in Wyoming or even in the roomy environs of the suburbs. Every item is designed to make the most of your limited living space. There are Murphy beds that fold down from the wall and bookshelves that open up on hinges to reveal hidden closets. They have stackable end tables and tiny kitchen tables that fold down to become free-standing cutting boards. Just being in a City Smart made me grateful for what I’ve always considered to be my cozy bungalow. Compared to a lot of people, I practically live in a mansion.

I parked my Subaru next to the red Grand Am and met the lieutenant and Chester, the chain’s regional manager, just inside the front doors. They led us through a few showrooms to a glass side door that opened onto a side alley. It was labeled
EMERGENCY EXIT
, but the only emergency seemed
to be a gaping hole in the glass and glistening shards all over the hardwood floor.

“It looks like a single intruder with something like a crowbar,” said Devlin, getting us up to speed. “When the alarm was triggered, the security company alerted us. A patrol car responded in under six minutes.”

“Is that your typical response time?” asked Monk.

“Pretty typical, with all the one-way streets and traffic.”

“So the intruder could count on a comfortable five minutes without being interrupted.”

Devlin hemmed. “It’s a pretty ballsy move. But if the perp was desperate enough, he could make that gamble.”

“Desperate enough for what?” asked Chester. He was a large man in his early thirties who clearly was at the end of his rope. “Nothing was stolen. All my stores the same way. Three shattered doors. I’m saying it’s vandalism, pure and simple.”

“Can you think of any disgruntled employees?” asked Lieutenant Devlin.

Monk shook his head. “Not vandalism. This guy cased the stores ahead of time. He knew what he was after and how to get to it.”

“But he didn’t take a thing,” said Chester.

Monk didn’t argue. Instead, his hands went up and he began framing the scene.

“What’s he doing?” asked Chester.

“Shh,” I explained.

The three of us followed Monk who, from what I could tell, was following a faint trail of glass, partial footprints, jostled furniture, and impressions on small, modern-style area
rugs. In keeping with the theme, the place wasn’t as large as most furniture stores, just very well laid out.

When I looked up from the floor myself, I found us in a section featuring artwork—small, generically modern paintings and sculptures and statues that could fit into the odd corner of an apartment. Monk saw it first, of course. But Devlin was the first to comment.

“Oh my God,” she said. She let the sight sink in, her mind working a mile a minute, trying to make it all fit together. “Oh my God,” she repeated.

I didn’t know what to make of it, either. But it was right in front of us, like an old friend. A tin Buddha, one of the quartet that we’d last seen on the second floor of the import warehouse.

“Does this mean . . .” A gleam formed in Amy’s eyes. Just when she’d given up. Just when she’d been reassigned to a purgatory of menial work—insignificant break-ins, not even burglaries—suddenly she’d stumbled across her big break.

Monk turned to Chester. “Did this come from East Decorative Imports? Don’t bother answering. It did. How does it open?”

“How do you know it opens?” asked Chester.

Monk rolled his eyes. “Everything in this place opens and turns into a bed or a bathroom sink. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

Chester smiled. “You’re right.” He stepped in front of the Buddha, took its head between his palms, and tilted it back on a hinge. Then he reached in to the Buddha’s folded hands and pulled out. The statue’s front opened like a pair of French doors. “A work of art and a storage space,” he said
proudly. “We get them from Japan where they’ve got even smaller apartments.”

“My people should have found this.” Lieutenant Devlin shook her head. “Is this how he escaped? Please tell me this is how he escaped.”

I also wanted to believe it, but . . . “Hardly looks big enough for a grown man.”

“When did you receive shipment?” asked Monk.

“A couple of days ago. Monday?” guessed Chester.

“We saw these in the warehouse on Sunday,” I said. “Even if a person could fit, it’s hard to believe anyone was in here for any length of time.”

Monk inspected the empty space. He sniffed, looked for any shreds or residue from its earlier contents, then worked the doors, probably to see if they could be closed from the inside. Finally he stood back and held up both his index fingers, the universal sign for “Shut up—I’m thinking.” Everyone seemed to understand.

“Are there Buddhas like this in your other two stores?”

“Yeah,” said Chester. “Every store gets the same inventory.”

“And what happened to the fourth one? The import company shipped out four on the same day. Did you buy them all?”

“I’ll check the paperwork. But I’m sure we sold one directly to some garden meditation center. Let me check.” Chester took a tablet out of his briefcase and stepped away to the display model of a small desk that folded out into a diaper-changing table.

“So Noone didn’t use the Buddha to escape?” Devlin asked under her breath.

Monk shook his head. “Like Natalie said, it would be a
hard fit. Plus it doesn’t account for all three stores being broken into.”

“Do we have a chance at solving this?” asked Devlin. “Come on, Monk. Let’s hear one of your patented percentages. What’s the percentage? This time I’m paying attention.”

“Fifty-fifty,” Monk said. “Our bad guy broke into these stores, looking for something in one of the Buddhas. We know he didn’t find it in the first or second because he kept looking. We don’t know if he found it here. So our chances of it being in the fourth are fifty-fifty. Slightly less.”

“Just a minute,” announced Chester from the changing table. “Slow Wi-Fi connection.”

Devlin was about to ask another question but Monk held up his index fingers again. And then . . . And then he slowly broke into a smile, his “I got it” smile, the most beautiful expression in the world, in my book. Then, unexpectedly, it turned into a frown.

“Adrian, what’s the matter? You figured it out, didn’t you? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? It’s even worse than I thought.”

“But you have it solved.”

“I do,” he said faintly. “I know who Noone is.”

“You know?” said Devlin. “What does that mean? You mean it’s a person we already know? In another identity?”

“That’s right,” said Monk. “Hidden in plain sight.”

“How can that be?”

“It be,” said Monk. “I mean, it is.”

I was just as confused as Devlin. Not to have recognized Noone’s alter ego right in front of us? How could we be so incompetent?

“Got it,” said Chester, bringing the tablet back for us to look at. “It’s the Lilly B. Goldberg-Sanchez Zen Garden. It was delivered this afternoon.”

“The Goldberg-Sanchez Zen Garden?” said Devlin, marveling at the name.

“I actually know where that is,” I said. “It’s a little public-private Japanese garden. A few blocks south of me.”

“Let’s go,” said Monk. “Our fifty percent is going down every second.”

“I have the number for the caretaker,” said Chester, enlarging a detail on his copy of the shipping bill.

Devlin took the number and started dialing before we even left the store.