Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (5 page)

“It means she’s got an arm wound and a stomach wound and is in intensive care.”

“You’re a very cynical woman.”

I digested this for a moment, then took a moist wipe from my bag. I held it out. “Wipe.”

“What?”

“The spot where she squeezed your hand. Wipe it off.” It was half an offer, half an experiment.

He shrugged his shoulder and cricked his head. “That’s okay. I don’t have to.”

“Oh my God. You like her. You want to go out with her.”

“No,” he said, following it with a hearty laugh. “Not until she’s out of intensive care. According to her background, she’s single, divorced for about three years now, although she kept her husband’s last name. Women. Who can understand them? Not me.”

“Adrian. Since when do you go trolling the hospital wards for dates?”

“Sarabeth is not a troll.”

“No, troll has a different meaning. She’s very attractive, I guess.

“Attractive? The woman is a babe.”

“Since when do you use the word
babe
?” I didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, I was surprised and reassured that Monk was keeping his heart open to another relationship. On the other hand . . . “Adrian, Ellen dumped you just a week ago. I think you’re on the rebound.”

“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“No, the rebound isn’t wonderful. The rebound’s a bad thing.”

“Natalie, you’re mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. The rebound means you’re not thinking clearly. It means you’re liking someone just because you feel abandoned.”

“Natalie, Natalie.” He clucked his tongue. “I wish you could hear yourself.”

“I can hear myself fine.”

“Well, this is just one of those times when we’re going to have to agree to agree that you don’t know what the heck you’re talking about.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mr. Monk Goes to Work

“A
drian is almost sure it was Fat Tony who killed Rivera, not our client.” I was practically shouting into the phone. “After our visit with the Lucarellis, he’s ninety-one percent sure.” I was making that number up, but I assumed I was close to the actual one. Even though Monk was less than ten yards away, I knew he couldn’t hear me above the noise. “We’re working under that assumption.”

On the other end of the line, Daniela Grace was also shouting. “Did you say Brad Doney?”

“No. Fat Tony—like obese. Our next step is to check into the Menendez cartel, to see if there’s a connection between them and Henry Pickler. There has to be some reason why our client was burying the body.”

“Natalie, what’s that racket?”

I’d been expecting her to ask. “It’s the cleaning staff. They’re vacuuming.”

“Can’t you have them vacuum after hours, like a normal office?”

“You know how it is. Cleanliness is next to godliness. It’s also next to impossible with Adrian.”

“You’re next to where?” she asked.

“Impossible.”

“You’re right. This is impossible. We’ll talk later, after your cleaners leave.”

“Yes,” I said. “Don’t worry. We’re working on your case. It’s all we think about.”

We shouted our good-byes. Then I hung up and took a deep breath. “Adrian! Stop it!” I shouted it loud enough this time to get his attention.

Monk reached around to his side and switched off the HEPA filter backpack vacuum cleaner. He took off his noise-canceling earmuffs. “Why are you shouting? I assume you were shouting. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to hear you.”

It was shaping up to be a long day.

I had arrived at his apartment around nine thirty, expecting a fight or a barrage of excuses, perhaps a bout of Japanese encephalitis left over from yesterday in the warehouse. Instead, he was uncomplaining and ready to go. He even had Spam sandwiches packed for both of us in matching white paper bags. (Monk actually buys brown paper bags, then bleaches them himself. And irons them.)

By ten we were at the strip mall, opening our storefront right on time, the words
MONK & TEEGER
gleaming on the glass. Once again I postponed even thinking about a grand opening. At some point we would have to host an event, with dozens of potential clients and TV cameras and maybe a politician or two. But not now. There was too much going on.

Monk stood in the shop doorway, inspecting the interior with an eagle eye. I wasn’t worried. I had spent most of the previous evening there, making sure everything about Monk
and Teeger was perfect. Then I’d set the alarm, just in case some sloppy vandal decided to break in during the night and rearrange the paper clip trays.

For the first half hour, I escorted him around, explaining everything from the coffeemaker to the phone system to the proper way to greet the walk-in clientele, which was for him to sit there and say as little as possible.

After the orientation, he settled himself at his desk and methodically began to review the file that Lieutenant Devlin had dropped off for the Noone triple murder. I was quite proud of him—and of myself for thinking through all the possibilities. That was just minutes before Luther showed up, dropping off the HEPA filter backpack vacuum cleaner and the noise-canceling earmuffs.

“You’re doing this to annoy me, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. This place is filthy.”

“Filthy?” I pointed to the machine’s clear plastic canister. “You’ve been vacuuming for an hour and how much have you cleaned?” I eyed the contents. “Maybe half an ounce of dust. Max.”

“Half an ounce?” Monk looked aghast. “I think I’m going to vomit.”

“No, you’re not.” I kept my voice controlled. “You’re going to put that contraption in the closet and get back to work. If you’re good all day and behave yourself, then maybe I’ll let you do a little dusting before we leave. Maybe.”

Monk met my gaze, worked out the percentages of just how angry I was, and did as he was told. I took the extra precaution of locking the cleaning closet.

“I did do it to annoy you,” he admitted. “That was wrong,
Natalie. The office is very clean and well-ordered, and I appreciate everything you’ve done to make our agency a going concern. This feels like a real, grown-up business. And I don’t know anyone else who would do what you’ve done for me. Thank you.”

It was actually quite touching and just what I needed to hear. “Thank you, Adrian.”

“This is going to be great,” he said, trying to convince us both.

“I appreciate your openness to change. I know you’re trying.”

“Good. Can I dust now?”

“No.”

* * *

Around noon, we had our Spam sandwiches—rectangular slices of meat on rectangular slices of bread with the crusts cut off and rectangular-cut leaves of lettuce. I’d never eaten Spam before thanks to Anita, the family cook who would never let us eat anything out of a can. The only thing I knew was the urban legend that it tastes like human flesh. Spam is actually not bad, although I can’t confirm or deny that it tastes like flesh.

We were washing down the sandwiches with our bottles of Fiji Water when Lieutenant Devlin walked in. She looked around, congratulated us on our new business, and took a moment to inspect my shiny, new PI license on the wall. Despite her smile, an unusual expression for her, I could see the worry in her eyes.

“I just happened to be the neighborhood,” she said.

“In this neighborhood?” Monk asked. “Why were you in this neighborhood?”

“Just happened to be.”

“Why?” Monk insisted.

“Can’t I be in the neighborhood?”

“First off, it’s a terrible neighborhood, with a pawnshop and a Laundromat in the same complex. Second, you live on the other side of town, if I’m not mistaken. The precinct house is twelve blocks in your direction, so this is on your way to nowhere.” He pointed outside. “Third, I can see the GPS suctioned onto your windshield, which you only do when you’re trying to find an address. Otherwise it’s in your glove box.”

“Maybe I wasn’t in the neighborhood.”

“There used to be a decent sandwich shop here,” Monk allowed. “That’s what I heard. But it went out of business and someone rented the space for a seedy detective agency—no offense.”

“I made a special trip. Okay? You caught me.” Devlin lowered her lanky frame into the client chair, facing our desks and spaced perfectly evenly between them. The first person to ever sit there, I noted. “The Noone investigation isn’t going well.”

Devlin had been working nonstop with nothing to show for it. Despite an exhaustive search, the suspect had not been in the building and his escape route was still presumed to have been with the EMTs. That placed the blame squarely on her narrow shoulders.

“Anyone can make a mistake,” I said, trying to console her.

“I didn’t make a mistake. But that’s not the worst part.”

Monk nodded. “The worst part is that you volunteered to
be the lead investigator and you’re coming up blank. No trace. Like he vanished from the face of the earth.”

“How did you know?”

“The file you dropped off this morning.” He indicated the document, centered on his otherwise polished desk. “You’re listed first on the cover sheet, indicating you’re the lead investigator.”

“I mean how did you know we’re coming up blank?”

“Because of his name.”

“His name?” It’s amazing how, after all these years of my seeing him work, Monk can still surprise me. “How can you know anything from his name?”

My partner retrieved the folder and pulled out a page torn from a notepad.
Torn
may be too strong a word;
surgically removed
. I’d seen him writing on it this morning and hadn’t given it much thought. At the top, he’d printed the name,
Wyatt S. Noone
. And below, in the same, eerily perfect hand were variations of the syllables.
Wyatt is no one. Why it is no one. Why? It is no one. Wyatt’s snow one.

“The last one’s a reach.” Monk was looking over my shoulder. “But the others all amount to the same thing, a play on words.”

“You’re saying . . . It’s a fake name?” asked Devlin. Why had the two of us not seen this? It had been right there in front of us.

“Totally fake,” said Monk. “The man was having fun, rubbing our noses in it. I’m betting that everything about Mr. No One is fabricated.”

“Except the fact that he worked at an import company for a year,” I said, “and murdered three people.”

“Well, now it makes sense,” said Devlin. “The man’s address is a post office box. He doesn’t have a driver’s license. His social belongs to a dead guy in Pasadena, which wasn’t a problem for him since Wyatt—whatever his name is—didn’t file tax returns.”

“How about fingerprints?” I asked.

“He had the foresight to wipe down his office, so we’re dusting the rest of the third floor. But we’re not holding out much hope. One good thing, Wyatt does show up on a few Facebook posts, office functions with the other EDI employees, so at least we have some photos.”

“How did he get hired?” I asked. “Didn’t anyone at the office check his references?”

“I’ll get right on it,” said the lieutenant. She took out her smartphone and began texting something to someone. “And let’s keep this quiet. I’ll tell the captain about our man without a past. But we should keep it out of public knowledge—and far away from the press.”

“He must have left some trace,” I said. Personally, I couldn’t imagine being off the grid for more than a week. “The man slept somewhere. He must have done something for relaxation or social interaction. Or food. No one can stay invisible.”

“No one?” Monk asked with half a devilish grin. “As in Noone?”

“As in nobody,” I insisted. “Take Sarabeth. She worked with Noone every day. She must have talked with him about things, noticed things about him.”

“Luckily she survived,” said Devlin.

“That’s a good approach,” Monk said. His face
brightened. “We need to interview Sarabeth again. Several more times. I’m thinking ten. Ten’s a good number.”

If Devlin had any inkling about Monk’s enthusiasm for Sarabeth Willow, she didn’t let it show. “Does that mean you’re continuing on the case?” Her shoulders relaxed. “I was afraid, since you opened a real agency, you might not have time.”

“We’ll make the time,” I said. “As it happens, we have a big case. A mob murder with a wealthy client somehow involved. Very puzzling.”

“It’s nothing,” Monk said. “Inconsequential. I can finish it in a day.”

“You can finish it in a day?” I asked.

“That’s a figure of speech. I meant the Sarabeth case is more important.”

“Good to hear,” said the lieutenant. “And . . .” Her voice hesitated. “I know the department is cutting back. If they can’t cover all your expenses or you have to put in extra hours, I don’t want you skimping. I have some savings of my own.”

“You would pay?” Monk said. “Your own actual money?”

“This is important to me.”

It was an amazing offer to come out of Devlin’s mouth. In all the time I’d known her, she’d never once hinted that Monk’s skills might be essential. To her, he was a mental trickster who somehow jumped to the right conclusions a day before she would have gotten there herself. Now suddenly she was a believer. I guess my old Lutheran minister was right. There are no atheists in a foxhole.

“That’s a generous offer, Amy,” I said. “But we don’t want your money.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Monk. “I need to pay the rent on this dump.”

“I’m speaking for myself and you. We are not taking her money. She’s family. As close to family as a couple of misfits can have.”

“Thanks,” said Devlin before Monk could object again. “I’ll make sure you get paid. The thing with the fake name? I would have caught that, but not for a day or two. Meanwhile, he’s getting away.”

“We’re on it,” I said, and shook her hand to seal the deal. I shook an extra time on behalf of my partner.

“I so appreciate it,” said Devlin. “Now I have to get back to the station.”

“The big question here is why,” said Monk, almost to himself.

“To work on the case. Although I can stay if you need me. Just tell me what to do.”

“No. I mean why would this man create a fake identity, spend a year working as an accountant—not a very exciting or lucrative job—and then shoot up an office full of coworkers? He must have had a good reason.”