Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop (11 page)

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Authors: Lee Goldberg

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There were other newsworthy crimes in the city, including a hit-and-run death in the marina the previous night and a robbery in Union Square that left a storekeeper dead.
Stottlemeyer would certainly have his hands full. But if he’d kept Monk on, most of those cases would probably have been solved before lunch.
If I sound a little bitter, that’s because I was. Not only did I think he’d treated Monk unfairly, but he’d betrayed me as well. He’d sat across from me at Starbucks and claimed he didn’t resent Monk at all. He was either lying to himself, or to me, or both.
I had no doubt that Stottlemeyer would come crawling back to Monk eventually; it was just a question of what would break first, the captain or my checking account.
But there was another option. Monk could get a better-paying job with another police department, perhaps as close by as Oakland, Berkeley, or San Mateo.
I knew I’d have to do most of the networking at the conference, so I dressed up a little more than usual and, I’m a bit ashamed to admit this, I chose clothes that accented my curves (such as they were) and showed a bit more skin.
I would be dealing primarily with men, after all, and I needed whatever edge I could get. I couldn’t really count on much support from Monk. Luckily for us both, Braddock had done most of the work for me already by touting Monk’s amazing case-closure stats during their panel discussion.
I headed over to Monk’s place and heard him talking on the phone in the kitchen as I walked in.
“I am a completely anonymous person who knows that the witness to the hit-and-run killing last night is lying,” Monk said. “He told the police that the driver nearly ran over him, too, but he jumped out of the way. The witness gave them a detailed description of the driver and a partial plate, which he said he saw because the driver was bearing right down on him.”
I walked in and saw the
Chronicle
on the counter in front of Monk. It was open to the article about the hit-and-run. I leaned against the wall, folded my arms under my chest, and glowered at Monk, who turned his back to me.
“But he couldn’t have seen any of it. If what he said was true, then the driver’s headlights would have been shining right in his face, blinding him. I believe that the witness himself was the hit-and-run driver and that he’s trying to mislead the police with false information.”
Monk turned back to me, only so he could refer to the newspaper again.
“I also have some anonymous information about the robbery of the electronics store in Union Square—”
That was more than I could take. I unplugged the phone.
“If you’re not going to make an effort on your own behalf, then why should I bother?” I said. “Forget going to the police conference today. You can call back the tip hotline and I’ll use the time to get a head start looking for my new job.”
I plugged the phone back in and reached for the classified section of the newspaper, which I took back with me to the dining room table in a huff. I opened it to the Want Ads.
“It’s unfair and un-American for you to penalize me for being a good citizen,” he said. “It’s my duty to society to tell the police what I know.”
“Hey, this sounds good. There’s an opening for a personal shopper at Macy’s,” I said, circling a listing. “I’ve got lots of experience shopping and I enjoy it. Would you write me a letter of recommendation?”
“No,” he said.
“Don’t you think that’s being petty?”
“You’re overqualified for that job,” he said.
“Why? I do a lot of your shopping for you.”
“And no shopper will ever be as rigorous in his standards as I am,” Monk said. “You’d be wasting your talents. It would be like a brain surgeon working as a nurse.”
I thought that was a pretty audacious comparison for him to make. Being Monk’s assistant wasn’t brain surgery, though at times it felt as if someone were drilling a hole through my skull without anesthesia.
I didn’t tell him that, of course. I still might need that letter of recommendation.
Monk picked up the phone and started to dial.
“Oh look, a taxi company is looking for drivers,” I said. “I could do that. I can drive, I have a bubbly personality, and I know my way around the city.”
“It’s too dangerous,” he said, hanging up the phone.
“Do you know how many times I’ve nearly been killed helping you catch murderers?” I said. “I’d probably be safer in a taxi.”
“You’re forgetting all the diseases you will be exposed to in a filthy taxi,” Monk said. “When you are with me, you are safe from infection.”
“And from making money,” I said.
The phone rang, startling Monk. He answered it. He listened. He winced. Then he nodded.
“I’m just being a good citizen,” he said, but apparently the caller had already hung up. Monk set the phone back in its cradle.
“That was Captain Stottlemeyer, wasn’t it?” I asked.
Monk nodded. “He told me to stop leaving anonymous tips on the hotline and that he was perfectly capable of solving cases on his own.”
“That’s what this is all about,” I said.
“How did he know it was me who left the tips?”
“He’s a detective,” I said.
“But I was anonymous.”
“They have a sophisticated version of caller ID and instantly trace the calls. They knew who you were the instant they answered the phone.”
“I’ll have to use different phones,” Monk said. “Could I borrow yours?”
“No, you can’t,” I said.
“Why not?”
Hadn’t he heard a single thing I’d said? Did he really think I would give him my phone to make the calls I didn’t want him to make? How could someone so brilliant be so incredibly dense?
But I didn’t ask him those questions. I had a better reply, one that might actually sink into his head: “Because I need it for arranging job interviews.”
He let out a little whine of frustration. Score one for Natalie.
There was a knock at the door. He looked at me. I looked at him.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asked.
“Are you going to be calling any more tips in to the police hotline?”
“Not at the moment,” he said.
I got up, went to the door, and opened it. I was greeted by a well-dressed man with a big smile, big pecs, and a big income. He wore a gray Hermès V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, which were loose-fitting enough to convey a casual attitude but not so loose that you couldn’t tell he was buff underneath. His True Religion jeans hugged him so tight I almost found true religion myself. If you threw in his Armani loafers, his Ray-Ban sunglasses, and his Omega Seamaster wristwatch, he was wearing my annual salary.
He took off his glasses and revealed his emerald green eyes. I held the door and tried not to swoon.
“I’m Nicholas Slade,” he said. “Is Mr. Monk available?”
No, but I am, I thought. “What is this regarding?”
“I’m selling magazine subscriptions and, if I get enough, I can win a trip to Mexico,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, in that case, come right in,” I said, and stepped aside.
Slade strode in and gave me an unabashed appraisal as he passed me. I was glad that I’d dressed up for the conference instead of wearing my usual attire.
Monk joined us in the living room.
“This is Nicholas Slade,” I said. “He’s selling magazines. Or was it Girl Scout cookies?”
“Actually, I’m giving away free copies of
The Watchtower
,” he said. “So you can keep up on the latest news regarding your immortal soul.”
Monk blanched. I smiled.
“He’s joking, Mr. Monk.”
“Actually, I’m flirting, Ms. Teeger. I can’t help myself around beautiful women.” Slade turned to Monk. “But it’s you that I came to woo, in a professional sense, of course.”
“What can I do for you?” Monk asked.
“What you do better than anybody else,” Slade said, and handed Monk his card. “I’m the CEO and founder of Intertect, a private security and investigation company based here in San Francisco. I’d like to hire you as an operative, a consultant, or Grand Poobah of Detection, whatever you want. You tell me. I just want you on my team.”
“I’m not available,” Monk said.
“Has someone beaten me to you already? I knew I should have come over last night, but I thought it would be too aggressive,” he said. “I’ll top any offer that you’ve received.”
“How did you know that Mr. Monk is no longer consulting for the San Francisco police?” I asked, and motioned to Slade to take a seat on the couch.
“I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I didn’t,” he said, sitting down. Monk sat on the arm of an easy chair across from him. I stood at Monk’s side like the dutiful assistant that I am.
“I have lots of sources within the department,” Slade continued. “I used to be a vice detective until I got smart ten years ago and went private. I was invited to be a guest on a panel at the homicide detectives’ conference, so I happened o be there to see Monk’s interview. After witnessing that debacle, I had a feeling Leland might make a change in the consulting agreement.”
“Did you really?” I gave Monk a significant look to underscore Slade’s remark.
“Do you have something in your eye?” Monk asked.
“No, I don’t. Did you hear what Mr. Slade just said?”
“Did he spit in your eye when he said it?”
“No, he didn’t,” I said.
“Because some people do that,” he said. “They spit when they talk. They need to be stopped. Someone could die.”
“My eyes are fine,” I said.
“Then why were you widening your eyes like that?”
“I wasn’t,” I said. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“There was widening,” he said, and looked at Slade. “You couldn’t see it because her back was to you. Only I could see it.”
“Almost like a private expression shared between two people,” Slade said.
“Almost,” Monk said. “But it was more like she had something in her eye. Did you spit in her eye? Are you a spitter when you speak?”
“I don’t think so,” Slade said.
“That’s a relief,” Monk said. “Because I don’t have protective goggles.”
“I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to make a play for your services for a long time, Mr. Monk.”
“What stopped you from doing it until now?” I asked. “Mr. Monk wasn’t under an exclusive contract.”
“I didn’t want to step on Leland’s toes. I have too much respect for him to do that,” he said. “But he’s made a huge mistake in letting you go. Leland has no one to blame but himself if you come to work for me.”
Monk rolled his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be comfortable in a corporate environment.”
“You aren’t comfortable in any environment,” I said.
“You never have to come into the office if you don’t want to,” Slade said. “We could get you files by messenger or e-mail. We could talk over the phone, in person, via fax or video-conference. Whatever you want. You can pick and choose your cases and clients. You will have free access to all of our resources, which are considerable. I’m talking research, scientific analysis, surveillance, and manpower. We’ll give you whatever assistance you need.”
“I have an assistant,” Monk said.
Slade smiled at me. “Of course you do. My offer to you extends to Ms. Teeger as well, as does our benefits package.”
“Benefits?” I think my voice cracked a little when I said that.
“Medical and dental coverage for you and your daughter,” he said. “I know you also act as Mr. Monk’s driver, so naturally we would cover your gasoline, car insurance, and expenses or, if you prefer, we can provide you with a company car from our fleet.”
I could have cried. The only benefit Monk offered me was an endless supply of disinfectants.
Slade turned to Monk. “Our medical plan would also cover your psychiatric care, of course.”
“What’s the catch?” Monk asked.
“You’d be working exclusively for Intertect,” Slade said. “But if it is intellectual stimulation that you are worried about, let me put you at ease. We investigate all kinds of cases for our individual and corporate clients, including murder.”
I cleared my throat and tried to put on my best poker face. “All these benefits are a given, Mr. Slade. What you haven’t mentioned yet is the salary that you’re offering. If Mr. Monk is going to lend you his international reputation and his perfect case-closure rate, he expects a compensation package that guarantees that he will share in the phenomenal success that he will bring to your firm.”
Slade took a card from his pocket and picked up a pen from the coffee table. He wrote something on the back of the card and passed it to Monk.

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