Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop (15 page)

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Authors: Lee Goldberg

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“Where’s the challenge in that?” Stottlemeyer said with a grin.
Disher cleared his throat. “I’ve never received one of your job offers.”
Slade turned to him, apparently noticing him for the first time. “Do I know you?”
“You will,” Disher said confidently.
“Because you’re on the verge of making headlines by cracking a major case?” Slade asked, reaching out for a handshake.
“Because I’m going to send you my résumé,” Disher said, gripping Slade’s hand as hard as he could. I could see the effort on his face. There was none on Slade’s. “Lieutenant Randall Disher, Homicide.”
“Nice to meet you,” Slade said, managing to sound both polite and dismissive at the same time. He glanced at Stottlemeyer and tipped his head towards Disher. “So this is your right-hand man?”
“And his left,” Disher said before Stottlemeyer could answer. “Don’t let my boyish good looks fool you or you’ll be making the same mistake as a lot of guys on death row. I’m a grizzled, battle-scarred hard-ass.”
“I didn’t know that you were looking for a job,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Like any man of action, I’m always open to new challenges,” Disher said, releasing his grip on Slade’s hand and shaking the circulation back into his own. “You get too comfortable and your edges dull. I like to keep my edges razor-sharp.”
“Why don’t you go sharpen them by telling those officers to stop drooling on Nick’s car and to make sure no one else slips past the police line,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I’ll gladly whip them into shape,” Disher said, and shot Slade a look. “The rank and file don’t just respect me; they fear me. You know how it is.”
Disher swaggered over to the officers. I think he was trying to appear tough but instead it seemed like he was suffering from a hemorrhoid flare-up.
Slade shook his head. “Please reconsider my offer, Leland. At Intertect, you’d be working with the very best people in the investigative field.”
“That’s obvious,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’ve hired Adrian Monk.”
Slade looked past Stottlemeyer to Monk, who was swaying from side to side and holding his hands out in front of him. I couldn’t tell if he was fighting sleep or trying to look at things from a different perspective.
“The guy is brilliant, way beyond my expectations,” Slade said. “You wouldn’t believe how many cases he’s solved for us in just one day.”
“I would,” Stottlemeyer said. “So who’s your client?”
Slade smiled. “Ordinarily, I’d give you a moving speech about client confidentiality, but you’ll find out who it is soon enough from your sources at the county jail. It’s Salvatore Lucarelli.”
Stottlemeyer mulled that over for a moment. “I forgot to mention another benefit of being a cop. You don’t have kiss up to mobsters for work.”
“He came to me. I’m like a lawyer, Leland. I don’t judge my clients. I just do the best job I can for them. He thinks he’s being set up and hired me to prove it. I either can or I can’t. I don’t see anything immoral, unethical, or criminal in that.”
“You know he’s responsible. Judge Stanton and Judge Carnegie were both going to preside over Lucarelli’s trial,” Stottlemeyer said. “And they were both executed gangland style.”
“By a woman,” Slade said. “When was the last time you heard of a mob boss hiring women to do his dirty work?”
“What makes you think it was a woman?” Stottlemeyer said.
“The same things that make you think so,” Slade said. “I know everything that you know, Leland.”
Slade looked over his shoulder at Monk, who circled the body, tilting and pirouetting like a ballerina on a music box.
“Maybe more,” Slade said. Stottlemeyer followed his gaze. “How about some quid pro quo?”
Stottlemeyer sighed, nodded his acceptance, and we all walked over to Monk. Disher joined us, too, trying to maintain his swagger.
“Hello, Captain,” Monk said. He had dark circles under his eyes and he looked even paler than usual.
“You look terrible,” Stottlemeyer said. “Are you sleeping?”
“I don’t think so.” Monk pinched himself. “No, I’m awake. I had my doubts for a minute. But thanks for checking. What can you tell me about what happened?”
“Not much more than what you see right here,” Stottlemeyer said, and nodded to Disher, who whipped out his notebook with an exaggerated flourish.
“Judge Carnegie took his dog out for a walk around eight a.m. today, as he does every morning. About eight fifteen, neighbors reported hearing gunshots. When they came out, they found the judge on the ground and the dog dragging him. They tried to get to the judge but the dog started barking and snarling and wouldn’t let them near him. The first uniforms on the scene called in some officers from Animal Control, who were about to tranquilize the animal when the wife showed up. The dog calmed down and she took him away.”
Stottlemeyer shook his head. “The uniforms should have let Animal Control tranquilize the dog and prevented the wife from seeing her husband like that. Instead, they traumatized the poor woman. What the hell were they thinking?”
“They were a couple of rookies,” Disher said.
“Who are going to get their heads handed to them by me as soon as we’re done here,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Were there any witnesses to the shooting?” Monk asked.
Disher shook his head. “But it was probably the same hooded shooter. One of the bullets went through Judge Carnegie’s body and was recovered by the forensics unit. Just from eyeballing it, the ballistics expert is pretty sure the slug came from the same gun that was used to kill Judge Stanton. They’ll confirm it once they get the bullet back to the lab.”
Monk rolled his shoulders. “Why would the killer use the same gun?”
“Because it’s his gun,” Disher said.
“Her gun,” Monk corrected.
“Lucarelli is sending a message,” Stottlemeyer said. “He wants to be absolutely sure that we all know the killings are connected and that there will be more to come if we don’t let him walk. For a man his age, the minimum prison term for his crimes might as well be a life sentence. He’ll die behind bars.”
“Where does Judge Carnegie live?” Monk asked.
Disher pointed over Monk’s shoulder. “At the end of the street, just around the corner.”
Monk glanced back at the body. So did I. And I immediately realized what the bloody swath on the sidewalk meant.
“The dog was trying to drag his master back home,” I said. “My God, that’s heartbreaking.”
Monk looked back at Disher. “Did anyone hear anything besides the gunshots?”
“They didn’t hear any screams or cars screeching away, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Monk nodded and straightened up ever so slightly. And I knew in that instant that the mystery was solved. Don’t ask me how, but I did. It wasn’t just me. I glanced at Stottlemeyer and I could see that he knew it, too.
“What?” Slade asked, catching the shared look between the two of us. “What am I missing?”
“Monk knows who killed Judge Carnegie,” Stottlemeyer said.
“And Judge Stanton,” Monk said matter-of-factly.
Slade leaned towards Monk. “Whisper it in my ear.”
“What happened to the quid pro quo?” Stottlemeyer said.
“I don’t whisper in ears,” Monk said.
“Why not?” Slade said.
“I might accidentally inhale some earwax,” Monk said. “And die.”
“You can’t die from earwax,” Slade said.
“I can,” Monk said with a yawn.
Disher offered Monk his notebook and pen. “You could write it down.”
Stottlemeyer swatted the notebook out of Disher’s hand. “We want to know who did it, too.”
“We would have.” Disher picked up his fallen notebook. “What he wrote on one page would have left an indentation on the page underneath. I could have rubbed my pencil over it and revealed what he wrote. It’s an old trick I learned on the streets.”
“The Sesame Streets,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I’m not ready to say who the killer is,” Monk said. “There’s still one more thing I need to know before I can be certain that I’m right. And the only one with the answer is Judge Carnegie’s widow.”
“Her husband was just gunned down,” Stottlemeyer said. “The poor woman is devastated. Couldn’t you find out another way?”
“I need to talk to her,” Monk said.
“Does it have to be right now?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
Monk shook his head. I’m not sure whether he was disagreeing with the captain or simply trying to stay awake.
Stottlemeyer groaned his assent and started trudging down the street. We all joined him.
“Sometimes I hate being a cop,” he said.
“So quit and work for me,” Slade said. “You, Monk, and Natalie would make a great team.”
“The Odd Squad,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
 
Mr. Monk Is All Bite and No Bark
 
T
he row of houses on the Carnegies’ street and on the next street and the one after that were virtually identical, the uniformity broken only slightly by flip-flopped floor plans or tweaks to the facades to evoke various architectural styles, like French provincial or space-age contemporary.
The homes sold for $4,000 when they were built in the 1930s and were now going for $800,000 or more if they were in good shape. The Carnegies’ home was mint, literally in its color and figuratively in its condition.
There was something cartoonish about the houses and their vibrant colors. The ceramic squirrels, bunnies, deer, and garden gnomes that dotted the Carnegies’ front yard landscaping only added to the storybook effect.
Stottlemeyer knocked on the front door. Almost immediately we heard barking, growling, and scratching and then the sound of claws being dragged along the floor as someone tried to restrain the dog. I hoped the Carnegies didn’t have hardwood floors in their entry hall.
After a moment, the barking sounded more muffled and distant and the door was opened by a woman who’d obviously been crying. She was wearing jeans and a button-down sweater that she clutched tightly closed over her shirt. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Her hair was the same unnatural shade of brown as her husband’s. They must have shared the same bottle of hair coloring. That’s real marital intimacy.
I heard the dog barking and scratching behind some door deep inside the house and I couldn’t resist glancing at the floor. The entry hall tile was covered with claw marks.
“Mrs. Carnegie,” Stottlemeyer said. “I am very, very sorry to disturb you right now. I hope you can forgive me. We have one more question that can’t wait.”
She nodded and sniffled. “It’s no problem, Captain. I want to do whatever I can to catch the bastards who took my husband from me.”
“Does your dog always bark like that?” Monk asked.
“Only around strangers. He’s really a sweetheart with people he’s learned to trust,” she said, her lower lip beginning to tremble. “Thank God he was spared. He’s like our child. I don’t think I could survive losing both Alan and Sweetie.”
Mrs. Carnegie started to shake and cry, her shoulders heaving.
Stottlemeyer looked back at Monk. “Hurry up and ask your question.”
“I just did,” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer glared at him. “You had us rush over here and intrude on Mrs. Carnegie’s privacy just to ask her about her dog?”
“I also thought it would be a good idea to arrest her now and secure the scene before she had a chance to get rid of any more evidence.”
Mrs. Carnegie stood up straight, her eyes going wide.
Slade turned to Monk in shock. “You’re saying that
she
killed the judges?”
“She’s the one,” Monk said.
Mrs. Carnegie started to slam the door in fury but Stottlemeyer threw his shoulder against it, preventing it from closing.
“I don’t think you want to do that, Mrs. Carnegie,” Stottlemeyer said, his tone of voice no longer so solicitous. “Perhaps it would be better if you stepped outside.”
It wasn’t really a suggestion and she knew it. She reluctantly stepped out onto the stoop.
“My husband, the love of my life, was just slaughtered outside my door,” she said. “And you want me to submit myself to this abuse? Who is this horrible man?”
“Someone who has never been wrong about murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “Why did she kill her husband?”
“I have no idea,” Monk said.
“That’s helpful,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Can I go back inside now?” Mrs. Carnegie said. “Or do you want to torture me some more?”
“But I know why she killed Judge Stanton,” Monk said. “She knew that her husband was the designated alternate to hear the case against Salvatore Lucarelli if anything happened to Stanton. She wanted Judge Carnegie’s murder to look like a mob hit.”

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