Authors: Lee Goldberg

Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop (18 page)

BOOK: Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

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I couldn’t read any more of the article. It was too painful.

If that was Slade’s idea of going easy on Stottlemeyer and sparing him embarrassment, I shuddered to think what his comments would have been like if he hadn’t held back.

While I was angry with Slade for what he’d done, I had to admire the way he spun the story to make Intertect appear efficient and community-minded and to cast Lucarelli as a victim.

I wondered why Slade chose not to disclose that Lucarelli had hired Intertect to prove he was innocent of the murders of the judges.

Perhaps Slade was worried that it would taint Monk’s success if people knew he was not motivated by outrage at the heinous crime but rather that he’d been paid by Lucarelli to clear him of the killings.

It was a testament to Stottlemeyer’s devotion to Monk, even at his own expense, that he didn’t challenge Slade’s version of events. Then again, perhaps that had less to do with sparing Monk than it did with protecting his case against Mrs. Carnegie from being muddied by any doubt. After all, both Slade and Stottlemeyer agreed that Monk was right and neither one of them wanted Mrs. Carnegie to walk.

After reading that article, I was glad I’d forgotten to watch the news the previous night. They’d probably lambasted Captain Stottlemeyer on all the local channels.

I ate my Pop-Tart (and told myself it was healthy because it was made of flour and cinnamon, both of which are found in nature and not created in a test tube), took a quick shower, got dressed, and headed over to Monk’s place.

I kept the file drawer in my car, took four bulging files from it, and carried them with me. My plan was to carefully dole the cases out to him in small batches.

So you can imagine my surprise and anger when I walked in the door around ten thirty and saw Monk at his dining room table, another rolling file drawer at his side, papers and crime scene photos spread out in front of him. Danielle was sitting at the table, too, facing her laptop computer and typing away.

Monk was wearing the same clothes he’d worn the day before. But that didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t changed clothes since I’d last seen him. He bought his clothes in bulk specifically so he could wear the same thing every day if he wanted to. His clothes weren’t wrinkled either but he never allowed his clothes to wrinkle.

Even so, I was convinced that he hadn’t slept and hadn’t changed. He was going on two days without sleep and that couldn’t be good.

“Good morning, everyone,” I said with intentionally false cheer.

“Good morning, Natalie,” Danielle said, so perky and energetic that I wanted to smother her with one of Monk’s two identical square throw pillows. But that wasn’t the only motive behind my totally justifiable desire to kill her. There was the matter of that second file drawer.

“It’s about time you got here,” Monk said without looking up from his work. “I thought you’d gone on vacation.”

“You’d know if I were on vacation, Mr. Monk, because you’d be there, too, and people would be dropping dead all around us.”

Unfortunately, that wasn’t a smart-ass remark. It was the truth. I’m probably the only tourist to Hawaii, Germany, and France whose vacation scrapbook includes crime scene photos. Murder follows Monk like an obsessed fan. We could take a trip to an uninhabitable ice floe in the North Pole and we’d probably stumble on the Abominable Snowman with a dagger in his back.

“Did you hear the news?” Danielle said. “The police found a gun in Mrs. Carnegie’s house and ballistics positively identified it as the murder weapon. They also found the bicycle and the hooded jacket there. She took a big risk keeping all of that.”

“I guess it never occurred to her that the police would suspect her so soon,” I said.

“They didn’t. Mr. Monk did,” she said proudly. “He’s solved nine cases already this morning.”

“Ten,” Monk said, closing a file and sliding it over to her. “The bus driver is the kidnapper. A real bus driver would have stopped at the railroad tracks and opened the door. He didn’t.”

“Amazing,” Danielle said. “Isn’t he?”

“You should see him leap tall buildings in a single bound,” I said.

“Mrs. Carnegie was having an affair with a man twenty years younger than her,” Danielle said. “I guess she didn’t want to go through the trouble of a divorce.”

“Murder does cut down on legal fees, unless you get caught,” I said, turning to Monk. “Where did you get all these files?”

“You and Julie wouldn’t help, so I called Danielle and she brought them over.”

“At two thirty in the morning?” I said.

“It was two thirty-five by then and she’d told us that she was available any time of the day or night.”

“I meant it, too. And Mr. Slade didn’t mind me waking him up, either, or going down to the office to collect some additional open cases.”

I wasn’t surprised, considering all the success and positive publicity Monk had brought Intertect in the last twenty-four hours. “Danielle, could I talk to you privately for a moment?”

“What about?” Monk asked.

“I’m out of tampons and I thought she might—”

Monk waved his hands frantically in the air to signal me to stop talking and then covered his ears. It was just the reaction I was expecting.

“Take it outside or I might hear something that I don’t want to,” he said.

I marched for the front door and Danielle followed me out. As soon as the door was closed, I got in her face, startling her.

“If you weren’t a black belt I’d kick your butt right now,” I said. “What were you thinking when you brought him those files?”

“I was doing my job,” she said. “He asked for more cases to work on and I brought them.”

“Can’t you see that he hasn’t slept?”

“That’s because he couldn’t stop thinking about the open cases,” she said. “I thought if I brought them that he’d—”

“Sleep?” I interrupted her. “C’mon, Danielle, I thought you had a psychology degree. Did you really believe that once you brought him more open case files he’d go to bed? Or were you thinking about how happy Nick would be if Mr. Monk solved a dozen more cases before sunrise?”

She dropped her gaze to her feet, acknowledging her guilt, but I wasn’t about to let her off the hook.

“The man is exhausted,” I said. “He needs his rest. That’s why I took the other file drawer home with me.”

“But he called me and asked for cases to work on,” she said, a defensive whine in her voice. “What was I supposed to do?”

“What is in his best interest, even if he thinks that it isn’t,” I said sharply. “If you are truly working for Mr. Monk, that’s your priority. And right now what he needs more than anything is sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s not me that you let down. It’s him. It’s too late to take these files back now; he’s seen them. He’s probably counted them all and won’t stop thinking about them just because they aren’t in his house. But no more files after this. Is that clear?”

She nodded.

“Hopefully he’ll be so tired after plowing through these that he will finally get some sleep,” I said, and walked back into the house.

The three of us spent the rest of the day going through the files and writing up the reports on Monk’s findings. The only ones who showed any sign of fatigue were Danielle and me. Monk was on a roll, each solved case giving him momentum into the next one.

By six p.m., he’d cleared all the cases in both filing cabinets and I extracted another oath from Danielle that she wouldn’t bring him any more. But he wasted no time asking.

“Where are the rest?” he asked. “Bring it on.”

“There are no more cases, Mr. Monk,” she said.

“Not here,” he said. “You can deliver whatever case files are left at the office.”

“This is it,” she said. “You’ve cleared everything there is. You’ve put all our operatives out of work. We have to wait now for new business to come in.”

She was so convincing I almost believed it myself. He must have believed it, or his senses were so dulled by weariness that he couldn’t detect the lie, because suddenly all the fatigue he’d been outrunning with work seemed to catch up with him. His shoulders slumped and his eyes grew heavy. He dropped into his favorite easy chair.

“I’m ready for more,” he said. “Bring it on.”

“You’ll be the first person we call,” she said.

And then the damn phone rang. Monk perked up in his chair, sitting up straight, the possibility of another crime to solve giving him a jolt of energy.

I was tempted not to answer the phone but I decided the best course was to see who it was. If it was Nick Slade, or anybody else with a mystery for Monk, I intended to hang up the phone and lie to him about who’d called.

But it wasn’t anyone with a case. It was Carol Atwater with an invitation to a wake.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mr. Monk Wakes Up

I
t was unsettling to be back at Carol Atwater’s house again at just about the same time of day that we’d been there before.

On our first visit, Bill Peschel was behind the kitchen counter, pretending it was a bar. On our second visit, he was dead outside and there were cops and coroners around. And now, on our third visit, Peschel was gone and someone else was at the kitchen counter, serving real wine, beer, and soft drinks to the two dozen friends and relatives.

I wondered if the counter was being used as a bar intentionally to honor Bill Peschel or if it was just an ironic coincidence. I decided on the latter. They probably used the counter as a bar every time they entertained, whether it was a cocktail party or a wake. But even so, there was something creepy about it, especially since nobody had bothered to clear away Bill’s bottles of water yet.

Some people milled outside on the patio. I could see that the white chair had been moved off the wet grass and the wrought-iron pool fence was closed and locked again.

I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew when I arrived with Monk besides Carol Atwater, of course, and Stottlemeyer, so I was startled when I spotted Detective Paul Braddock nursing a beer and talking with Nick Slade. Every so often, Braddock would shoot a sneer at Stottlemeyer, who was standing off to one side by himself, sipping a Diet Coke and pointedly ignoring them (which I guess meant that he wasn’t actually ignoring them at all).

Monk wasn’t good with crowds and small spaces. He was practically hugging himself, his head down low, as we weaved our way over to the captain.

“You must have finally had some rest, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “You look almost like yourself again.”

“I wish I could say the same for you, Captain,” I said. “You look worn-down.”

“I am,” he said.

“Tough time at work?” I asked.

“The mayor and the chief aren’t in very good moods today,” Stottlemeyer said. “Haven’t you watched the news?”

I shook my head. “But you closed a big double-murder case in only forty-eight hours. Doesn’t that earn you any brownie points?”

“It’s not the rapid investigation and solid arrest that’re getting all the attention.” Stottlemeyer gestured to Monk. “It’s that we needed him to do it.”

“I’m sorry,” Monk mumbled.

“Don’t be,” Stottlemeyer snapped. “Never apologize for being the best at what you do, Monk. We caught the murderer, that’s the important thing. Everything else is smoke.”

“Smoke can kill you,” Monk said.

“You think everything can kill you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s true,” Monk said. “Name one thing that isn’t lethal.”

“A cotton ball,” I said.

“You know how many people choke to death on cotton balls every year?” Monk asked. With anyone else, I’d say it was a rhetorical question. But I’m sure he knew exactly how many, not just for the last year, but going as far back as the Roman Empire.

“Which one of these people is Phil Atwater?” I asked.

Stottlemeyer tipped his Diet Coke towards the man serving drinks at the kitchen counter. One look at Phil’s poufy, blow-dried hair and Rick Springfield started singing “Jessie’s Girl” in my head.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that Carol married a man with practically the same name as her father?” I asked, hoping to drown out the song in my head by talking. “I would never marry a man with a name close to my father’s. He’d have to prove his love for me by changing his name.”

“Bill is short for William and Phil is short for Phillip,” Monk said. “So actually the names aren’t similar at all.”

“Bill and Phil sound pretty close to me,” I said.

“But William and Phillip aren’t,” Monk said.

“But that’s not what they call themselves.”

“But that’s what their names are,” Monk said.

“I’ve never understood why Bill is short for William,” Stottlemeyer interjected. “Where does the ‘B’ come from?”

BOOK: Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

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