Read Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop Online
Authors: Lee Goldberg
Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop (19 page)
“Why is Bob short for Robert?” I said. “Where does that ‘B’ come from?”
“Misspellings that were left uncorrected and, as a result, went on to contaminate the entire English language,” Monk said. “Let that be a warning to us all on the importance of proofreading.”
No one could accuse us of not engaging in highly intellectual conversations.
Carol Atwater approached us. “Thank you all for coming.”
“Your father indirectly changed my life forever,” Monk said.
“He did?” Carol asked. “How?”
“By accompanying the captain here, I was introduced to the Diaper Genie and its potential to save the world,” Monk said. “I’ll be sure that your father is mentioned during the Nobel ceremony.”
She stared at him in bewilderment. “You mean like the Nobel Prize?”
“Don’t ask,” I said. “How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess,” she said. “We cremated Dad this morning and scattered his ashes in front of his old bar like he wanted. It’s a Jamba Juice now, but that doesn’t matter, does it?”
“I hope you cleaned it up afterwards,” Monk said. “You aren’t supposed to spread dead people in front of restaurants.”
I nudged him hard and Stottlemeyer spoke up quickly to cover Monk’s insensitivity.
“That spot will always be Bill’s Tavern to me,” Stottlemeyer said. “To all of us.”
I looked over at Braddock and Slade, both of whom were watching us. “They knew your father, too?”
“Dad called them a couple of times since he moved in, with some hot tips from the nineteen nineties,” she said. “Nick has been here twice before. Detective Braddock came for the first time the same day that you three were here. He’s in town for a convention.”
“The three of us were on the force at the same time. Bill gave us each a lot of good leads on crimes that happened or were in the works,” Stottlemeyer said. “I don’t know how he decided which one of us to grace with a particular bit of gossip. If he played favorites, I never noticed or cared. His bar was in the heart of the Tenderloin, his customers lived in the shadows, and they talked a lot when they were drunk. He always knew the word on the street.”
“Didn’t the street know he was passing it along to you?” I said.
“We didn’t advertise it and I doubt he did, either. I liked Bill, but he played both sides of the fence. He was every bit as dirty as—” He suddenly remembered who was standing there and lowered his head with embarrassment. “What I mean is—”
“I know what you meant, Captain,” she said, but without any resentment in her voice. “One of the reasons Dad ratted on his friends and customers and told you the scuttlebutt that he heard was so you’d look the other way on his little schemes and scams. I loved my father, warts and all. And he certainly had plenty of warts.”
Monk cringed. “And you let him stand in your kitchen where your family’s food is prepared? Where your guests are eating and drinking now? You’re going to have to gut that kitchen down to the studs.”
Carol stared coldly at Monk. “Excuse me, I should probably see how the other guests are doing.”
She gave Stottlemeyer a kiss on the cheek, cast one more cold glance at Monk, and moved on.
“You’re a sensitive guy, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
“That’s why I didn’t tell her that she and her family and everyone here who has consumed anything served from that wart-infested hellhole will need to be decontaminated by a haz-mat team,” Monk said. “I’ll call her tomorrow, when it won’t be as traumatic. Someone should also call the health department about that Jamba Juice. People have probably been tracking warty Bill Peschel in and out of the place all day.”
Nick broke away from Braddock to talk with Carol, and Braddock sauntered over to us.
“Oh joy,” Stottlemeyer said as he saw Braddock approaching.
“Maybe he’s just coming over to share his condolences,” I said.
“I’m sure he is,” Stottlemeyer said. “For my career.”
“Hey, Monk, I’m surprised to see you here,” Braddock said. “I didn’t know you knew old Billy-boy back in the day.”
“I didn’t,” Monk said. “I met him for the first time a few days ago. He was the captain’s friend.”
Braddock nodded. “That makes sense. You don’t need snitches, do you, Monk? You can close a case without help, unlike Leland here. He needs all the help he can get.”
“You’re right, Paul, I do. I solicit the unique skills and special relationships of the people around me to get the job done.”
“To make up for your own weaknesses,” Braddock said. “It’s sad.”
“I guess that’s why I’m a Homicide captain in the big city of San Francisco and you’re giving parking tickets in the tiny little desert town of Banning.”
Braddock’s face turned bright red. His rage must have been pretty close to the surface to start with.
“The way I hear it, you aren’t going to have that job much longer.”
“Maybe so,” Stottlemeyer said. “But it’s still a job that you’ll never get.”
“The only difference between you and me is him,” Braddock said, jabbing a finger in Monk’s direction. “Without your little Rainman, you’re nothing.”
“Which still is more of a cop than you’ll ever be. I make my cases using evidence, not beatings,” Stottlemeyer said, watching as Braddock’s hand clenched into a fist, crushing the empty can he was holding. “Trying to wring a confession out of that beer can?”
Braddock swung his fist at Stottlemeyer, who deftly dodged it with his left arm, splashing the people nearby with Diet Coke, and punched him in the nose with his right.
The detective staggered back, bumping into two mourners and causing an immediate stir in the room. Everyone was watching now. Nick seemed embarrassed but Carol was mortified.
Furious and bloodied, Braddock swung again, but Stottlemeyer easily ducked under it and punched the detective hard in the stomach, doubling him over.
Stottlemeyer followed up with a right uppercut to the chin that sent Braddock staggering backwards out the open French doors to the backyard, where he lost his footing and slid on his butt across the wet grass as if it were a Slip ’n Slide.
The captain was going out for more but Slade grabbed him from behind and held him back.
“Leland,” Nick said. “That’s enough. You’re at a wake, for God’s sake.”
That seemed to snap Stottlemeyer out of it. Phil Atwater and a couple of other men helped Braddock to his feet.
Braddock was a dazed mess. There was blood spatter on his white shirt from his smashed nose and the back of his pants were all wet and grass-stained.
I looked over at Monk, who stepped past Stottlemeyer and Slade onto the patio. He had his head cocked at an angle, observing the situation as if he’d never seen anything like it.
“Haven’t you ever seen someone get punched before?” I asked as I joined him. “If Stottlemeyer hadn’t socked him, I might have.”
“There are grass stains on his pants,” Monk said.
“That’s what happens when you slide on wet grass.”
“Or walk on it with your socks,” Monk said. “The lawn is so green and lush because it’s watered every day at the same time. It was wet yesterday, too, but Bill Peschel’s socks weren’t stained. They were bright white.”
He was right. I remembered seeing Peschel’s sock-covered feet just before they zipped up his body bag.
“Maybe the chlorinated water leached out the stains,” Nick said.
Spoken like a man who had never done a load of children’s laundry. But Carol had and, judging by the horrified expression creeping onto her face, the implication of Monk’s observation was beginning to sink in.
It certainly had for me and Stottlemeyer. We both had kids. Grass stains don’t wash out easily, if they ever wash out at all. So the fact that Bill’s socks weren’t stained could mean only one thing: He didn’t walk across the grass.
The captain shrugged his arms free from Slade’s loosened grasp and stepped forward.
Monk picked up a white plastic chair, set it on the grass near the fence, and waved me over.
“Stand on this,” he said.
“Why don’t you?”
“I’m afraid of heights.”
I sighed, grabbed the top of the fence for support, and stepped onto the chair. It wobbled and sank under my weight into the sodden lawn with a moist, squishy sound.
“You don’t weigh half as much as Bill Peschel did,” Monk said. “But the chair he stood on wasn’t sunk into the lawn. It was right on top.”
“Maybe the chair was moved by one of the coroners, cops, or the police photographer,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Then there should be four holes made by the chair in the grass somewhere along the pool fence.”
Monk bent over and walked slowly around the entire perimeter of the pool.
He walked very, very, very slowly.
So slowly that I’m pretty sure he was counting the blades of grass as he went.
Everyone was silent, watching Monk. Even Braddock was transfixed, holding a towel to his bloody nose.
After what felt like hours of frustration and suspense, Monk returned to me, tipped his head from side to side, rolled his shoulders, and then addressed the crowd.
“Bill Peschel didn’t step on a chair, climb over the fence, and jump into the pool,” Monk said. “He was murdered.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mr. Monk Asks Around
B
efore long the guests were gone and the crowd at Carol Atwater’s house was made up of cops and crime scene investigators from the Mill Valley Police Department. Even Carol and her family had left, preferring to spend the night in a hotel. I wondered if they’d ever come back to this house now.
efore long the guests were gone and the crowd at Carol Atwater’s house was made up of cops and crime scene investigators from the Mill Valley Police Department. Even Carol and her family had left, preferring to spend the night in a hotel. I wondered if they’d ever come back to this house now.
Stottlemeyer and Slade stuck around—the captain to protect Carol’s interests and Slade to publicize his own.
Slade was careful to remind Monk that he worked for Intertect and that any further observations he wanted to share had to go through him first.
“I don’t know what forensic evidence they hope to find,” Slade said, watching the forensic technicians doing their thing. “The scene has been hopelessly compromised and contaminated. The yard has been watered, which is bound to have washed away trace evidence, and everything has been trampled and touched by dozens of people since Peschel’s death.”
“You mean his murder,” Monk said.
“They’re just following procedure,” Stottlemeyer said. “They know as well as you and I do how futile it is.”
“It’s my fault the evidence is lost or ruined,” Monk said. “I saw all the things that were out of place yesterday and didn’t put it together. What was the matter with me?”
“You were tired,” I said, shooting a nasty glare at Slade, who didn’t seem to pick up on it.
“But it was all right in front of my face,” Monk said.
“And mine and theirs,” Stottlemeyer said, nodding towards the Mill Valley police. “At least I’m accustomed to missing the clues that you see. They’re not. They really feel like jerks.”
“Then it’s the perfect time to let them know that Monk’s consulting services are available through Intertect,” Slade said, and excused himself from us to try to snag himself a new client.
“Who could have wanted Bill Peschel dead?” Monk asked.
“Anyone who got sent to prison because of one of the tips that he gave the police,” I said.
“Why wait until now?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Peschel retired and moved to Florida ten years ago.”
“Maybe the killer just got released from prison,” I said. “Or maybe it took the killer this long to figure out that it was Peschel who ratted him out. Or maybe he only recently learned that Peschel had moved back to the Bay Area. Maybe it’s all of those things put together.”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I thought maybes were your specialty,” I said.
“My specialty doesn’t matter,” Stottlemeyer said. “This is a Mill Valley homicide. I don’t have jurisdiction here.”
Slade came back over to us. “I was just told that the Mill Valley Police Department has a policy of not hiring people to do the job that they are paid to do. They don’t have money to burn like the San Francisco police do. That’s a direct quote.”
“Tough break for you,” Stottlemeyer said.
“They’ll come around after a few weeks of getting nowhere,” Slade said.
“After a few weeks, it will be too late,” Monk said. “The trail will be cold.”
“You’ve solved a bunch of cases for me already that were colder than a few weeks,” Slade said.
“This is different,” Monk said.
“Yeah, the Mill Valley police know that somebody would have gotten away with murder if it weren’t for you,” Slade said. “You’ve embarrassed them. They aren’t going to be able to stick this case in a drawer if they get nowhere with it. They’ll have to come back to us. The public will pressure them into it.”
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