Authors: Lee Goldberg

Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop (33 page)

BOOK: Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

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“It’s what I do,” Monk said, his body stiff, his arms flush against his sides.

“Better than anybody,” Stottlemeyer said, clapping him hard on the back again before letting him go. “And no matter what anybody says, that doesn’t bother me one bit, especially right now.”

He looked past Monk to Disher, who stood there nervously, unable to meet Stottlemeyer’s eye.

The captain sighed and held out his hand to Disher. “I’ve got no hard feelings, Randy. You were just doing your job and doing it well.”

Disher grabbed the captain’s outstretched hand and pulled him into a big hug.

“Thank you,” Disher said. “I’m so glad it’s all over.”

“Me, too,” the captain said.

But Disher wouldn’t let go. “It was a living hell for me.”

“Yeah, you had it rough,” Stottlemeyer said, trying to pull free. But Disher held tight. “I need to go now.”

Monk and I headed for the door. Stottlemeyer turned to look at us pleadingly.

“I could use some help here,” he said.

“We’re helped out,” I said, and opened the door for Monk.

“It’s the burden of the badge,” Disher said. “It has no soul. But I’ve got a soul.”

“I know you do,” Stottlemeyer said, patting Disher on the back. “I know.”

I closed the door behind us.

Julie was waiting up for me when I got home shortly after sunrise. She was sitting on the couch, facing the door, her arms folded under her chest.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” I said.

As I got closer, I could see that her eyes were red and her cheeks were tear-streaked.

I sat down beside her, put my arm around her shoulders, and drew her to me. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“There was a message waiting on our voice mail,” she said. “I listened to it.”

I closed my eyes and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”

“You could have been killed, Mom.”

“I wasn’t,” I said.

“What were you thinking, going into an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night?”

“I was doing my job,” I said.

“Going after murderers,” she said.

“I think maybe it’s what I’m good at,” I said.

“You are,” Julie said.

“You think so?”

“‘I’m capable of killing and a gun just makes it easier,’” she said, quoting me verbatim.

I winced. “That wasn’t what I was referring to.”

“Dad was a great fighter pilot but that didn’t stop him from being shot down. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“Maybe I should quit and do something safer.”

“You could get killed crossing the street. This job makes you happy,” she said. “Happier than I have ever seen you doing anything else. But you have to promise me that you will be more careful.”

“Hey, I’m the one who is supposed to do the worrying in this relationship.”

“That changed when people started pointing guns at you,” she said. “Do you promise?”

“I promise,” I said.

It had been so long since I’d held my daughter. Once she became a teenager, the last thing she wanted was her mother’s affection. She didn’t want to feel like a baby. But she didn’t care now and I was thankful for it.

We held each other, safe and loved, until we both fell asleep.

I took the next day off to catch up on my sleep and decompress from all the excitement. The arrests and Stottlemeyer’s release happened too late to make the morning paper and I didn’t turn on the TV.

I spent the day puttering around the house and taking it easy. I finished the
Murder, She Wrote
book, though. I don’t know how that old lady can handle it. I was a good thirty years younger than her and solving murders and facing down killers wiped me out.

The Wurzel case was front-page news the next morning. The story laid out exactly what Slade and Wurzel had done, and how it led to the murders of Peschel and Braddock, but otherwise it was thin on details of how the case was cracked. Monk was mentioned only in passing and I wasn’t referred to at all (which was no surprise, since nobody from the media had tried to call me the previous day). The implication was that the police had doggedly pursued the case, spurred by their belief that Captain Stottlemeyer had to be innocent.

I didn’t care that the story was inaccurate. I wasn’t looking for publicity or recognition. It was enough for me that we’d come out of it alive and the captain was exonerated.

I went to Monk’s at nine a.m. the next morning, ready to face the issue of our unemployment head-on. I was still driving the Lexus and would continue doing so until someone showed up to repossess it. Intertect owed me at least that much for what Slade put me through.

My plan was to start contacting local police departments to see if any of them were interested in our services.

Monk’s plan was to contact the Diaper Genie people and see if he could become their West Coast sales rep in charge of developing and encouraging broader use of the gizmo. The living room was filled with the extra Diaper Genies that he’d bought.

Before either one of us could dive into our pursuits, there was a knock at the front door. It was Captain Stottlemeyer. He looked surprisingly rested and relaxed, considering what the last few days had been like for him.

“I’ve got some good news for you,” he said.

“The police department has agreed to replace all of their trash cans with Diaper Genies,” Monk said.

“Almost as good,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re back on the payroll as a consultant.”

“It’s a pleasure to be working with you again,” Monk said.

“The feeling is mutual,” Stottlemeyer said.

“How did you get the chief to change his mind?” I asked.

“Blackmail,” he said.

“That’s illegal,” Monk said.

“Not this kind,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s called political blackmail. I told the chief if he didn’t restore my budget to what it was before, I’d go to every TV station and reporter in town and tell them how I was falsely arrested for a murder by an incompetent police department and freed by the efforts of a consultant they fired. I would also remind the reporters that one of the mayor’s biggest campaign contributors was Linda Wurzel.”

“Ouch,” I said. “Speaking of lovable Linda, how’s the case going against her and Slade?”

“They’re each trying to cut a deal with the DA to testify against the other in return for taking the death penalty off the table. I think Slade’s got the edge. Turns out he was wearing a wire when he met with Wurzel ten years ago and he kept the tape of their conversation as insurance.”

“Slade wouldn’t have taped the meeting if he’d gone into it intending to take the job,” Monk said. “He was going to arrest her but something must have changed when he heard her proposal.”

“It’s called greed, Monk. He saw a way to bankroll his dreams.”

“Why did she want her husband killed?”

“Remember all those women who came forward demanding a piece of Steve Wurzel’s estate because they claimed that he’d knocked them up?” Stottlemeyer said. “Well, he did.”

“I could see why that would make her furious,” I said. “But why did she go shopping for a hit man at Peschel’s tavern of all places?”

“She didn’t know where else to go. She picked the slea ziest, most dangerous bar in the seediest neighborhood she could find and figured there was bound to be someone inside who was desperate and immoral enough to take the job.”

“It’s hard to believe that a police officer would ever fit that description,” Monk said.

“It’s an ugly world out there,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I know,” Monk said, and handed the captain a Diaper Genie. “We can change that.”

“With this?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Every revolution has to start somewhere,” Monk said.

BOOK: Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

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