Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (12 page)

Several possibilities raced through my tiny brain. Scurry out the front? (But what if he sees me drive off?) Hide under the bed? (Then how do I get out?) But something Lieutenant Devlin said this morning came to mind. “Let the bad guys know you’re interested and they’ll make mistakes.” And although I had no proof that Pickler was a bad guy or had done anything worse than keeping a secret . . .

“Mr. Pickler. In here.”

When Henry walked into the bedroom, he found me by his walk-in closet. I had already taken two shirts out and laid them on the bed. “Who are you?” he demanded before realizing. “Oh, you’re the detective working for me.”

“That’s right, sir,” I said with a smile. “Natalie Teeger. Daniela asked me to come by and pick up some personal
items for you. She didn’t know how long you’d be incarcerated.”

“Daniela just got me released.” His thin face squirmed into a frown. “Why would she send you for things if she just got me released?”

“Well, she didn’t know you’d be released. The last time we talked, she was showing the assistant DA the results of the GSR test. Congratulations. It looks like she was successful, huh?”

“The murder charge was dropped,” he said, not sounding that happy about it. “Apparently, even in this fascist state, they can’t hold you for refusing to explain your actions in your own backyard. They still have some other trumped-up charges. But Daniela will deal with those.”

“So that’s good,” I said. “What a surprise. So I suppose you won’t be needing a change of clothes.”

“Did Daniela give you the keys and the codes or did you just break in?”

“Mr. Pickler.” I tried to look offended. “She gave me everything, including her permission as your attorney.”

“And that’s why you’re here, to pick up some extra clothes for me? Nothing else?”

“Some underwear and toiletries. I noticed in your bathroom; you and my partner, Adrian, use the same exfoliant. He swears by it.”

“Even though we can’t wear our own clothes in jail, you were going to bring me clothes?”

“I was hoping they’d make an exception. But it’s all a moot point now, isn’t it?”

“And that’s the only reason you invaded my home?”

“Yes.” I looked him straight in the eyes. “What else would I be doing here?”

“Snooping around?”

“What?” I faked just enough outrage to keep him guessing. “You are my client. I’m bound by law not to do anything to endanger your legal welfare. If you choose not to confide in us, that’s your choice. I’m sure, as a law-abiding citizen, you have nothing to hide.”

“Another fascist argument, Ms. Teeger. If a person has nothing to hide, then he doesn’t need privacy. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, I’m just saying I believe in my client. Why should you have to explain every movement you make on your own property?”

Henry looked like he didn’t believe me. Totally understandable. “What were you doing before I got here? Not just picking out clothes.” He glanced around the bedroom, then back toward the home office. He must have seen something in my eyes, because he went right into the next room, heading straight for his file cabinet.

“I did not invade your files,” I said, just for the record. “Why would I do that?”

I followed him into the office and my eyes flicked past a row of corkboards to the monitor on his desk. The screen had gone into sleep mode again and I breathed a sigh of relief. Again, Pickler must have seen something in my eyes. I’m really going to have to work on my poker face.

Instantly he forgot about the files. “You were on my computer,” he said.

“No,” I lied.

“Yes, you were. Look.” He crossed to the monitor. “I’m left-handed, so I leave the mouse on the left side. Now it’s on the right.”

I hadn’t even noticed. What a stupid mistake. “Not me.” I tried to think fast. “The cops must have done that. They searched your home after the arrest. Right?”

“Maybe.” My explanation seemed to make a begrudging kind of sense. But when Pickler moved the mouse back to the left, the screen once more came to life. And once more, Becky Pickler stood along the rugged coast, smiling under the sliver moon of an Easter Sunday.

“That’s my wife,” he said, studying the moonlit face. “But of course you know that. You seem to know everything.”

“The screen is just the way you left it. I mean . . .” I was stammering like an idiot. “Just the way the police left it, I assume. If they were in there looking, which I think they were.” Shut up, Natalie.

“Why are you interested in my wife, Ms. Teeger?”

“I’m not.”

“Have you been talking to Becky?” He sounded defensive. “What did she say?”

“Nothing. Is your wife involved in this?” The words had just come out of my mouth.

“What do you mean, involved?”

“Are you protecting her?” I guessed. “Is she involved with the mob or the Mexican cartel? Is that why she had to leave town?”

“My Becky?” He tried not to laugh, but the air bubbled in his nose until he erupted in a guffaw. “That’s rich. Becky cleaned houses. You can ask Daniela if my wife was some
kind of mobster. I haven’t seen Becky in eight months. I have no idea where she is.”

“You have some idea. That photo’s on her Timeline. You and she are Facebook friends. You check up on her. You still love her, Henry.”

This guess was enough to take the air out of his sails. He nodded slowly. His shoulders slumped. “I look in on her every now and then, not to comment, just to look. She still lists her residence as Millbrae. So no, I don’t know where she is. Somewhere in Washington State.”

“Do you think she’d come back if she knew you were in trouble? You should get in touch.”

“Is that the way you think I want my wife back? Out of some sense of pity or obligation?” His voice cracked. “You really think that will help the marriage?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I meant it. “You’re right.”

“I’ve been released. The murder charge was dropped. There may be other charges, whatever the fascists can think up, like moving a body on your own property. But the worst is over. Thanks to Daniela.”

“You’re right.” The man was obviously in love and in pain, and I was ashamed of myself. It’s strange how quickly these things change. Henry Pickler wasn’t telling me anything more than he had before, which was nothing. But it no longer seemed so important.

Our job was officially done. And so what if he was keeping something from us? Everyone has a secret or two. Okay, his secret happened to involve a dead gang member in a field. But so what? He wasn’t paying my salary so that I could snoop through his house.

As for Esteban Rivera, the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office would have to look for another killer, if they wanted to look that hard. Monk could point them in the direction of Fat Tony, but it was doubtful they’d come up with much. Mob killings aren’t the most rewarding investigations, especially when you don’t have a dedicated homicide squad.

Henry and I had come to a truce. We engaged in awkward chitchat as he walked me to the front door. He’d missed a few days of nice weather, I informed him. And yes, that was my car parked down the street. No, jail hadn’t been that bad, he said.

“If I had to do it over, I probably wouldn’t say anything to Becky about her flossing. She’s a grown woman who can make her own decisions.” He smiled sadly, showing off his well-flossed teeth. “In her posts, her gums still look nice. Who knows? I may have been too harsh.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mr. Monk Makes a House Call

I
came out of Henry’s house feeling strangely let down. I had wanted to hate him. I’d wanted him to be involved in some complex scheme worse than murder, a scheme that had forced him to go out with a shovel and try to bury a stranger. But by the end of our time together, I was entertaining the thought that he’d just been offended by someone being killed in his vacant lot and felt the need to go out and clean up the mess.

Returning to the old Subaru, I checked my phone and found a message from Dr. Bell. I didn’t bother to listen but called him back right away. It was a lesson I learned years ago. Calls from Monk’s psychiatrist always needed immediate attention.

“Natalie. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday. But Adrian canceled.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“No reason for you to be sorry. I came into the office especially for our session and got a message saying that he was helping a lady friend do security on her house. He made a point of saying that this lady friend was not Ellen but someone nicer. Are you the friend, Natalie? I’d like to speak to Adrian if he’s there.”

“No, I’m not the friend.”

Dr. Bell seemed taken aback. “He never mentioned a new friend. Do you know what he means? Does it make any sense?”

“Those are two different questions. Yes, I know what he means. And no, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Does Adrian have a new girlfriend? I can’t tell you what goes on in our sessions, of course. . . .”

Dr. Neven Bell might have restrictions about what he could and couldn’t discuss, but I didn’t. “Ellen completely broke things off less than two weeks ago. Adrian pretends it’s no big deal. But you know that it is. And the fact that he’s falling for the first single woman that he’s come in contact with since being back from New Jersey . . .”

“The first? That’s not good.”

“Wait,” I said. “It gets worse. The woman is the only surviving victim of an attack. Adrian has been visiting her in the hospital and feels very protective.”

“Well, feeling protective can be a coping mechanism. It isn’t necessarily bad.”

“It is when the woman might have a connection to a triple murder and Adrian refuses to even consider her possible involvement.”

“Is that a real possibility?” he asked. “I don’t think Adrian would jeopardize an investigation.”

“Not on purpose, no.”

“The main thing I’m worried about . . .” Dr. Bell paused. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you what Adrian has or has not told me.”

I could guess. “He hasn’t told you anything about this
woman. That worries you because he normally doesn’t keep secrets.” I didn’t wait for him to say yes, no, or maybe. “In fact, Adrian tells you every minute detail of his existence. I know because afterward he often tells me what he told you, and it covers everything from his breakfast this morning to his anger issues with his mother to a breakfast eighteen years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wound up having to go to a psychiatrist yourself just to deal with it.”

“I do go to a psychiatrist,” he admitted. “A lot of therapists do. And yes, I am concerned that he hasn’t brought up this woman.”

“Her name is Sarabeth Willow, by the way, the survivor of the Stockton Street shooting. She may have absolutely no connection with the killer, but Monk’s infatuation is not a good thing, not from a police point of view.”

“And not from a psychological point of view—although I cannot discuss—”

“I get it.”

“Good. Can you have Adrian get in touch with me as soon as possible? I was going to go visit my grandkids this afternoon. But I’ll keep the rest of the day open in case Adrian wants to have a session. I think it’s important for him to discuss this.”

I promised Dr. Bell I’d do my best to get him there. My next call was to the hospital to verify Sarabeth’s release. My call after that was to Lieutenant Devlin to get Sarabeth’s home address. Devlin had not been happy that their one eyewitness to the massacre had been let go. But the hospital agreed to Sarabeth’s request to continue her recovery in familiar surroundings, and the department’s only choice was
to follow her home and set up a twenty-four-hour rotation of officers to protect her.

Just from spending a little time with Sarabeth, I would have guessed she lived in a painted lady, one of the cozy, colorfully painted Victorian row houses that decorate the city, especially in the lower Haight. It seemed to be her style. And I was right.

Her address was on Haight Street itself, just a few blocks from Buena Vista Park. It was a one-bedroom, ground-floor rental, and she’d probably been there forever. Most of these lovely little historic houses had been taken back by single families and renovated to within an inch of their lives, but a few were still tiny apartment buildings with reasonable rents.

An SFPD cruiser was parked illegally in front of a hydrant and would probably be there for a while. I parked at a newly vacated spot across the street and performed a perfect job of parallel parking, a driving requirement in this town. As I walked by, I waved at the officer behind the wheel who must have recognized me. He waved back and didn’t try to stop me from ringing the lowest of the four doorbells.

“Who is it?” said a cheery female voice. Before I could reply, the door opened and Sarabeth Willow was ushering me inside. “Natalie, so good of you to visit. I tell you, I’ve never felt so safe in my life.” She was in a bright floral housedress, or what we used to call a housedress, with half sleeves and a modest scoop neck. She was taller than I remembered. Or maybe it was just that her apartment was so small.

“No, no, no,” shouted Monk from somewhere in the back of the minuscule apartment. “What did I tell you about security?”

“It’s Natalie,” said Sarabeth, still managing to be cheery as she led me through the living room and into the bedroom. She took small but steady steps.

“First you look through the peephole, then you ask ‘who is it?’ Look at the face. Listen to the tone of the voice. If it’s not someone you know well . . .”

Sarabeth remained amused. “It’s your partner, Natalie.”

“Looks mean nothing. Natalie has a very common face. That’s why you need to hear her speak. If you have any doubts about her identity, call me.”

“You don’t have a cell phone,” I pointed out.

“Well, Sarabeth has your number. She can call you and you can relay the message.” Monk was standing by the bed. He had just finished making it and now, a second later, was unmaking it, folding down a corner of the quilted comforter. “Now, get back in, missy. You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“Adrian.” I rolled my eyes. “You made her get out of bed to answer the door?”

“I had to test our security procedures, which did not go well.” He clapped his hands twice quickly, like a grade school teacher. “Sarabeth, get back in bed. Natalie, go back outside. We’ll try again.”

“We are not going to try again,” I said firmly. “We’re going to let Sarabeth get some rest. Is there anything we can get you from the kitchen?”

“A Fiji Water would be nice. We did a little shopping before getting here.”

“Not you. Sarabeth.”

“That’s so sweet, Natalie. Yes, a little iced tea. There should be a bottle of sweet tea in the icebox.”

“It’s right beside the Fiji Water,” said Monk. “That’s my way of asking you to bring me some Fiji Water.”

Sarabeth smiled. “I think she knows that. Please get something for yourself, Natalie, dear.”

The apartment was old-fashioned, but not in the same way as the Pickler house. Under normal circumstances, Monk would have found it claustrophobic and depressing. But none of this, not the chairs with the tattered doilies or the mismatched pillows, seemed to be annoying him at all. Maybe after the first blush of rebound wore off, he would start seeing things with his usual, critical eye.

As promised, the iced tea was in front, next to the Fiji Water. I looked around the rest of the refrigerator, hoping to find some fruit juice for myself. A purplish pink bottle of something was in the back, partially hidden by a bottle of ketchup and an oversized jar of mayonnaise. I reached in for the juice and checked the label. Then I put it back exactly where I’d found it.

I stood there nearly a full minute, trying to process this. What in the world would Sarabeth be doing with a half-empty bottle of Earthway brand cranberry-prune juice? It was just yesterday when everyone in the hospital room, including Sarabeth, was making fun of Wyatt and his obsession with the benefits of cranberry-prune. I reached past the mayo again and checked the date stamped on the neck of the juice bottle. These organic brands don’t have the longest shelf lives and this one was still a week away from its expiration.

There could be an easy explanation, I thought. Sarabeth could have decided to try the juice on her own, for example. She could be a convert to the juice lifestyle, although the
woman did also own an oversized jar of mayonnaise. But in order to hear this easy explanation, I would have to let her know what I’d just seen—and what I now suspected. I didn’t want to do that.

“Thanks, Natalie. Just what I needed.”

I handed Sarabeth the iced tea, with four ice cubes and a bendy straw, then gave one of the Fiji bottles to Monk, keeping the second one for myself. “Did you ever see Wyatt outside of work?” I tried to make the question sound casual.

“She already answered that,” Monk said. “No, she never did.”

“That’s right,” Sarabeth confirmed. “We went bowling once, as a group activity with the people from the warehouse. But Wyatt called in sick that day.”

“And he’s never been to anyone’s home, as far as you know? He’s never been here, for example?”

“No,” she said. “I never even thought of inviting him. Why do you ask?”

“I was just hoping we could get a reliable set of his prints. Everything the police recovered from the office is either an elimination print from one of the other employees, or is smudged.”

“Sorry. I don’t think Wyatt ever saw anyone in a social setting.” My answer had seemed to satisfy her, a lot more than her answer satisfied me.

“You should be safe for now,” Monk advised. He was busy drinking his Fiji Water and checking a list. “Just don’t go outside or into your backyard. I’ll come back later and replace the lock on the back fence. You’ll have the only key.”

“You think old Mr. Simonton across the fence is going to break in and attack me?”

“You never know,” said Monk. “Maybe someone will kill him in order to get access to your yard. I’ve seen that happen.”

“I didn’t think of that,” she said, then reached out over the comforter and touched his hand. “You make me feel so safe.”

Monk removed his hand but didn’t wipe it. “Do you want to go over the procedures? It shouldn’t take more than an hour. We’ll start with Natalie coming to the door again. This time change your voice, Natalie.”

“Not now, dear,” said Sarabeth. “I think I need a little rest.” She seemed about to close her eyes. “How long do you think the police will be here, guarding me?”

“Until we catch him,” Monk said. “And if we don’t catch him, then forever.”

“I don’t think forever is a good option. Do you honestly think I’m in danger? I would love the freedom to get around on my own. Without a police escort.”

“Get around?” Monk scoffed. “You can barely walk.”

“I’m getting stronger every day,” she said, following it with a dramatic yawn. “But I’m afraid I do need my rest.”

“Good idea. Come on, Adrian.” I mimed pulling him by the arm but he didn’t respond. I had to actually pull his arm, which is a fairly drastic measure for a man who hates being touched.

Out in the living room, the two of us paused by the front door. “Dr. Bell told you I was here,” he said accusingly. “What ever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“I don’t think it applies to a voice mail cancellation of a session.”

“Well, it should.”

“The doctor is very concerned about your rebound relationship with Sarabeth.”

“You told him?” Monk looked horrified. “You blabbed about my private life, Natalie? To my doctor? What ever happened to partner-partner confidentiality?”

“It doesn’t exist. And the fact that you haven’t mentioned this woman to your psychiatrist is not a good sign.”

“The only reason I didn’t mention her was because I know what he’s going to say and we’d wind up wasting an entire session talking about it.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do now. We’re going straight over to Dr. Bell’s. He canceled a visit to his grandkids this afternoon just to see you. He’s that worried.”

“No can do. I need to stop by the hardware store and buy a new lock for Sarabeth’s back fence.”

“Adrian!” And this time I didn’t even mime grabbing his arm. I just grabbed and started pulling him out the door.

“Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“Sarabeth? She’ll be fine.”

“I like it when people need me. And she likes me, I can tell. Do you think she’s attractive? I think she has a special kind of beauty.”

“It’s hard to tell with the housedress,” I said. But I wasn’t thinking about the housedress. I was thinking about the bottle of cranberry-prune juice. How was I going to phrase this? “Do you think Sarabeth knows something she’s not telling us?”