Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (9 page)

“My what?”

“Boyfriend,” I clarified.

“Then why didn’t he say boyfriend?”

“Because there’s s-e-x involved, not just boy friendship.” Monk squirmed.

“Sure, there’s sex involved. But it’s very friendly sex.” She watched as Monk squirmed twice more. “Hey, look. He squiggles every time I say sex. Sex, sex, sex, sex . . . Isn’t that cute?”

“Adorable.” I had to get her back on topic before Monk worked himself into a seizure.

“Sexy, sexy, sexy sex.”

“Cyndi!” I raised my voice and pointed. “That’s a security camera.”

“Really?” She looked over, as if seeing it for the first time. “That must be left over from the owners. I think. I wouldn’t know.”

“Didn’t the police ask you about the cameras?” asked Daniela.

“I’m not even sure they work. I hope they don’t, now that I think about the stuff Carlos and me do out by the pool, you know? Sexy sex. Are any of them even pointed in the right direction? The field is way over there.”

“We won’t know until we look,” said Daniela. “Perhaps we could talk to Carlos.”

Monk was the first to hear the overpowered engine. He cocked his head and tensed slightly. How he knew the car was heading toward this driveway, I don’t know. But he was right. Ten seconds later, a red Lamborghini pulled in. Cyndi squealed with delight and clapped her hands. “Carlos. Carlos.”

The man stepping out of the Lamborghini was middle-aged and relatively short—thick around the middle but not fat, just powerful. He stared directly at Cyndi and pretended not to see us, even though the four of us were almost
blocking the door and hard to miss. “Inside,” he growled as he powered through both us and the doorway.

“Sorry,” said Cyndi with a giggle and another toss of the hair. “My man’s home. Gotta go.” And she shut the door in our faces.

A second later, Monk had turned on his heel and was striding down the street. This time Daniela tried to keep up. “So that’s it?” she said, talking into his back, her heels clattering. “You’re just leaving? Don’t you want to stay and talk to this Carlos character? He’s right there.”

“I don’t,” said Monk.

“Why not?” she demanded. “Because the man is tough and threatening? You’re a private detective. That comes with the territory.”

“I found out what I need to know.” Monk increased his pace and we all struggled to catch up. It was like race walking.

“What? What did you find out?” asked our lawyer. “That there were security cameras that might have picked up something that night? A passing car? Someone walking by? Those details could help us. Are you not even going to try to get access?”

“We’re not going to get anything out of those cameras.”

“How do you know that?” Daniela stopped in the middle of the street and stood her ground. “Mr. Monk, talk to me.”

We must have been far enough away from the white modern house for Monk’s comfort. He turned to face Daniela but didn’t go back. They were like two gunslingers facing down each other in the middle of a street.

“The police can get a court order,” said Daniela, firing first. “For the cameras.”

“Even if those cameras were working and facing the right direction, we’ll still get nothing out of them.”

“But that’s why you dragged us over there, to check the cameras. And now you’re just giving up?”

“That man was Carlos Menendez,” Monk said. “I’m surprised you didn’t know his face.”

“I did,” said Julie. “His picture was in the case file.” She smiled at Monk, as if she’d aced an extra-credit question on a test.

“Very good,” said Monk. “So, maybe you can explain to Ms. Grace and the other Ms. Teeger why Carlos Menendez is important.”

Julie stood by Monk the Gunslinger as she faced down Daniela and me. “Carlos Menendez runs the Menendez drug cartel. He was Esteban Rivera’s employer at the time Mr. Rivera was shot in that field, right next to his girlfriend’s house.”

“Very good,” said Monk. “Now, if everyone is finished with their questions, can we please get the heck out of here?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mr. Monk’s Bedside Manner

“B
reaking and entering? Julie, what were you thinking?”

“Not breaking,” she argued again. “Besides, you and Adrian do the same thing.”

“But we’ve never been arrested for it.” Never? Okay, I’d have to think about that. Monk and I have been arrested so many times, even for murder, but I don’t think ever for breaking and entering. It was my own fault for telling Julie so much about our exploits and making it sound exciting.

“You still did it. You just didn’t get caught.”

“The difference, young lady, is that we’re a team of professionals who know what we’re doing. You’re a twenty-one-year-old who could have ended up with a criminal record. How do you think that would look on a law school application?”

“I’m not going to law school, remember?”

“All right. Let’s say a police academy application. Or an application for a PI license. Not to mention the danger you were putting yourself in.”

“It was the empty house of a man who was in jail.”

“It could have been more than that; you didn’t know. And meanwhile, not a soul knew you were there. Not a partner or the captain or anyone.”

“Okay, I get it,” said Julie in a tone that said maybe she finally did. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

After we’d closed up Henry Pickler’s tribute to the seventies, making sure this time that no side windows were unlocked, Monk had wanted to go back to his apartment. But it was a workday and I insisted on dropping him off at the office. “Just in case we get any street traffic.” It was a remote prospect but one that made him shudder all the same.

Out in the parking lot of our strip-mall home, Julie and I sat in the old Subaru, the scene of so many mother-daughter confrontations over the years. A light rain was pelting the windshield. “Did you miss any classes this morning?” I asked, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

“I missed a lecture. No big deal. Jennifer recorded it for me.” Her mouth curved up in the slightest of smiles. “‘Ethics in the Workplace.’”

“Well, you just had a mom-lecture on ethics in the workplace, so it probably amounted to the same thing.”

“I think the mom-lecture made more of an impact.”

“Good to hear.”

Julie got back in her own car. She promised to call tonight, then drove off, heading back to Berkeley while I headed back into work.

Monk was at his desk, in the middle of a call and not looking happy. “I’ll tell you exactly what kind of detective agency we are, ma’am. We’re the kind that couldn’t care less why your fiancé emptied out your 401(k) and disappeared. My guess is the man had his reasons.”

My reflex was to rush up and grab the phone and
apologize to whoever was on the other end. But I was too late. Monk had already hung up.

“Is this what you’ve reduced us to, Natalie? Taking cases from desperate, stupid women with easy-to-forge signatures who give their younger boyfriends all their banking information?”

“You didn’t take the case, Adrian. You took the phone call.”

“It still took time and annoyed me.” Monk reached for the can of Lysol in his top drawer and sprayed down the handset, ignoring the fact that he was the only one who ever used that phone. “How was your conversation with Julie?”

I sighed. “I have a feeling it’s not over.”

Monk nodded. “Julie was smart out there today. She could be an asset.” I never should have let it slip that Julie was lobbying for an unpaid internship with Monk and Teeger. If only I’d left out the word
unpaid
 . . .

I tried to change the subject. “So tell me. What happened to your theory that Fat Tony killed Rivera? Last time I looked, you were ninety percent sure.”

“I still am,” said Monk. “Just because Rivera was shot outside the girlfriend’s house doesn’t change that. The Lucarellis were sending a message. ‘We can strike you anywhere, even outside your sexual paramour’s place of residence.’ Such an attack makes it personal, not just business. Menendez has a wife and family in Mexico. It could be construed as a threat against them, too.”

“But it still leaves us with the big question,” I pointed out. “What is Henry Pickler’s part in all this? Why won’t he say anything?”

“Don’t have a clue,” Monk said, “which is what I need. I can’t work without clues, Natalie. Why don’t you get me a clue?”

The business phone rang again and Monk fixed me with one of those looks. “It’s been like this since we got back. Almost twice an hour.” He let it ring. But not for long.

Here’s a secret about Monk you might not know. Part of his obsessive-compulsive nature compels him to complete things. A doorbell cannot go unanswered, even if his answer is “Go away.” If you knock “shave and a haircut,” he will always knock back “two bits.” And if a phone rings and if I refuse to pick it up, which I was doing right now . . .

“This is why we need an unpaid intern,” Monk said. His phone hand was already starting to shake. “Where’s Julie?”

“We are not having this discussion, Adrian. And I’m not your assistant. If you want that phone answered—”

“Hello?” he said into the freshly cleaned handset after the sixth ring. I was never going to get him to say, “Monk and Teeger. Consulting Detectives. How may I help you?” I wasn’t even going to try.

When you’ve known someone long enough, you get to recognize how they talk on the phone. Not just the words but the tone. Is the caller a stranger? A friend? An acquaintance? Someone you have to be nice to? Someone who has to be nice to you? There’s also the voice you adopt when you’re talking to family. In this case, Monk was almost mute, voicing a few comfortable grunts but showing no real impatience. Every twenty seconds or so he would murmur something like “good” or “fine.”

“Hi, Ambrose,” I called toward the phone.

“Natalie wants to talk to you,” Monk said quickly, and held out the handset.

Ambrose is Monk’s older brother. If you think of Monk as Sherlock Holmes, with a trusty sidekick, an irascible police captain, and criminals that outfox everyone in the world but him, then Ambrose would be Mycroft Holmes.

For those who don’t know, Mycroft was Sherlock’s older brother. He was acknowledged by everyone to be smarter than Sherlock and could have been an even greater detective, but the man didn’t have Sherlock’s energy and was so antisocial that he rarely left the confines of his private men’s club.

Ambrose Monk might indeed be smarter than Adrian. But he’s also more damaged. He has lived in their childhood home his entire life. For nearly all of his adult life, Ambrose, a true agoraphobe, never left the house. And he was a bit of a pack rat. Every piece of mail that arrived at the door, he had hoarded in the hope that the father who had deserted them might come back and want to sit down and read a hundred Lands’ End catalogues in chronological order.

Ambrose’s saving angel turned out to be Yuki Nakamura, a Japanese American biker chick with multiple tattoos. I realize how odd that sounds, but what can I say? It’s true. Yuki arrived with her own set of problems, including a very dark past.

She came into the Monk family house as Ambrose’s assistant, helping him with his freelance business of writing instruction manuals. If you’ve owned anything from a toaster to a tractor and bothered to read the manual—in English, Japanese, German, Braille, or a dozen other languages—then you’re familiar with Ambrose and Yuki’s body of work.

I grabbed the phone as soon as Monk held it out. “Ambrose! Where are you? How are you? When are you coming home?”

All right, I did say Ambrose never left the house. My mistake. I left out the part where he and Yuki got married. For their honeymoon, she convinced him to tour the entire United States in a mobile home. He would never have to leave the safety of the RV, never have to deal with the outside world. He would be able to see it all through a spotlessly clean Winnebago windshield.

“It’s been almost a year,” I said. “Tell me everything. How’s the weather wherever you are?”

“Identical to San Francisco weather,” reported the stilted, slightly formal voice. I never thought I’d actually miss that voice but I did. “That’s primarily because we’re in San Francisco. We’ve been home for a week, but it took Yuki a few days to get me out of the RV and into the house. As you may know, I’m not fond of change.”

“I know. I know. Welcome home.”

“Excuse me?” Monk raised a hand. “You shouldn’t tie up the business line with personal calls.”

I ignored him and kept Ambrose on the phone long enough to wrangle a dinner invitation for that evening. Monk included, of course.

The best thing about eating at Ambrose’s is that I never have to explain Monk’s food restrictions because Ambrose shares them all and a few more. No hint of fruit in the entrée, all the meats well done, no food types touching one another on the plate. Soup is okay, but no stew. Stews are anarchy. The list goes on.

“We’re in fact going to partake in Japanese food tonight, Natalie. So please warn my brother.”

“Japanese? How daring.”

“What about the Japanese?” Monk asked. I didn’t respond.

“Yuki encourages me to try new things,” said Ambrose. “She assures me the food will be cooked. And spices will be optional, in little containers on a separate table in the next room. No wasabi unless requested in advance.”

“Sounds like fine dining. We can’t wait.”

After the call, I informed my partner of our dinner plans. He was not fond of Yuki, not in the least, starting with her tattoos and ending with her once having killed a man. But she had done a lot for Ambrose in the past few years, and Adrian recognized the kind of caring and understanding that goes into loving someone of the Monk species.

We shared a late lunch of Spam sandwiches and Fiji Water. I informed him that tomorrow I was bringing lunch and that it wouldn’t be Spam. Then we headed over to San Francisco General. Monk felt it important to have yet another interview with Sarabeth Willow.

When we walked into Sarabeth’s private room half an hour later, he was disappointed to find the two visitor chairs already occupied. “We can come back,” Monk said before even bothering to say hello. “No need to rush. Is five minutes okay? We’ll wait out in the hall until you’re gone in five minutes.”

“Adrian, Natalie, come in please. So good to see you.” Sarabeth was looking much better, her cheeks blooming with some color and maybe just a little makeup. She was no longer connected to tubes, just a heart monitor, which is standard procedure for an ICU. “I’d like you to meet my friends.”
They were both seated on the same side of the bed, displaying sad, half smiles. “This is Helena Lubarsky, Mel’s wife. And Todd Avery. Todd used to be married to Katrina.”

At some point very soon we were going to have to take half a day to visit the victims’ families. Now here they were in front of us. I considered it an opportunity. Monk considered it their brazen attempt to poach quality time with his rebound girlfriend.

“Nice to meet you both. We’re so sorry for your loss.” In our line of work, I wind up saying that a lot.

“Thank you,” said Helena. She was in her early forties, slim and stylish in a rather showy way. Helena was dressed in darker colors, blue and gray, but not black. “Are you the detectives? Sarabeth’s been telling us about you.”

“We are,” I said. “We’re from the firm of Monk and Teeger. I’m Teeger. He’s Monk.”

“Adrian is famous.” Sarabeth threw my partner a sly wink. “As well as very handsome. They say he can solve anything.”

“Then why hasn’t he found Wyatt?” asked Todd. He immediately apologized. “Sorry to be so blunt. But in this day and age, you’d think anyone could be found.”

“We’ll find him,” I said. “Maybe you can help.”

“We’ll do anything,” said Helena. “That maniac killed my husband and ruined my life.”

“Katrina was a wonderful woman,” said Todd, “even if we couldn’t make the marriage work. She didn’t deserve this.” Todd was also in his forties with even, handsome features, a sandy crew cut, and just enough heft to keep him from being
a middle-aged heartthrob. “If there’s anything I can do to help, Mr. Monk, just ask.”

Monk asked. “What can you tell us about Wyatt Noone?”

“I’m afraid I told you all I know,” said Sarabeth with a helpless sigh.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Monk said, then turned to the visitors. “What did Wyatt tell you about himself? Do you have any pictures of him?”

Todd and Helena traded an embarrassed glance. “We were just talking about that,” said Helena. “I don’t think either of us actually met Wyatt.”

Mr. Noone had been adept at keeping a low profile, so Monk and I had been prepared to be disappointed. Just not this disappointed. “Never met him?” I asked. “He worked with your husband for a year. You never ran into him at a party or when you visited the office?”

“I work a dayshift myself,” said Helena. “The one time I dropped by to see Mel, Wyatt was in his office with the door closed. I didn’t think much about it.”

“How about you?” I asked Todd. “You worked in the same building. He was the company accountant. How could you never meet?”

“I don’t know,” said Todd, looking even more embarrassed. “The third floor is its own little world, totally separate from the warehouse and on a different schedule. Once or twice I may have seen him in passing—in the elevator or in the parking lot. I’m not sure.”