Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (12 page)

“Oh, for Pete's sake.” That was the extent of Stottlemeyer's protest. Police etiquette dictates you don't make a fuss when your safety is in someone else's hands. It's their business to keep you alive.

I crossed the street to my Subaru while the others retraced their steps back through the house. Before pulling out, I checked my mirrors. The SUV was still there.

After a few one-way streets, I found the narrow alley. It was also one-way, out of necessity, just wide enough for the
household garbage cans and their weekly pickup. Halfway down the block I could see the captain, his lieutenant, and the Summit police chief stepping sheepishly out of the back gate. They began to walk my way as I drove slowly theirs. With any luck, they could get in without dinging my doors against a gate or a wall or a can. At some point I was going to have to bite the bullet and get all my current dings buffed out, just out of pride. Or I was going to have to sell the car, which might be easier and cheaper. These were the thoughts going through my head when I saw the stocky figure walk out into the lane behind them, in a black ski mask.

Before the figure even raised his gun, I honked my horn. Loud and long. I don't know if this was good or bad, if it wound up saving a life or making things worse. All three officers turned to face the intruder. Monk looked back and forth.

The first shot went wide, ricocheting off the aluminum siding of a house that had been built back to the property line. The second shot hit Captain Stottlemeyer in the left shoulder as he instinctively reached up for a shoulder holster that wasn't there. He reeled back and slammed to the ground. Randy and A.J. grabbed for their own sidearms. Meanwhile, I threw the stick into park and scrambled for my tote on the front passenger seat.

The assailant got off one more. The narrow alley made it seem like shooting fish in a barrel. But this one also went wide, pinging off a cement wall before lodging into A.J.'s upper right leg. Only a miracle or incredibly bad aim was preventing this from being a bloodbath.

It was Randy who got off the first response, dropping to
one knee and firing into the sunlight. In his defense, it wasn't crucial that he hit his target. It was crucial that he respond quickly. The round from his Smith & Wesson spat into the ground at the shooter's feet, and that was enough. The man in the mask stepped back, took half a second, and retreated in a run to the end of the alley and around the corner.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mr. Monk and Chicken Potpie Night

I
didn't think about the oversized, dark SUV for a while.

Two-fifths of our team was on the ground, spurting blood. That left Randy and me to get on our phones to 911 and try to stabilize the scene. At some point, Rebecca Thurman came out of the house to join us, although I couldn't have blamed her if she'd stayed inside and bolted the doors. Her face went white as she saw the red stain seeping through my jacket, which I wasn't wearing at the time. I had folded it into quarters, pressed it to the hole in A.J.'s thigh, and kissed it good-bye. I needed an excuse to go jacket shopping anyway.

“He'll be fine,” I assured her. “They'll both be fine.”

The first time Monk and I looked for the SUV was after the ambulances had pulled away. It was where we'd last seen it—at the curb, past the stop sign, idling and empty and unlocked. It was, to be more precise, a Cadillac Escalade of a newish vintage. I took a Kleenex from my tote and opened the door.

Monk edged past me to bend inside and look. The speed of his deduction must have set a record. In less than ten seconds, he pulled his head out and straightened to his full
height. “Stolen,” he announced. “This morning on Bay Street, a block or two west of Ghirardelli Square. Between ten a.m. and noon. I could probably describe the victim if I looked around, but that's not the point. The point is it was stolen this morning by someone who knew what he was doing, for the purpose of attacking the captain. This person willingly left the car behind, meaning we're not going to find prints.”

Every time he does this, I swear I'm not going to let it get to me. How was he sure the SUV was stolen? And how, in ten seconds, could he pinpoint the exact location and time? “Okay, I give up.”

“Give up what?” He looked genuinely perplexed. “Oh, you mean . . . Natalie, please. The rightful owners are neat, methodical people. There's no litter, no crumbs. The leather is maintained regularly. I'd say once a week. Compared to your car . . .”

“Yes, Adrian, I get that. Great car, great people. I'm a slob. But . . .”

“That should tell you everything.”

“Including it was stolen from Bay Street between ten and noon this morning?”

Monk sighed and pointed to a single square of white paper with black printing, centered on the dashboard in plain sight. I leaned over the hood, read it, and felt pretty foolish. “A pay and display parking receipt.”

“And since we accept that the owner would never leave a piece of trash on the dashboard, we can conclude that the car was stolen and this receipt was still in use at the time of the theft.”

Sure enough, it was there in black-and-white—the parking area, the time the ticket was printed, and the expected duration of their stay. Sometimes brilliance can be incredibly simple.

“So,” I said, moving on to the next mystery, “what was the shooter's plan A? Hit-and-run? A drive-by shooting?”

“What do you think I am, a psychic?”

“Sorry.”

“I'm leaning toward a shooting, since he brought a weapon. All we know is that he was a quick thinker and had cased the neighborhood beforehand. As soon as he saw us going back inside the house, he adjusted his plan. Afterward, he abandoned the car, just in case we'd left someone out front. Very admirable.” Monk rolled his shoulders. “Except that he left the car running, which is environmentally wasteful. And he shot two police officers.”

Reaching in with a fresh Kleenex, I switched off the ignition.

•   •   •

On this visit to San Francisco General, we found Captain Stottlemeyer sharing a room with the lieutenant. It made sense since their injuries were similar and it beat sharing with someone random. Both wounds—the one to the captain's left shoulder and to the lieutenant's right leg—were through-and-through, cop-speak for when a bullet passes through, leaving an entry and an exit wound. It sounds messy, but sometimes it can be good. In this case, the nine-millimeter rounds had passed through the fleshy parts and not caused any real damage, just a lot of blood and pain.
Both men had undergone transfusions and were admitted for overnight observation. Any further attempt on the captain would have to go through the armed guard at the door plus the guy in the next bed—plus Trudy Stottlemeyer, who had camped out again at Leland's bedside.

“Are you going to take this seriously now?” she asked. She was talking to all of us. “Whoever's out to get you is smart and determined.”

“What do you want me to do?” said the captain. “Hide in a hole? I'm staying as safe as I can. Meanwhile, I have the best detectives I know trying to find him—her—them.”

“We're on the case,” said A.J. from his bed. “Forensic units are working overtime on the alley and the stolen car.”

“I'm sorry, honey.” She squeezed the hand connected to her husband's good shoulder. “I'm not scolding. I just get scared.”

Today had been a full day, from the discovery of Jasper Coleman's seven-year-old murder weapon to our time in the emergency room. Rebecca Thurman had come by, looking overwhelmed and feeling guilty about having to leave Arnold Senior.

“Go home,” A.J. told his sister. “It's more important to take care of Dad. How's he doing?”

“He has maybe a few days.” It seemed a cold way of phrasing it, but of course, I'd never been through that nightmare. Who was I to judge?

Officer Joe Nazio also dropped by. He felt even guiltier than Rebecca. “I should have been there,” he moaned. “But the lieutenant said you had everything under control.”

I tried to console him. “We had more than enough officers. One more wouldn't have changed anything.”

On the way back to the Teeger residence, the three of us made a pit stop at Whole Foods and picked up the makings for chicken potpie. It was Tuesday, chicken potpie night, as Adrian had reminded me more than once. This wasn't as sacred a ritual as it had been in the bad old days. But, all things being equal, why would we mess with chicken potpie night? We're not savages.

It was nice having Randy and Monk hovering over me in the kitchen and making suggestions. As usual, I neglected to slice my carrots to exactly equal widths and lengths, thus endangering the traditional family recipe, handed down for one generation by Adrian's mother. Randy was accused of miscounting the frozen peas and had to start over four times. Also, there was the familiar argument about pearl onions versus regular onions. A decade ago, on my very first chicken potpie night, I found the experience maddening and swore never to go through it again. By now it was therapeutic.

“So, what makes a hundred peas taste better than a hundred and one?” Randy was suppressing a sly smile.

“Are you kidding me?” said Monk. “A hundred and one is anarchy.”

“Can you really taste the difference?”

“Taste. Smell. Feel the weight.”

“He's exaggerating a little,” I warned. “But please don't test him. I'm hungry and we still have thirty-five minutes of cooking time.”

“This is kind of like ‘The Princess and the Pea,'” said
Randy. “You know, where there's a pea under a hundred mattresses and she feels it.”

“That's not a fairy tale; that's a nightmare,” said Monk. “Who would do that to a princess? When my mother told me that story, I couldn't sleep for a week.”

“Thirty-five minutes,” I reminded them. “Let's get this assembly line rolling.”

“I demand another recount of the peas!”

With the ingredients finally counted and measured, with the individual pies weighed on a scale and slipped into the preheated oven, we set the timer and settled into the living room with two glasses of Chardonnay and one bottle of Fiji Water.

“Like old times,” said Monk, savoring the nonflavor of H
₂
O pumped from a pristine rain forest aquifer and then transported thousands of miles, probably on some filthy freighter. Fiji Water is the only thing Monk ever drinks. “I think everything should be like old times, don't you?”

“Don't get used to it,” said Randy. “I only have two weeks of vacation saved up, and Sharona wants me to save some days for a trip to Bermuda.”

“You know you don't have to go back. Natalie has a spare bedroom.”

“I know. I'm using it.”

“I think she's willing to rent it out long-term.”

“He has to go back,” I piped up. “Randy has a life—and people depending on him.”

“He has a life here, too,” said Monk. “And the captain needs him.”

“I don't know if he needs me or not,” said Randy. “Lieutenant A.J. took a bullet. I didn't take a bullet.” He said it with real regret. “The guy didn't even aim at me. If I had any impact at all seven years ago, you'd think someone would want me dead.”

“Life isn't fair,” I pointed out.

“I know you're joking, Natalie. But people want to make an impact. When I arrested Mayor Cates, I made an impact. No one tried to kill me, but they threatened to.”

“They did threaten him,” Monk confirmed. “I was there in Summit and it wasn't pretty. Why would he want to stay?”

“To prove himself,” I said.

“Randy doesn't need to prove himself. Remember the saying? You can run away from your problems.”

“No,” I said. “The saying is ‘You can't run away from your problems.'”

“Can't? No, I don't think so.”

“I think Natalie's right,” said Randy.

“No, she's not,” insisted Monk. “My dad used to say it all the time. You can run away from all your problems.”

“Right,” I said. “That advice came from the man who went out for Chinese food one night and never returned. Is that how you want Randy to wind up?”

“Hey, hey.” Randy shook his head. “You guys can argue as much as you want. The captain has a lieutenant and I have a job. Matter settled.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “So back to business.” I took another sip of my Chardonnay, followed by a deep breath. “Tomorrow we get to work on the boy burglars.”

“What if it's not them?” asked Randy.

“Then we'll have to develop new leads,” I said.

“We just need to connect Judge Oberlin and the captain,” said Monk. “The murders might not even be related to an old case.”

“What about the note?” asked Randy. “The note said they stole seven years of someone's life. Why would the killer lie about that?”

“Why would he lie?” asked Monk. It was a rhetorical question but he answered it. “Because killers lie, Randy. They don't just kill, they lie. That's what makes them so treacherous.”

“I suppose that's true.”

“Monk's right,” I said. “All we know for sure is someone murdered the judge and tried to kill Leland with the same umbrella method. And he, she, or they still want Leland dead.”

“Everything else is a variable,” said Monk. “The boy burglars are our best bet, but it's just a bet.”

“Whoever it is, we'll get him,” said Randy. His eyes focused on the timer sitting on the coffee table. “Twenty-four minutes until potpies. If you don't mind, I'm going to call Sharona. It's three hours' difference, so I don't want to be too late. I'll call from my room.”

Monk waited until Randy walked out and Julie's bedroom door was closed. Monk grinned. “His room? Did you hear that? That's a good sign.” I raised my hand and he flinched. “Ouch.”

“I didn't touch you.”

“You were going to punch me on the shoulder. I still felt the pain.”

“Life is not going back the way it was, Adrian, so stop trying to manipulate things. You're not very good at it.”

“I'm pretty good.”

“And just because life used to be a certain way doesn't mean it was perfect. For instance, why do you like chicken potpie?”

“Chicken potpie? Are you disrespecting the potpie? What's not to like?”

“Well, let's see.” I ticked them off one by one. “All the meat and vegetables are mixed together, which you hate. It's got milk, which you're phobic about. And it bubbles over the edge of the pan, which drives you crazy. And yet we make chicken potpie almost once a week.”

“On a good week. We're getting a little lax. I've been meaning to talk to you.”

“So why do you like it?”

“It's not that I like it.” He set down his Fiji Water and thought seriously. “It's traditional.”

“Like meat loaf—another recipe with milk and meat and vegetables squished together.”

“My mother used to make them all the time.”

“You know, just because the past was a certain way doesn't make it good.”

“The past is comforting, Natalie. It's comforting because we survived it. The past also happened when we were younger and that's good, too. To be honest, Mother was a mediocre cook. She had to force us to eat that stuff. But Ambrose re-created the recipes. I have an extra copy in my safety-deposit box.”