Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (17 page)

Daniela had seen Adrian Monk pull off instant miracles and she needed him to do it again. Monk understood her
predicament. And he didn't care. “We can't do this right now.”

“Yes, you can. That's why I'm paying you.”

“No. We have a murder and two attempted murders. We don't need something with four squares or some disgruntled birds on a phone.”

“We can devote today to your problem,” I said guardedly, my eyes focused on Monk in my patented don't-contradict-me stare. “Tomorrow is the weekend. But we can come back on Monday, if we need to.”

“But not tomorrow,” said Monk. “Tomorrow is skull-and-crossbones day.”

Daniela had no idea what that meant, but she was fine. “I suppose I can't force you to work weekends. But if you can wrap this up in the next few hours, that would be perfect.”

“We'll do our best,” I said.

“Then it's settled.” Daniela stood up and straightened her lightweight pink tweed jacket.

Before I knew what was happening, she had escorted us to the cubicle just outside her door. “This is Booker, my paralegal and right hand. Booker knows everything. He'll give you a rundown on the others you need to speak to.”

“Mr. Monk. Ms. Teeger. Daniela has told me so much. I'm a big fan.”

“Don't gush or they'll raise their fee,” said Daniela, only half-joking. Just before she closed her mahogany door, when Booker wasn't looking, she tilted her head in his direction and raised a plucked eyebrow. Message received: Even her right hand was not above suspicion.

Booker Sessums was a short, thin, neatly put-together
black man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and a tie. Mid-twenties was my guess. As I get older I'm finding it harder to estimate age. It's easier to just separate adults into four groups: my daughter's age, younger than me, my age, and older than me. He was my daughter's age, plus.

Booker's work space was large and fairly private for a cubicle. He removed a folder full of files from a chair. Monk didn't look like he wanted to sit, so I did. “I'll help as much as I can,” said the paralegal. “We're pretty slammed, but I know it's important.”

“We'll try to make this quick,” I promised. “How many people are on the JAS team?”

“Before the last leak there were seven. Now there are four, including Daniela and me.”

“Only four,” I said for Adrian's benefit. “That shouldn't be too hard.”

Booker sat down and reached over to his keyboard. A machine out in the corridor began to whir. “I'm printing out their vitals from the personnel files. If there's anything else . . .”

“We'll need to meet with each one.”

“I can take you by their offices,” said Booker. “Whenever you want.”

I lowered my voice and leaned in. “What can you tell us about Daniela? Is she a good boss?”

Normally I wouldn't consider Daniela a suspect. She was the one who had hired us, and the one with the most to lose. On the other hand, she did once try to murder someone, so nothing was off the table.

“She's great,” Booker said without hesitation. “Honest, straightforward, funny at times. A good boss.”

“Then why are you quitting?” Monk had wandered his way around the cubicle and was now on Booker's other side, flanking him.

“Quitting?” Booker looked stunned, but he didn't deny it.

“The other men came to work in a sport coat or blazer. You came in a suit, a new one.” Monk pointed to a jacket on a hook. “The breast pocket is still sewn up. Your shoes are freshly shined. Obviously, you're going somewhere important. During lunch, because you keep checking your watch.”

“That doesn't mean . . .”

“I'm not through,” said Monk.

“Booker.” I smiled sympathetically. “It's less painful if you don't interrupt him.”

Monk pointed to the man's trash can and continued. “There's a crumpled-up invitation to a baby shower. It's obviously work-related, since it was sent to the office. You threw away the RSVP notice along with the invitation, so it seems like you're ready to burn some bridges. I don't blame you. Baby showers!”

“That doesn't mean . . .”

“I'm not through.”

“Less painful,” I repeated.

“You used to have things on your wall, but the empty picture hooks show you've been removing them. Also, you're an organized worker with a file cabinet, but there was a folder on Natalie's chair. When you moved it, you placed it facedown on the other side of your space. Personal files to take home, I hope? Not business ones?”

“Yes. Personal,” said Booker. He looked defeated.

“I'm not through.”

“Mr. Monk, please,” Booker Sessums whispered. “I am leaving the firm. I'm having lunch with my new boss today and leaving as soon as this leak situation is solved.”

“No two-week notice?” I asked.

“With Daniela Grace, there's no grace period. You quit and you're out.”

“And why are you leaving?” I asked.

“He's going to law school at night.”

“Adrian, let him tell his story.”

“It's faster my way.”

“Just try to be polite.”

“He's right,” Booker admitted. His voice was so low I almost had to read his lips. “I'm in law school. My new place promised to accommodate my schedule. Daniela is a lot of great things, but accommodating isn't one of them.”

“This place you're going,” Monk said. “Do they represent any of the competing IPOs?”

“They do not. It's family law. Less pressure and more meaningful. I'll give you their contact information, but you have to promise to be discreet.”

I made the promise, even though I was sure Monk could have figured out the firm's name, given another minute of glancing around. Booker had just handed me his future boss' card when my tote began to vibrate. I excused myself, went out to the hallway, and answered.

“Nat, girl?”

“The name is Natalie. What is it, A.J.?”

“The name's Lieutenant. We did your garbage search.
Two unhappy patrolmen scouring through six bags. I tell you, everybody's got a Monk story.”

I should have known he'd get someone else to do the dirty work. “You separated the family garbage from the boys?”

“It was pretty obvious. Whole Foods versus Domino's Pizza.”

“And?”

“Here's the highlights reel. Empty box of nine-millimeter rounds. Empty box of forty-five caliber rounds. Each one a hundred-round value pack.”

“So they have two guns?”

“Two illegals, at least. But the boxes aren't enough for a search warrant. I checked. Neither are the tags and receipts of two cartridge belts. We also have tags and receipts for four duffel bags. Camouflage colored from the looks of it.”

“No ski masks?” I was remembering the attack in the alley behind the Thurman house.

“If they bought ski masks, it was probably at some earlier date.”

“Right,” I said. “Looks like skull-and-crossbones Saturday will be eventful.”

“I wish we could go in and arrest them now. It seems like probable cause. But there's no law against buying ammo or cartridge belts or circling dates on your calendar.”

“I know.” For once, A.J. and I were in agreement. “Let me put Adrian on.”

While Adrian was on with the lieutenant, getting whatever other details he could out of the garbage team, Booker
retrieved the personnel records from the printer and pointed me in the direction of the last two leakster suspects. Compared with what the blond Nazis were planning in the basement, this seemed like such small potatoes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mr. Monk and the Stakeout

T
he day didn't end with a breakthrough. Our defecting paralegal answered a few more questions, then donned his suit jacket and sneaked out for lunch with his new boss. We commandeered his cubicle for our own lunch of Spam sandwiches, washed down with mini bottles of Fiji Water and topped off with individually wrapped oatmeal cookies.

Adrian and I stayed for another two hours, interviewing the head of the firm's finance department and a fourth-year associate who had yet to be named a partner, even though she'd been promised it. They seemed like reasonable suspects to me, both of them nervous and overworked and seemingly frustrated by the unstoppable leak.

“I don't see how it could be anyone at GWW,” said the fourth-year associate. “It damages the firm. And even if I did it and had another job lined up, it would be doomed. No one likes a spy.”

“And yet there is a spy,” I pointed out. I looked to Monk to say something clever or point out that the associate raised carrier pigeons that could sneak secrets out of the high-rise window. But he seemed to be losing interest. We wound up sneaking out of the wood-paneled confines of Grace,
Winters, and Weingart without checking in with Daniela or saying good-bye.

“What do I say when she calls?” I asked.

“Tell her sometimes the magic works. Sometimes it doesn't.”

“I can't tell her . . . Wait. Are you quoting something? From a movie or a book? It's not like you to quote things.”

“I'm quoting Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, who might have been quoting a movie or a book. I don't know which one. If it's important, you can call him up.”

“It's not important. I was just surprised.”

“Well, you can tell Ms. Grace that I can't create evidence like magic. Sorry to disappoint.”

Daniela Grace called twice that evening. Both times I let her go to voice mail and didn't listen to the messages. I went to bed early and tried to put skull-and-crossbones Saturday out of my mind. But even when I managed this feat, there were other thoughts right behind it: Daniela's unanswered call, disappearing Sue, and the hacking cough coming from the guest room all night. Several times that night I woke up to hear Randy shuffling through to the kitchen. The light scent of chamomile tea should have been soothing to me, but it wasn't.

The next morning, before leaving the house, I knocked on his door and poked my head in. “Are you surviving? Is there anything I can get you?”

The Summit police chief looked like a little boy, dressed in blue pajamas, with the covers almost pulled up to his neck. The bed was littered with used tissues, but he reached out and made an effort—a noble, painful effort—to clear a spot
for me. I chose the chair by Julie's old homework desk and wheeled it over to within five feet. No closer.

“I feel so horrible,” Randy rasped.

“I have some NyQuil,” I offered. “It may be a few years old.”

“Not about the cold. Not just about the cold. I feel horrible about coming all this way and taking over your house like a hospital ward.”

“It's not your fault. It was so generous of you to drop everything and try to help.”

“Some help I turned out to be.” Throughout a lifetime of treating colds and flu attacks, I've learned that one of the most common symptoms is a bout or two of self-pity. I don't mean to belittle it. This is a real symptom and needs to be treated like any other.

“You're a big help,” I replied. “Your journal brought up some details no one remembered. And the captain. Did you see the way he lit up when you walked in? Oh, and then there was the gunfight in the alley. You were the only one on our team who got off a shot.”

Randy thought this over and sniffled. “Maybe. But it just reminded me of the old days, when you and Monk and the captain did the important stuff and I was just along for the ride.”

“Randy, you were never along for the ride.” That didn't come out right. “You know.”

“I do. It was always Randy and his stupid theories.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Remember when I suggested that Dale the Whale committed murder by using liposuction to get rid of six hundred
pounds of fat, then had reverse liposuction to put all the weight back on and fool us? The whole department was laughing.”

“That was before my time,” I said. “But I heard the story.”

“Exactly. Everyone heard the story. If I ever came back, it would be the same thing.”

“Randy, that was a long time ago. You're smarter now. You're a police chief.”

“I still make mistakes.”

“So what's the answer?” I asked. “I say go back to New Jersey and make mistakes on your own.”

He considered my advice. “I guess the grass is always greener, huh? When I was here, I always wanted to be the guy in charge. Then I got to be the guy in charge and I felt lost. I missed being part of a team. Then I showed up here and I'm suddenly a third wheel.”

“I think you mean fifth wheel.”

“Fifth wheel?” Randy coughed phlegm into another tissue. I rolled back my chair another two feet. “Isn't this a bicycle comparison? Two wheels versus a useless third wheel?”

“No, I think it's a car analogy,” I said. “Four wheels versus a useless fifth wheel.”

“Hm.” He gave it some thought. “What if you're referring to a couple? That's only two. You'd be the third wheel, right?”

“You're right,” I had to agree. “When you're talking about a couple, then it's a third wheel. I think I've heard it used both ways.”

“Of course, in reality there are three of you guys and I'm the useless fourth. So maybe we should make it a tricycle
analogy. I'm the fourth wheel—of a tricycle.” He sighed. “All I know is I should go home.”

“Not until the captain's safe and you're over your cold. Now, how about that NyQuil?”

I spoon-fed the police chief a full dose of the green liquid, tucked him in bed, and still kept to my schedule.

A stakeout team had been on-site at the urban château through Friday night into Saturday morning. At ten a.m., the “A” team would take over.

When Monk and I arrived, A.J. was already there, his Honda Accord having just replaced an unmarked patrol car. A.J. saw us driving up, held up his phone for us to see, and pressed a speed dial button. I don't know why but I was flattered to realize I was on his speed dial.

“Morning, sunshine,” he quipped. “You guys park on the next block. We already have a two-vehicle presence.” I could see him point around the corner of the big corner lot.

“Then we'll relieve the second vehicle,” I said.

“Already done. The new second vehicle just got here.” There was a certain lightness to A.J.'s voice that made me nervous. I shifted into park and turned my head to spy a familiar brown Buick sedan.

“No. What the hell is he doing here?”

I didn't wait for an answer. I hung up, drove right past the dusty Honda, and made the next three left turns. I double-parked beside the brown Buick and rolled down my passenger window. The captain's window was already down.

I leaned over to speak, but Monk said it for me. “If Natalie were an assassin, you'd be dead by now.”

“From the look of her, I'd say she wants me dead anyway.”
Stottlemeyer's arm was still Velcroed to his body, but he was grinning like a schoolboy.

“Captain,” I shouted. “We're doing this to protect you. And you purposely put yourself in danger?”

“We're doing this to catch Judge Oberlin's killer,” Stottlemeyer countered. “Every officer puts himself on the line every day. The average bad guy would shoot through any of us to get away. From the way I see it, this is no different.”

“What about your shoulder?”

“My doctor came by and cleared me last night. It's like A.J. told me. . . .”

“A.J. talked you into this?” I asked, shaking my head. “I should have known.”

“Hey. No one has to talk me into doing my job. Besides, as A.J. pointed out, if these boys are after me today, it's a lot safer to be behind them than in their sights.”

“What about your wife?” I asked. “Where is she?”

“Trudy's staying with her sister in Santa Cruz. She left last night.”

Our debate was interrupted by the communicator on the captain's uninjured shoulder. It buzzed and Lieutenant Thurman's voice crackled. “We've got the elder Willmotts leaving the house. Does the wizard of odd want to give them a glance?”

“Does he mean me?” Monk asked.

“He means you,” I said.

Monk and I had to scramble out of the Subaru to get a better view. From a spot behind a hundred-year-old maple, we could see the trunk of a black Lexus pop open. Ben and Olivia worked together to clear a space for a large shopping
bag. Ben was in a black suit, Olivia in a dress of flowery, tasteful pastels, knee-length, with a small white hat perched on her head. They reminded me of my parents heading out for a weekend brunch at the country club.

No one even suggested following them. In fact we felt relieved that they were out of the picture. We settled into our three vehicles—the Honda across the street, the Buick around the corner, the old Subaru farther down the block—and wasted the next few hours getting on one another's nerves.

“Wizard of odd,” Monk mumbled under his breath. He was in the passenger seat, belted in. I was kneeling down on the sidewalk by his window, eating a Fig Newton. Monk doesn't allow eating in my car.

“Let it go, Adrian,” I mumbled between bites. “Sure, he's obnoxious and mean. But I think everyone realizes that. In some ways, A.J. is his own worst enemy.”

“Not as long as I'm alive.”

“Well, get used to him. Arny Senior and Leland have this bond. When Arny dies, it's only going to get stronger. You know how loyal the captain is.”

“What if something unexpected happens to A.J.? You know, like a bomb. Or he gets pushed off a cliff. Accidentally.”

“Really? You?” I had to laugh. “You could never kill anyone. First off, you're not the type. Second, I know you. You'd confess within five minutes. Even if you didn't confess, you could never get away with murder.”

“What do you mean? I'm an expert in killing. I have lists
of every possible way to die. I have a hundred locked-room murder methods that look like suicide.”

“So you're constantly thinking how to kill people?”

“I'm a dangerous man, Natalie. I review and update the lists once a month.”

“Update? Why do they need updating?”

Monk sighed. “It's the bane of technology. I had a perfect murder method using a Western Union telegram, another using Morse code. Both of those had to be eliminated. I have six that involve pay phones, which are dangerously close to extinction. On the plus side, I do have two new ones that didn't exist before Candy Crush. That's a mobile game people play on their phones.”

“I know what Candy Crush is. I'm just surprised you do.”

“A possibly lethal application like that? I'd be remiss in my duty to humanity.”

“Okay, I'll bite. How do you kill someone using Candy Crush?”

There was just the hint of a crinkle around his eyes. “If I told you, I'd have to kill you—with Candy Crush, just to make sure it worked.”

“You're all talk, Adrian.”

“I know.” And the smiling hint disappeared. “Meanwhile, our careers are ruined.”

“Not ruined, just changed. Change is good.”

“How is it good? Give me one example.”

“Okay, change is not always good. But it's inevitable. We'll do fewer cases with the police and more civilian cases, like the one for Daniela.”

Monk scowled with disapproval. “Trying to patch a leak. That's not why I became a detective.”

“It may not be as exciting as murder. But there's millions of dollars at stake and her company's reputation.” My phone rang and in one fluid motion, I stashed the remaining Fig Newtons in my tote and pulled out the phone. “Finally, some action!”

I checked the display, sighed, and pressed “ignore.” “Was that Exciting Daniela?” Monk guessed.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Her fourth call and, unless you've solved her case, I don't want to talk about it.”

The phone rang again and I almost pressed “ignore” again. But this time it was Lieutenant Thurman. “They're on the move,” he said. “Dressed in black. One backpack. Four duffel bags that look empty. Don't seem to be in a rush. You got the plate number?”

“The old Volvo? Sure.” The boys were in the habit of driving a forest green Volvo SUV, decorated in dings and rust, at least a dozen years old, undoubtedly lent by one of their begrudging families. A fresh bumper sticker sported a skull with tiny swastikas in the eye sockets. Colin was behind the wheel.

Tailing the Willmott cousins wound up being like a weird, secret parade. They were in the lead, of course, followed by the Honda a block behind, the Buick in point position two blocks back, and my Subaru on a parallel street. Things became more organized once we hit the 101 heading south. The neo-Nazi cousins engaged in no evasive action. They didn't even break the speed limit.