Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (19 page)

“Oh.” She was taken aback. “That wasn't necessary.”

“It's our pleasure.”

“But you don't even know them. I'm sure they'd love to meet you. Why don't I introduce you?”

“No, we don't have time. Is there a space for wedding gifts? We'll just add it to the pile.”

“Uh, yes.” She pointed toward the double doors. “I believe if you go out, there's a room across the hall. Be sure to leave a card mentioning the gift and your names. We'll try our best to get Monica to write real thank-you notes. But you know kids.”

“I do. When my daughter gets married, knock wood, I'll
be lucky if she doesn't send out a mass e-mail. ‘Dear everyone, thanks a bunch.' Or worse, set up a Twitter feed where everyone can comment on the other people's gifts.”

Olivia chuckled, and I wondered whether it had crossed her mind that she might not ever have this moment, seeing her only child get married with a hundred loved ones toasting the young couple's future. “Are you sure you don't want me to introduce you?” she asked. “They're really a lovely couple.”

“No, we have to go. We'll just drop off the gift.”

“I think the room is locked. Why don't I get my husband to get a guard or an usher—”

“No need to disturb him,” I said quickly. “We'll ask a guard ourselves.”

As I walked away, I could feel Olivia's eyes following me. Monk and the captain were waiting impatiently by the door, but I refused to look hurried. “Across the hall,” I whispered. I was going to warn Adrian not to wave to Olivia or draw attention to himself. But he'd never do that in the first place.

The room across the hallway had probably been built for this purpose, to discreetly hold the wedding booty. In a way, it was comforting to see that the old traditions had not been completely replaced by gift registries and e-commerce and UPS delivery.

There was no sound, not a peep, coming through the thick single door. The captain pulled his ear away and inspected the sturdiness. It was a traditional lock and key system, in keeping with the old-world pretense of the Tuscany Pines. “I could probably take my shoulder to it,” he whispered, shrugging his sling. “Under normal circumstances.”

“Why don't I get a guard with a key?” I whispered.

“It's not locked,” Monk whispered. He motioned us all down to the lock level and he pointed out the signs. “Someone used a set of picks. Amateur job. You can see the scratches.”

“That doesn't mean it's unlocked now,” I whispered back.

“Dead bolt.” Monk mouthed the word. And sure enough, no dead bolt was visible in the crack between the door and the doorjamb. From inside the room came a muffled sound, like something falling over. “The idiots didn't even relock it.”

The captain and I drew our weapons. “Odds are it's just a robbery,” he reminded us. “Nobody be a hero.” And we stood to the side—the captain to the left, me to the right—as Adrian turned the knob and threw open the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Monk and the Money Tree

O
ur first sight was of the young neo-Nazis, all in black, rolling on the parquet floor. They were snatching bills off a fallen tree made out of wire—twenty-dollar bills, one-hundred-dollar bills—and laughing under their breath like kids. I won't say it was the strangest sight ever, but it's not something you see every day.

Much later, when I had time to think and Google a few things, I would realize that this was a money tree, an old Sicilian tradition in which wedding guests pin money to a tree symbolizing good fortune. It might seem tacky, but I suppose it's no different from slipping the groom a check in a plain white envelope, or buying the couple a house in Pacific Heights.

The rest of the room reminded me of Christmas morning, a Christmas morning where two home invaders got there first, tore open most of the smaller, easier-to-carry presents, and stuffed them into four camouflage duffel bags.

As soon as Colin and Marshal saw us, they froze. Then they dropped the bills and rolled sideways toward the open backpack on the floor. “Police,” barked the captain. “Hands up. Stand up. Now.”

“You heard him,” I added in my toughest voice. My Glock was trained on Marshal; Stottlemeyer's Beretta on Colin. I only knew which was which because of the tattoos.

The young men stopped rolling five feet away from the backpack and the handguns inside it. “Stand up,” the captain reminded them. “Hands behind your heads.”

They did as they were told, not saying a word, just glaring. With their arms up and their fingers laced, the scars, the fresh red lacerations on their necks and arms, almost glowed. Monk closed the door behind us and refused to look their way.

Colin was the first to speak, his eyes boring into the captain's. “You're the scumbag who arrested us. What is this, a damn vendetta? Following us around? What are you, the only cop in town?”

“Sometimes it feels that way,” said Stottlemeyer.

“All because of a couple pieces of silver,” snarled Marshal. “Like a friggin' Judas.”

“Just doing my job.” The captain kept his voice calm and even, but I could see that he was thrown. The last time he'd seen them, they'd been a pair of demented, clean-cut high schoolers with their whole lives in front of them.

“Doing your job, hell,” said Colin. “The other cops were fine. But you had to keep nosing around. And now look. The second we get out of the joint. Unbelievable.”

“It's persecution,” chimed in Marshal.

“You're profiling us because of our political beliefs.”

“Typical Jew-run system.”

“Colin? Son . . . ?”

While we'd all been occupied, the door had opened.
Olivia Willmott stood there in her flowery dress and little white hat. “What are you boys doing?” It was more of a gasp than a question. Olivia closed the door behind her and glanced around, taking in the torn-open boxes and the strewn gift wrapping and the half-naked money tree.

“Mom, get out of here.”

“You're stealing from George's wedding? Your own cousin?”

“Yeah,” said Marshal. “And by the way, thanks for the invite.”

“Who in the world steals wedding gifts?” Olivia went on. “Is that what you learned in prison? What are we going to say to the guests? Did you stop to think of that?” The woman had a lot of questions.

“We're not going to say anything. We'll be in Mexico.”

“It serves them right,” said Colin.

“Really, Colin? What did George ever do to you? What did any of us do? Your father and I devoted our entire lives—”

“Mrs. Willmott. My name is Captain Stottlemeyer, SFPD.” The captain was trying to regain some control of the situation.

“Stottlemeyer?” Olivia seemed to see him for the first time. “Oh, I know who you are. You're the son of a bitch who sent my boy to prison.”

“Mrs. Willmott, I'm going to have to ask you to step back.”

“And Natalie.” Suddenly I felt self-conscious about keeping my weapon out and pointed. “You were a guest in our house. Then you come here and crash a wedding and lie about bringing a wedding gift?”

Monk looked confused. “We brought a wedding gift? We don't even know them.”

“No, Adrian.”

“Did you put my name on the card?”

“Monk!” Stottlemeyer tried again. “Mrs. Willmott, I'm asking you to step to one side. Monk, I've got a couple sets of zip-tie handcuffs in my right jacket pocket. Take them out for me.”

“Can't Natalie do it?”

“Natalie's busy. C'mon, buddy. There's nothing else in the pocket. Not even lint bunnies, I swear. You can do it.” As he was saying this, I actually was busy, moving to the right, positioning myself between the cousins and the open backpack.

“Are they going back to jail?” asked Olivia. Her hand went to her throat. “No, please. They just got out. It's not fair.”

“That's not my call,” said the captain. “Monk? If I had two good arms, I'd do it myself.”

“Was the jacket recently dry-cleaned?” Monk reached a hand toward the captain's right pocket, then drew it back. “It's important that I know.”

“The jacket's clean. We need to get these guys in cuffs.” The captain shifted his footing, still keeping Colin in his sights. “Mrs. Willmott, please. Step back.”

“Colin's not a bad boy.” She was pleading now, inching closer toward her son. “It's all Marshal. He's the one.”

“Aunt Olivia,” protested the nephew skinhead. “That's cold.”

“It's true. Colin's your puppet.”

Colin bristled. “I'm no one's puppet, bitch.”

“Do not talk that way to your mother.” Olivia was within arm's reach now. “You know better.”

“I'm no one's puppet.”

“You tell her.” Marshal's eyes wavered. He was eyeing something on the floor, but in the confusion of gift boxes and wrapping paper, I couldn't see.

“Step away, ma'am.” The captain moved sideways, trying to keep his shot clear. “Monk, the zip ties. Do it now.”

“Okay.” Monk was gearing himself up. “Let me count to three. One, two . . .”

The rest happened in an instant. Stottlemeyer shifted his hands; Monk went for the jacket pocket, squinting and twitching, as if about to stick his hand into a jar of scorpions; I tried to keep my gun trained on Marshal, who was edging away. And Colin took advantage of the moment, grabbing his mother by the arm, pulling her straight into him.

Olivia Willmott screamed, not a loud scream. But it was distraction enough to let Marshal dive for something on the floor, something with a black handle, and toss it up to his cousin. Colin had both arms around his mother, but he managed to catch the black handle in his right hand. He saw what it was and he almost giggled at the sight. In one motion he removed the plastic sheath, tossed it aside, and spun his mother around. She put up next to no resistance.

They were in the typical hostage pose, facing us, the son behind the mother, his one arm draped across her shoulder and his other holding a knife—a good-quality kitchen knife with a long, narrow blade—across her throat. It had happened so quickly, neither the captain nor I could have risked a shot.

“Put down the knife,” said the captain. “This doesn't have to end in jail.”

“That's what you said last time,” said Colin. “How about you put down your guns?”

“Not gonna happen.” Stottlemeyer shot me a quick glance and I knew. Keeping guns away from them would be a high priority. He'd been through this same scenario seven years ago. It had worked that time. He'd managed to talk them down, promising them who-knows-what. Leniency from an understanding judge? But this time . . .

Before Marshal could think of it, I walked over to the backpack and, with my free hand, grabbed it by a strap and slid it across the floor. “No guns for you,” I said, and went back to my two-handed stance, feet spread, knees flexed.

“Sorry, bro,” said Marshal. He retreated behind his cousin, making his aunt the biggest part of the trembling target.

“We're still good,” said Colin, and he adjusted his arm and pressed the knife against his mother's neck. Olivia Willmott took in a quick, sharp breath. “Put down the guns or I kill her. Plain and simple.”

Marshal laughed. “You'd kill your own mother? Bro!”

“Believe me, it would be a pleasure.”

Olivia had the good sense to remain stiff and stoically silent.

“And then what?” asked the captain. “Kill her and you'll be back inside for life. Both of you.”

“He's right,” said Marshal from his place at the back of the pack. “If it was your dad instead, I'd say, ‘Go for it.' If it was my dad, I'd say, ‘Go for it twice.' If it was my mom—”

“Put down your weapons,” Colin said. The captain shook his head. “I'll kill her—I'm serious.” I couldn't imagine what was going through Olivia's mind. “You don't think I'm serious?”

“Colin, I know you're serious,” said the captain. It was Hostage Negotiation 101. Don't provoke the hostage taker. “But it's not going to get you out of here.”

“We'll just see.” There was an emergency exit door behind them and Colin began dragging his mother slowly back. “Don't make me cut her.” For a second he stumbled, then recovered. “Marshal, move your damn feet.”

Marshal was the first at the door. He backed up against the push bar, but there was no alarm, just the door opening and the three Willmotts backing themselves out. The captain followed, with Adrian and me right behind.

Why wasn't Olivia struggling more? Was she in some way a willing hostage, willing to risk serious injury, maybe death in order to help her son escape? And if this was the case, what was our responsibility? Should we rush Colin and Marshal and risk it all? If we were pursuing them on a murder charge, maybe yes. But before they had grabbed Olivia, their only offense had been felony theft of wedding presents. All of this was going through my mind. I'm sure it was going through the captain's.

“Get the car,” Colin ordered his cousin as they backed into the side parking lot of the Tuscany Pines.

“Damn,” muttered Marshal. “Damn it to hell.”

“What?”

“Keys. They're in the backpack.”

“Why'd you leave them in the backpack?”

“You left them in the backpack, bro.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” mumbled Colin, thinking hard. The backpack was still in the room, out of play, behind the emergency exit door.

Every few seconds I would get a clear shot. But there were two of them. And the knife, still at Olivia's throat. And they were just mixed-up kids. And where the hell was Lieutenant A.J.? I looked around. Nowhere in sight. We had left him out here specifically for something unpredictable like this. The moron.

“Okay, Mr. Adrian Monk,” said Colin. “We need your car.”

Monk winced. “Why does everyone have to have a car? I do have a driver's license, but that's because I use it as ID and I don't have to take a test to renew it. If I had to take an actual driver's test . . .”

“Shut up,” shouted Colin. “Okay, you. Captain. Your car keys. And don't tell me you don't drive.”

“You can stop now,” said Stottlemeyer calmly. “You don't have to make things worse.”

“Car keys!” And the young skinhead readjusted the blade. Olivia cried out, a frightened little bleep of pain.

“Okay.” The captain didn't lower his Beretta. “Monk. Left jacket pocket.”

Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of the old Monk, the way he must have been before Trudy's death sent him down the rabbit hole of OCD dysfunction. This was one of those glimpses.

In a stream of deft, self-assured moves, Adrian reached into the captain's jacket, making sure not to endanger the delicate standoff. He pulled out the Buick key chain, held it
high so the Willmott cousins could see, then pressed the unlock button. Just fifty yards across the parking lot was the captain's car, pointed out toward the exit, blinking its lights, ready to go. Adrian pressed again, just so Marshal could pinpoint the vehicle. Then he tossed the key chain in a perfect arc. Marshal stepped out from behind his human shields, catching it without having to stretch his arm.

“C'mon, Mom, let's go,” said Colin. He took a quick glance behind him to his left and let the kitchen knife slack just a few inches off his mother's throat. He stepped back, putting a little air between mother and son. And that was the exact moment A.J. rounded the corner.

I don't know how much of it was dumb luck. My guess is a lot. A.J. had obviously been circling the perimeter of the sprawling facility, checking the exits, dealing with our periodic updates, and wondering why those periodic updates had stopped. He must have heard or seen something from just around the bend, because his attack was quick and a little chaotic.