Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mr. Monk Finally Listens

O
ne nice thing about nearly being blown to bits on a Saturday afternoon is that you can take all day Sunday to recover.

Just getting out of bed helped me shake off the dream. I washed my face, made sure I had a nightgown on, and followed my nose out to the kitchen. Julie and Randy were putting the final touches on my favorite pancakes, with perfectly curled strips of bacon for the smiles and slices of strawberries for the eyes. From the crusty mouth to the bloodred eyes, it seemed a remarkable portrait of my current state.

“HOW ARE YOU?” asked Randy.

“Hungry,” I whispered back.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME? NOD IF YOU CAN HEAR ME.”

“Yes, I can hear you. It's much better.”

“YOU'RE NOT NODDING.”

“Sorry.” I nodded, thanked them for the breakfast, and poured myself some coffee. A half hour and three grinning pancakes later, I was almost ready to face the day.

“You going to be okay by yourself?” asked Julie. Just hearing her say that made me feel a hundred percent better. I assured her I was fine and that I would be staying close to
home, a promise made easy since my car was still in the parking lot at Tuscany Pines.

Randy had plans to visit the captain in the hospital, then spend time with the old garage band he'd played with on and off for the past twenty years.

“I miss jamming and being one of the guys,” he said, wiping away the last vestiges of his runny nose. “That's one thing you don't get when you're chief of police. Hanging with your buds. Making jokes. Not being ridiculed month after month for arresting the mayor just once.”

“Randy!”

“I know, I know. I have to stick it out.”

Neither one volunteered to clean up the breakfast mess before leaving, but I didn't mind. It was nice spending a day at home, with just the ringing in my ears for company. I read the paper, focusing on the comics and the horoscope and avoiding the front-page news about the car bomb. I watched two episodes of
Game of Thrones
. I Googled tinnitus, the medical name for ringing of the ears, and grew anxious over the possibility of it never going away. For some people it doesn't.

After my afternoon nap, an old Subaru just like mine pulled up at the curb followed by a patrol car. Officer Joe Nazio came to the door and handed me the keys. I invited him in, but he couldn't stay. “I'm assigned to the forensics bomb squad. We're just cleaning up. Hope to get some of Sunday off.”

“Sure,” I said. “Do you have any leads? Size and placement of the bomb? Triggering mechanism?” I could see him eyeing his watch. “Joe, please. I was there.”

“You're right,” he said.

Joe didn't stay long, maybe five minutes, not that there was much to tell. The device had been magnetically attached under the chassis, not far from the gas tank. It had been equipped with a tilt fuse, which was activated by the vibration of the car starting up. “It depends on your luck,” said Joe. “Sometimes a tilt fuse will detonate when you slam the door, sometimes when you go over your first bump.”

“It doesn't sound very sophisticated,” I said.

“It's not. You can build one by going online. You just have to be careful not to set the fuse before the bomb's in place.”

“So it was set in the parking lot.”

“Absolutely. Just bad luck he didn't get seen.”

Joe promised to keep us in the loop. But, being consultants, we were already part of the loop. “Go home, Joe,” I said. “It's Sunday. Hug your family.”

By the end of my afternoon, I had watched two more episodes of
Game of Thrones
and come to the conclusion that the show needed less female nudity and more dragons. The only other interruption was a call from Daniela Grace. It was around six p.m., right as I was scouring the back of the freezer, trying to decide between two containers of frozen brown leftovers. I sighed. But I knew there would be no better time to take the call.

“Daniela, hi. Sorry to be calling so late on a Sunday.”

“You're not calling me. I'm calling . . . Oh, I get it. Humor.”

“I should have tracked you down before leaving your office. My fault. No excuse. We interviewed everyone who had
access to the IPO information and we came up blank, I'm afraid. But we're still working. We haven't given up.”

“Natalie, I'm not an idiot. I watch the news. It seems you two had plenty of time to attend a wedding reception.”

“Wedding? That was a murder case. We were almost blown up.”

“You don't have to shout, dear.”

“I'm sorry. I'm just getting over temporary deafness—you know, from almost getting blown up.”

“Still shouting.”

“That was for emphasis. Daniela, I'll talk with Adrian first thing tomorrow and give you a call. I promise. I know you're on a deadline and there's still a leak. We'll do our best.” Somehow I managed to say good-bye and hang up.

That night I got to bed right after the news—not the eleven o'clock news, the six-thirty news. The next morning, I was almost back to normal, just a steady little tone in my ears that I could ignore if I hummed the opening notes to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” just the first four words, over and over. It seemed to be in the same key as my hum.

It was early, only a little after nine, when I pulled into the strip mall. I was surprised to see the lights on and a black Lincoln Town Car in my space. Adrian and Luther were there. As I parked beside the Lincoln, I realized that one of them was shouting. “YOU HAVE TO CLEAN BETWEEN THE CRACKS. OTHERWISE DUST WILL BUILD UP AND SPLIT THE WOOD. THAT'S JUST SCIENCE.”

“Huh. I bet that takes like a thousand years,” said a more normally regulated voice.

“STOP YOUR MUMBLING.”

“Adrian?” I walked in to find Monk vigorously polishing the wood surface of his desk. Luther stood beside him in his black chauffeur-style suit. “What's the matter?” I asked.

My partner looked at me. “I'M SHOUTING SO I CAN HEAR MYSELF.”

“ADRIAN, DON'T TALK. WRITE THINGS DOWN.” I went to my desk and got a pencil and a pad.

“ALL NIGHT AND DAY! WHEN IS IT GOING TO STOP?”

“Whatever medication they gave him to calm down, he didn't take,” explained Luther. “He's getting worse.”

“NO PILLS!” Monk informed the surrounding two-block radius.

“OKAY, NO PILLS.” I knew from experience that anxiety can build in situations like this and really affect you. “YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN.” I handed him the pencil and pad. “WE'LL START WITH THE SHOUTING.”

“Excuse me!” It was Peter Gerber, standing in our doorway, backed up by Wendy Gerber. They were both in baggy, tie-dyed T-shirts, and it was hard tell where one ended and the other began, like a herd of hippie zebras on the Serengeti.

“Mr. Monk, I know you complain about our noise, but this is just mean.” Gone was Wendy's sweet, forgiving, live-and-let-live demeanor. “Peter plays very softly. You don't have to retaliate by screaming like Godzilla.” Then she caught sight of Luther. “Oh, you. Clyde or Luther or whatever.”

“Hey there,” said Luther, with the wave of a hand and the hint of a grin. “The poster worked out great. Did exactly what we wanted.”

“We know,” said Wendy.

“Hey, hardly anyone saw it.”

“We saw it,” said Wendy. “It affected Peter's aura for days. It was nearly black.”

Peter bit his lip and shook his head. “Is this shouting another one of your pranks? Does it make you feel good, huh? Bullying a couple of pacifists.”

“I ought to punch you in the nose,” said Wendy, looking like she meant it.

“WHAT DID THEY SAY?”

“ADRIAN, WRITE THINGS DOWN.” I pointed to the pad. “PLEASE.”

“What's wrong with him?” asked Peter.

“It's not on purpose,” I assured them. “Adrian's been through a concussion.”

“Oh.” Wendy blinked, a little embarrassed. “So this isn't some kind of getting even?”

“I don't believe them,” said Peter.

“It's true,” said Luther. “He was right near that car bomb. You must have heard about it.”

“We did hear.” Peter seemed unconvinced, especially since the information was coming from the man who commissioned the hip replacement poster.

“He needs to take his medication,” I added.

“WHAT? MEDITATION?” Monk shouted.

“Meditation?” said Wendy, her face brightening a bit. “We can help with his meditation. We meditate all the time.”

“No,” I said. “No meditation.” I couldn't imagine anything making Monk more nervous than engaging in gratuitous meditation with his hippie neighbors.

“It will relax him,” promised Wendy. “Calming him will go a long way. Look at the poor man's aura. It's reddish purple.”

“They're just going to make fun of us,” said Peter, motioning toward the door. “We should get back to work.”

Wendy smiled sweetly. “There's always time to do a session with someone in need. Natalie, what do you think his weakest chakra is?”

“My guess is they're all equally weak.”

“It doesn't matter. I'll get the mats. Do you guys have incense, or should I bring some back?” She was almost bubbly again.

Wendy was just heading out the door when she happened to glance over to my desk, more exactly the wall above my desk. It was one of those chance things, a glance out of the corner of her eye. But it was enough to stop her in her tracks. “Who is that?” She was pointing to the bleary security photo of Sue Puskedra O'Brien that I'd re-taped behind my monitor.

“I don't know who it is,” I said. “Do you?”

“You don't know? You put up her picture.” It sounded almost like an accusation. Peter joined her, both of them tiptoeing up to the image, as if it were about to bite them—or disappear.

“This just beats all,” said Peter. “You guys have no shame.”

“Do you know her?” I asked. “She told me her name was Sue or Suzanne.”

“Go ask your prankster friends,” said Peter, pointing an accusing finger at Monk and Luther. “They'll tell you all about Sue—or Marjorie—or whatever else she calls herself.”

“Adrian?” The Gerbers looked so offended, it was hard to doubt them. “Is this true? Do you know her?”

“WHAT?” Monk replied.

“Know who?” Luther asked. He joined the tie-dyed couple at my desk. “Crappy picture. But I've never seen her.”

“She wasn't part of your prank?” asked Wendy.

“What prank? Mr. Monk and I only did one, which was pretty funny and awesome if you ask me.”

“Did you ever meet this woman?” I asked. “Wendy, this is important.”

Wendy rolled her eyes but gave me the benefit of the doubt. “Okay. She came in last Thursday. Marjorie Mapplethorpe. I should have known by the fake name. Made us drop everything with some sad story about her little consignment shop and how desperate she was for business. We wasted an hour with her on a four-color newspaper ad. She never paid and she never picked up the file.”

“A sweet prank,” said Peter. “Just like your others. We tried tracking down Marjorie Mapplethorpe, but her e-mail was fake. Her phone number was fake.”

“No such person exists,” I guessed.

“Oh, she exists,” said Peter. “You have her picture on your wall.”

“No, honestly,” I pleaded. “I got that from Al's security camera at the pawnshop. This woman did the same with me—walked in with a phony job and didn't pay.”

Peter huffed, unconvinced. “Why would she do that?”

“We don't know. I grant you, she did exactly what Luther and Adrian did. But they have no connection to this woman, I promise.”

“You'll forgive us if we don't believe you,” said Peter, and he led his wife out the door.

I waited until they were safely in their own space, out of earshot. “Luther, please tell me you don't know her.”

“I said I didn't. Man, this is some world when you don't trust your friends.” Before I could apologize—not that I was going to, but before I could—Luther was checking his watch and walking out the door. “I got real customers and a real business to run. You guys have fun.” Monk and I watched him drive off.

“YOU KNOW I DIDN'T HEAR ANYTHING, RIGHT?”

“ADRIAN, SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN.”

“Yeah, shut up,” came Peter's voice through the thin wall. He pounded it twice for emphasis.

Without another word, I managed to get Monk into his chair and wheeled it over to my desk. I adjusted the monitor so we both could see, created a Word document, and set the font size to fourteen, nice and large. Just for emphasis, I pressed a finger to my lips—shh—sat down, and started typing.

I could feel Monk wincing at every little typo, but that didn't stop me, or make me go back and self-correct. I just went with the flow and wrote down everything that had happened in the past five minutes, along with my own little opinions.