Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants (37 page)

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Authors: Lee Goldberg

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“Here’s what happened,” Monk said. “Ludlow looked over her shoulder and got her credit card number and, for good measure, stole her credit-card receipt when he signed her book. He used the number to order the alligator jaws and have them sent overnight to her in San Francisco.”
 
 
“Let’s say you’re right about that,” Stottlemeyer said. “How did he know about Natalie and her relationship with the firefighter?”
 
 
“He didn’t,” Monk said.
 
 
“He didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “Doesn’t that pretty much torpedo your whole theory?”
 
 
“Ludlow was teaching in Berkeley when I solved the Golden Gate Strangler case,” Monk said. “He told us that he’d thought about turning it into a book.”
 
 
“Too late,” Disher said. “I’m already into the first draft. Only I’ve made some changes.”
 
 
“Let me guess,” I said. “Now the foot-crazy killer is caught single-handedly by a dashing lieutenant on the San Francisco police force.”
 
 
“And the killer is called the Foot Fiend,” Disher said, “as he should have been all along.”
 
 
“Ludlow must have done some preliminary research into me and probably learned about the firehouse-dog murder investigation,” Monk said. “Natalie’s relationship with Joe was one of those nice surprises that Ludlow hopes for when he does these random killings.”
 
 
“Meaning you can’t prove that Ludlow knew anything at all about Natalie and the firefighter,” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“The proof is that she’s accused of murder,” Monk said. “If Ludlow didn’t know about them, then she wouldn’t be here.”
 
 
Stottlemeyer sighed wearily. “He told you how he knew about them. Ludlow found out after she got the phone call from the guy.”
 
 
“That’s not how he knew,” Monk said. “Forget his story. Follow mine.”
 
 
“Your story is inventive,” Ludlow said. “But the plotting is weak. It’s simply not believable.”
 
 
“Don’t take the criticism personally, Monk,” Disher said. “He gave me the same notes on my first story.”
 
 
“I’m having a hard time following the plot myself,” Stottlemeyer said. “What’s missing is evidence.”
 
 
“On the contrary, there’s evidence all over the place,” Monk said. “The streaks on Webster’s bathroom floor. The salt in the bathtub. The drop of blood in the grout. The drop of hydraulic fluid on the floor. The pizza box. The FedEx packaging. The drops of steering fluid in the parking lot and Natalie’s driveway. Joe’s fire department T-shirt. It’s way over the top.”
 
 
I raised my hand. “The T-shirt was me.”
 
 
“It was
all
you,” Ludlow said.
 
 
“Why would a killer who’d supposedly concocted such a clever and complicated method of murdering someone suddenly become so sloppy?” Monk asked.
 
 
“Killers make mistakes,” Ludlow said.
 
 
“Not this many,” Monk said. “You left an obvious trail of clues that would lead straight to Natalie and, by extension, incriminate Sharona.”
 
 
“Let’s forget for the moment that your imaginative scenario lacks evidence to support it,” Ludlow said.
 
 
“I haven’t,” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“There’s one glaringly fatal flaw in your creative thinking, ” Ludlow said. “Everything you described had to happen on Wednesday and Thursday. But Randy didn’t call me until Friday.”
 
 
“He’s right,” Disher said.
 
 
“I was in Los Angeles all that time,” Ludlow said. “I didn’t get here until Saturday. I couldn’t have done any of the things you’ve suggested.”
 
 
Monk smiled.
 
 
And what a smile it was. It was the grin you’d get if you came up with three cherries in a row on a slot machine.
 
 
It was a winning smile.
 
 
Sharona looked at me and I could see the excitement in her eyes.
 
 
“You called Ludlow on his cell phone, didn’t you?” Monk asked Disher.
 
 
“Yes,” Disher said. “So?”
 
 
“So you don’t actually know where he was when he got the call,” Monk said. “He could have been anywhere.”
 
 
“I was in Los Angeles,” Ludlow said.
 
 
“I can prove that you weren’t. Like most bad mystery writers, you have your murderers dropping clues all over the place so that your detective can wrap everything up nice and tight,” Monk said. “And you did the same thing when you framed Natalie. But you added one clue too many.”
 
 
Monk reached into the grocery bag on the table and pulled out a piece of paper.
 
 
“This is a copy of the register receipt that was conveniently taped to the Sorrento’s pizza box in Webster’s kitchen,” Monk said.
 
 
“The one that shows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Natalie was in the restaurant on Thursday night,” Ludlow said.
 
 
“That’s right,” Monk said. “Why is that again?”
 
 
“Because of the ten-percent discount Webster got for mentioning the advertising on Julie’s cast,” Ludlow said. “That proves he was there at the same time that she was.”
 
 
“How do you know?” Monk said.
 
 
“It’s right there on the receipt,” Ludlow said, pointing at it.
 
 
“Yes, it is,” Monk said. “But how do you know?”
 
 
“Because I can see it,” Ludlow said.
 
 
“But you had to have seen Julie to know about the discount advertised on her cast,” Monk said. “And you’ve never met her. So how would you know about the discount unless you were here and saw them go into the restaurant?”
 
 
Ludlow sighed. “Someone at the pizza place told me about it during my investigation. I’m very thorough.”
 
 
“That explanation might have worked, but like the killers in your books, you’ve been betrayed by a personality quirk,” Monk said. “There’s a bookstore across the street from Sorrento’s. Unfortunately, it’s closed on Sundays, so I had to wait until it opened this morning to buy this.”
 
 
Monk reached into the grocery bag again and pulled out a copy of
Death Is the Last Word
.
 
 
“Would you like me to sign it for you?” Ludlow said.
 
 
“It’s already signed,” Monk said. “And dated.”
 
 
Monk opened the book to reveal Ludlow’s signature on the title page and the date below it.
 
 
October nineteenth.
 
 
Wednesday.
 
 
“The bookseller in Los Angeles told us that you had a compulsion,” Monk said. “You can’t pass a bookstore without signing your books. She was right.”
 
 
Disher stared at Ludlow in stunned disbelief. Stottlemeyer looked pretty stunned, too.
 
 
I had to stop myself from raising my fists into the air and yelling
“Yes”
at the top of my lungs.
 
 
It was only a moment later that I realized that I hadn’t stopped myself.
 
 
I’d done it.
 
 
Sharona broke into a big grin and gave me a hug.
 
 
Ludlow took a deep breath, let it out slowly and took a seat.
 
 
“You were watching Natalie and waiting to pick just the right person to kill,” Monk said. “You saw Ronald Webster go into the pizza parlor while they were there. You befriended him afterward and, well, we know what happened next, don’t we?”
 
 
Ludlow had lost and he knew it.
 
 
“This is going to make a much better ending for my book,” Ludlow said with a rueful grin. “No one will ever suspect the author.”
 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
 
 
Mr. Monk and the Happy Ending
 
 
M
onk, Sharona and I walked out of the jail together. I took a deep breath. San Francisco had never smelled so good. I couldn’t wait to get home and give my daughter a great big hug. And then I wanted a hot, bubbly bath and a long nap in my own bed.
 
 
Stottlemeyer and Disher both apologized to us. Disher almost got on his knees to beg forgiveness, but it didn’t seem good enough, at least not the way I was feeling.
 
 
Monk apologized and he’d saved us. But there was still one thing neither Sharona nor I understood about the way he’d acted on Sunday.
 
 
“Why didn’t you say anything yesterday when Ludlow was making his case against us?” Sharona asked him.
 
 
“At first, it was because I was ashamed of myself for my mistakes,” Monk said. “Later it was because I didn’t want to say anything that might tip him off that I was on to him. I didn’t want him going back and buying all of his signed books. But it turns out that I shouldn’t have worried.”
 
 
“Why not?” I asked.
 
 
Monk showed me what else was in his grocery bag. It was full of Ludlow books.
 
 
“It wasn’t the only bookstore where he signed stock on Wednesday and Thursday,” Monk said. “He also stopped at bookstores in Union Square and out near Baker Beach.”
 
 
“What a moron,” Sharona said.
 
 
“He didn’t expect anyone to ever consider him as a suspect,” Monk said. “So he didn’t think he was taking a chance. Not that he could have stopped himself anyway.”
 
 
“I would say that arrogance was another personality quirk that betrayed him,” I said.
 
 
“Imagine having a compulsion like that,” Monk said. “How did he manage to function in life?”
 
 
Sharona gave him a look. “You have a thousand compulsions like that.”
 
 
“Yes,” Monk said. “But I have you two to help me.”
 
 
He had a point.
 
 
In the weeks immediately following Ian Ludlow’s arrest, Trevor was released from prison and so were the five inmates who’d been convicted of the murders that had “inspired” Ludlow’s last five books.
 
 
Monk was able to show prosecutors how Ludlow had framed those others in the same way that he’d framed Sharona and me. The pattern of evidence against all of the wrongly convicted people was strikingly similar, mirroring the structure of the mystery novels Ludlow wrote before he started killing people for his plots and to make his draconian deadlines.
 
 
Lieutenant Dozier also pointed out exactly how Ludlow had steered the investigations in the direction he wanted them to go. Aiding the prosecutors was a selfless act on Lieutenant Dozier’s part, because it meant conceding his role in the injustices that occurred. He resigned from the force rather than be made a scapegoat by the LAPD and the city, which was facing the likelihood of paying out millions of dollars in settlements to the people who’d been falsely imprisoned.
 
 
All six of the people framed by Ludlow were immediately offered book deals, of course. And so was Ludlow, for the story behind the murders he’d committed.
 
 
Trevor was the only one who declined the offers from publishers. He also turned away all the lawyers who wanted to sue the city for him.

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