Mr. Monk Helps Himself (10 page)

“Maybe,” she said with an unconvincing shrug.

“But it would have taken you days, wasting who knows how many man-hours. Meanwhile, your killer might already have been released and flown the coop. We saved the city a ton of money.”

“Whatever. I’m busy.” And she went back to her folder.

I slipped the much-needed check into my bag, then wandered over to the command center wall. On the city map, a red pin had been inserted into a familiar block of Willow Street on the edge of the Tenderloin. Other color-coded pins were scattered around the neighborhoods of Pacific Heights and Nob Hill and a few others.

“The clown case?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.” Devlin’s nose was buried in the folder. “We’re working on Monk’s blackmail theory, our only theory at the moment. In the two months before Smith opened his post office box, he was hired for twelve private parties. We sent officers to interview all twelve households, on the pretext of following up on an accusation. We told them Smith was under investigation for stealing valuables from his clients’ homes.”

“Which is true,” I pointed out.

“More or less. We didn’t mention murder. Still keeping it out of the press.” Devlin’s nose emerged and she followed it to the pins on the map. “For five of those parties, he arrived fully clowned-up. Those households have been tentatively eliminated. For two more, he changed into his clown regalia in a powder room where he would not have had access to any private documents. That leaves five. Five houses where he was alone in bedrooms or home offices, where he may have had access to compromising information.”

“That’s a lot of suspects,” I said.

“Especially since we can’t get search warrants. We can’t even interview them properly. These are wealthy, well-connected people.” She adopted a deep bad-cop voice. “Excuse me, sir. Do you happen to have a blackmail secret you’re desperate to keep? And were you being extorted by Mr. Smith? And did you send him poisoned money through the mail? Just asking.”

I could understand her predicament. “What about investigating the other side of it?” I asked. “Smith must have had some record or information about his victim.”

“We searched his apartment. Whatever he had, we can’t find it, which means the killer was either smart or lucky. Or Monk has led us down the garden path and we’re in the weeds.” She was mixing up her gardening metaphors, but I wasn’t going to mention it.

“Mr. Monk can be wrong about a lot of things,” I said. “But not murder.”

“That’s why we need him back.”

I had been afraid that was where this conversation was heading. “As long as the corpse is still a clown, he won’t do it.”

“Then we’re going to have to insist. Either he helps on the cases where we need him or we cancel his retainer. It’s that simple.”

“He won’t do it. He can’t.”

“That’s bull. I’ve seen him do plenty of things that frightened him. Well, not personally seen, but I’ve heard stories. Especially with you along. You can figure out how to make it happen.”

“I’ll try,” I promised her.

“You know, every other city gets along without Adrian Monk. I don’t know any other department, anywhere, that employs a consulting detective to wave his hands and make great leaps of logic.”

She had a point, but then so did I. “And what is this city’s national ranking for solved homicides?” I knew the answer. Just two months ago we’d been in this office celebrating the release of the annual report; Monk toasting with Fiji Water, the rest of us with champagne.

“San Francisco is a few percentage points above other major cities.”

“San Francisco is number one by eight full points. Do you really want to give that up?”

“Monk can’t pick and choose his cases. That’s not how it works. At the end of the day, it’s probably not a bad thing.”

“What’s not a bad thing?”

“To give up that crutch. It’ll make us better cops. And we’ll no longer have to deal with that invisible asterisk by our stats—‘numbers may be skewed due to the use of a performance-enhancing consultant.’”

Devlin was serious. She had always resented Monk, and not just because he stole the limelight. Her notion was that he’d changed the game of law enforcement and somehow made the San Francisco homicide division lazier and more dependent.

I had never known Captain Stottlemeyer or anyone else on his squad to be lazy or dependent. But this was Devlin’s view. She would have liked nothing better than to go without Monk and then take full credit at the end of a successful case. Even if there were fewer successful cases.

“I’ll get him on board.” What else could I say? I had no idea how I would do it, but . . . “I’ll get him on board.”

CHAPTER TEN

Mr. Monk Gets Threatened

M
aking an exit is not always easy. There have been times when I’ve found myself walking out shamefaced and in silence, or apologizing for something Monk said to a roomful of suspects or chasing him out the door that time when he happened to see a spider at a crime scene. The mutilated corpse didn’t bother him. No, it was the spider crawling across the tip of a severed bloody tongue. That’s what sent him running across three lanes of traffic with me in hot pursuit.

In this case, I tried to make my exit look dignified, perhaps even brave—a private eye with her job being threatened marching out to make things right. Then, as I stood by the elevator, waiting and waiting, still within view of the captain’s office, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, I remembered.

There had been another reason why I’d come here. My temptation was to forget about it, leave it to another day. But then a familiar phrase popped into my head. “Why do you care what other people think? Care about what you think and you’ll be fine.”

It was one of Miranda Bigley’s life lessons. I could almost hear her saying it in that voice that made everything seem simple and clear and right. I figured I had to follow her advice now, especially since what I had just remembered, what I needed to go back and talk to Devlin about, was her.

“I forgot to ask . . .”

Devlin was sitting, her feet up on Captain Stottlemeyer’s desk, reading another file. She sprang up, embarrassed, like a kid caught trying on Mommy’s shoes. “What? What did you forget?”

“The tox screen from the autopsy report. Did it come in?”

“Oh.”

It was like a switch being flipped. All the coldness and protective animosity was suddenly gone. On this matter, we seemed to be on the same side.

“The San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office posted everything on their secure Web site. I had to charm my way through three passwords.” She reached for a paper-clipped document on top of the captain’s in-box. “I printed a copy for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, and began looking it over. The first page was nothing but rows and columns of indecipherable chemical names and numbers. I pretended to study it.

“There’s a summary on page three. The answer to your question is no. There were no chemicals in her system, outside of some Lipitor she took for her cholesterol. No stimulants or depressants. No alcohol. Not even residue from sleeping pills. Natalie, I’m sorry.”

I had been preparing myself for this, but it still came as a letdown. “So her suicide was not chemically induced. It was of her own free will.”

“I know how inexplicable this is. I admired her, too.”

“Anything strange in the autopsy?”

“Starts on page four.”

Page four was slightly more comprehensible than page one. At least it wasn’t filled with numbers. “Nothing inconsistent with a fall or jump from a cliff,” Devlin said, trying to be helpful. “Broken femur, a premortem concussion, probably from a rock. Then death by drowning.”

I took a deep breath. “Was she conscious or unconscious when she drowned?”

“That can’t be determined.”

I decided to visualize Miranda Bigley unconscious when it happened. Yes, that was better. Drifting peacefully, sleeping in the deep, with no second thoughts or regrets over the senseless thing she’d just done.

Devlin brought me back to reality. “The suicide note’s on page nineteen.”

I flipped to page nineteen and found a photocopy of the handwritten note:

Dearest Damien,

I know my actions will cause such great harm and sorrow to my friends and followers. And you, too, dearest Damien. Most of all. I am so sorry.

If there were any other way to deal with this, I would. I’ve struggled for a long time with this decision. But there is no other way to avoid all the pain and heartache that is to come. As much as I long to be with you for even one more day, I must go.

In the grand scope of things, one can only live for one’s self. And in my case, die for myself. Please forgive me.

Miranda

There it was, in her own handwriting, her intention to take her life. To avoid all the pain and heartache, as she said. I looked up from the note. “Was she sick?”

Devlin shook her head. “There’s a medical report in there. Miranda had just had her annual physical, part of her company’s insurance policy. A clean bill of health. And no markers for inherited diseases. She could have lived another forty years.”

“Then why was she talking about pain? Avoiding pain and heartache?”

“The sheriff’s office has a theory.” From Devlin’s tone I knew this wasn’t going to be good. “They’ve asked the attorney general’s office to look into the possibility of financial irregularities.”

I was confused. “You mean like embezzling?”

“The Best Possible Me is incorporated in the state of California. There’s a not-for-profit entity and then the business side. Miranda may have shuttled investor money around and used some of it for her personal investment portfolio.” Devlin shrugged one shoulder. “Right now it’s a theory.”

“Miranda wouldn’t embezzle,” I said categorically.

“She wouldn’t commit suicide, either.”

“What about her husband? Do they think he was involved?”

“Damien Bigley says he’s unaware of any shady dealings. Miranda was president of the BPM Corporation, so it’s feasible that whatever happened she could have done it without anyone else’s participation.”

“Could he have done it without her?” I asked.

“Not without her signature on documents. Plus there are personal passwords she established. I suppose anything’s possible.”

“But they suspect her because of the suicide note. Avoiding pain and heartache.”

“That’s part of it,” said Devlin. “Every suicide has a motive. The company was about to go through an audit. Starting this week, in fact. Any irregularities would have been exposed.”

It was a lot to think about, and not very happy thinking. “Miranda Bigley stealing from her own company?”

“People are only human, even the best of them.”

I headed out the door and for the elevator again. Then I turned back—again. “I didn’t thank you.”

“No need. Maybe it’s a girl thing. I don’t like the idea of powerful, competent women killing themselves. It’s bad for all of us. Especially bad for her.”

“Can I keep this?” I asked, holding up the paper-clipped pages.

“Sure. Just don’t flash it around.”

“Can you get in trouble for this?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. They’re going to release the highlights to the press, probably today, so we can expect another spike in publicity.”

“Oh, dear.” I hadn’t thought of that part. The papers and TV entertainment shows were going to be all over this. Miranda would be instantly labeled a crook and a charlatan, no matter what the facts eventually turned out to be.

I sighed. And for the last time I headed out the door.

“Don’t forget Monk,” Devlin said as I retreated from view. “You guys are partners. We need you both on board.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mr. Monk and Adrian

“Y
our goals are achieved moment by moment, one small act after another. What may look impossible is just one small everyday possibility on top of the last. Do you need to change your life in some big way? Start by changing a small thing. Before you know it . . .” Ring, ring, ring . . .