Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mr. Monk Makes a Deal

W
hat Dr. Bell said wasn’t entirely true. I was able to read Monk’s expression but I wasn’t on the same wavelength as him this time. I didn’t know how Sebes had managed to sneak out of his house and murder those people without setting off the tracking device or being spotted by the reporters and cops on the street.

And Monk wasn’t giving me any hints.

“What’s the harm in telling me?” I asked him once we were in my car. “It’s just the two of us.”

“I have a system and part of it is not revealing what happened until the decisive moment with the suspects present. I don’t deviate from my system. Besides, I still have a few things to double- check. Can you take me back home?”

As I drove him back to Ambrose’s house, I realized it might be a very good thing he hadn’t told me how he’d solved the case.

“Promise me you won’t call Captain Stottlemeyer or Lieutenant Disher and tell them anything about the case without clearing it with me first.”

“Why not?”

“Because sometimes you are your own worst enemy and I don’t want you to squander this opportunity.”

“What opportunity is that?”

“To save yourself,” I said.

The first thing Monk did when he walked into the house was to ask Ambrose if he could see the last few months of the
San Francisco Chronicle
.

“Of course you can,” Ambrose said. “It’s the last two stacks at the end of aisle eight. But don’t mess up the order.”

Monk headed for the living room. “When have I ever messed up the order of anything?”

Ambrose followed after him. “I find it rather ironic that just yesterday you were suggesting that I throw them all out and now you want them.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight, Mr. Monk,” I yelled. “Don’t call or contact anyone until then.”

I slipped out and made a little detour on my way to my car. I stopped at the junction box outside the kitchen window and disconnected the phone lines. It’s no harder than unplugging a light. You might ask how I knew how to do that. A word to the wise: sometimes it pays to watch what the repairmen do when they come to your house.

I called Captain Stottlemeyer from the car on my way back over the Golden Gate Bridge from Marin County into the city.

“Are you still in Golden Gate Park?”

“I’m back at the station. Why?”

“I need you to take a break and meet me for coffee at the Starbucks by my house.”

“I’m very busy right now, Natalie. You might not have noticed, but I am in the middle of investigating three murders and I’ve got the mayor riding me like a donkey.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

He sighed wearily. “There’s nothing to talk about. We’re in a financial crisis. We can’t afford Monk and we don’t want his help. I don’t know how many different ways I’ve told you that.”

“Mr. Monk has solved the three murders and Bob Sebes was the killer. He knows how Sebes was able to leave the house undetected and he can prove it. If you’re interested, it will cost you a White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino and a brownie to hear our terms.”

“Your
what
?”

I hung up and headed for Starbucks.

Stottlemeyer must have used his light and siren, because he got to the Starbucks at the same time I did. But he didn’t look thrilled to see me. His surly mood only made me happier. I had leverage and I intended to use it.

“I don’t appreciate being dragged out of my office so you and Monk can play games.”

“I dragged you out of the office because I can’t afford Starbucks anymore and I’m tired of McCheapo coffee. The games haven’t started yet but I think they’ll be less painful if you’re sipping a nice cup of coffee.”

We ordered our coffees and brownies and didn’t speak to each other again until we got our order and settled down in two wing-backed Queen Anne chairs in the only corner of the room that wasn’t lit by the glow of Mac PowerBooks.

He took a sip of his coffee, frosting his mustache with crème. It was hard to take him too seriously like that.

“Has Monk really solved the murders?”

“He has.”

“Like he solved them yesterday?”

I shook my head. “I told you, he knows how Sebes fooled the tracking device and slipped out of the house without being seen. He’s got him nailed.”

“So why are we here having coffee and not in Bob Sebes’ house hearing Monk’s long-winded summation?”

“Because, as you so gruffly pointed out, Mr. Monk doesn’t work for you anymore. You also made it clear that it was impossible for Sebes to be the killer and that Mr. Monk’s input on the case was no longer welcome.”

“I’ll be sure to apologize to Monk, and thank him for his help, as I’m putting the handcuffs on Sebes.” Stottlemeyer wiped his mustache with a napkin and ate half his brownie in one bite.

“Oh, you will, but that’s not going to happen until our conditions are met.”

“Conditions? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We want a written agreement, signed by the mayor and the chief of police, guaranteeing Mr. Monk a three- year pay-or-play consulting agreement under the previous payment terms. Upon receipt of that agreement, Mr. Monk will disclose how Bob Sebes pulled off the murders. The agreement will be void if the disclosure doesn’t lead to Sebes being arrested and charged with murder on the basis of the evidence gathered on Mr. Monk’s information. Oh, and we want the district attorney’s office to investigate Mr. Monk’s landlord for illegal eviction of a tenant.”

Stottlemeyer laughed. “Is Starbucks putting liquor in the coffee now? There’s no way the mayor or the chief will agree to those demands.”

I casually sipped my coffee. “I think they will.”

“That shows how little you know about politics. The city is broke. Giving Monk a three-year pay-or-play consultancy agreement would cause a huge uproar, not just within the police union but with the public. It would also send the message that the police are incapable of solving the murders on their own.”

“Which is true,” I said.

“We’ll nail the killer. We’re still in the very early stages of the investigation.”

“Let’s be honest here, Captain. You’re completely and utterly lost. You have no suspects, no evidence, and no case. And while you dither around in all the wrong directions, the witnesses you need to put Sebes in jail and recover the billions of dollars that he swindled are getting killed, one by one. When he walks out of court a free man, what message is
that
going to send?”

Stottlemeyer finished his coffee. “Nice try, Natalie. As Monk’s friend, I appreciate what you’re trying to do for him. He’s damn lucky to have you. But I’m not going to take your deal upstairs. They would laugh at it and maybe even demote me for being dumb enough to take it to them.”

“Mr. Monk can give you Bob Sebes, not just for the murders but for the financial swindle, too.”

“You’re going way, way over the top now.” Stottlemeyer finished off the other half of his brownie.

“Am I? With a triple-murder charge hanging over his head, Sebes will tell you what he did with every swindled penny if it will keep him from the gas chamber. That would be a public relations bonanza for the city, far overshadowing whatever minor brouhaha giving Mr. Monk a consultancy agreement for his heroic efforts might raise.”

“I’m not convinced that Monk has solved the case,” Stottlemeyer said. “The tracking unit is tamperproof and there’s no way Sebes could walk out of that house without the mob of reporters seeing him. I also know that Monk has taken a lot of hits in the last week or so that have seriously affected his judgment.”

“I understand. If you don’t like the deal, that’s no problem. I came to you first as a courtesy. I’ll go to the feds next and ask for a percentage of the recovered funds as Mr. Monk’s fee. It might even be more lucrative for him than the consultancy agreement.”

I worked on my coffee and brownie for a few moments while Stottlemeyer narrowed his eyes at me and mulled over what I’d said. I tried to appear confident, relaxed, and a little smug, like all my problems had been solved.

“There’s a big flaw in your scheme,” Stottlemeyer said. “If Monk has really solved the crime, he won’t be able to keep the solution to himself. He’ll tell me everything for nothing.”

I shook my head and gave Stottlemeyer my best poker face. “Not this time. He’s lost too much and he is too hurt by your lack of confidence in him.”

“He’s the best detective I’ve ever known, but even he’s got to be wrong sometime.”

“This isn’t that time.”

“Let’s say you’re right. We both know that Monk desperately wants to nail Sebes. I don’t need to do anything. He won’t keep quiet waiting for a deal and risk the guy killing someone else in the meantime. He couldn’t live with that on his conscience.”

“That’s true. That’s why this deal has an expiration date of noon tomorrow. If we don’t hear from you by then, the feds get the arrest and you, the chief, and the mayor get egg on your faces.” I got up and wiped the brownie crumbs off my pants. “Mr. Monk has never been wrong about murder before. You should think about that. So should your bosses. Thanks for the coffee, Captain.”

I walked out. There was nothing more to talk about, plus I wasn’t sure how long I could maintain my poker face under the glare of an experienced interrogator.

This was more than just a homicide investigation now. It was my house, food on the table, my daughter’s college education, and Monk’s financial future that were at stake here.

Our salvation depended on Monk proving the impossible was possible, and on the chief, the mayor, and the captain being desperate and frightened enough to believe that he could.

I hoped that wasn’t asking too much.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Mr. Monk Gets Wet

I
hardly slept that night. I was too keyed up thinking about the endgame that I knew would play out the next morning. No matter what happened, Sebes would end up behind bars. The big question mark was whether Monk and I would be able to leverage the situation to save ourselves.

It all depended on what Monk did or didn’t do.

Could I convince Monk to keep his mouth shut until it could do us the most good?

I wasn’t sure that I could.

Monk’s eagerness to nail Sebes, and announce the solution to the mystery, might trump his self-interest . . . and mine.

The news about Duncan Dern’s murder was all over the front page of the
San Francisco Chronicle
. One of the articles focused on the impact the murder would have on prosecuting Sebes for his Ponzi scheme. Several pundits opined that the case against Sebes could fall apart before it ever got to the courtroom.

I was pleased by the news, not because I wanted Sebes to get away with his crimes but because it put even more pressure on law enforcement to accept my offer before things got even worse.

On my way out to Tewksbury, I called Kiana at Fashion Frisson and let her know that we wouldn’t be coming in for personal reasons and that I wouldn’t blame her if she fired us for letting her down. But she took the news with giddy nonchalance.

“No worries,” she said. “The mall is closed anyway and I don’t know when the police are going to let them open it up.”

“What happened?” I asked innocently.

“Our own security guards tried to rob a jewelry store last night and Randy caught them. There was a shoot- out and everything.”

“Is Randy okay?”

“He’s wonderful. He’s like an action hero.”

“I’m sure he’d love to hear that.”

“Oh, he knows. He’s the one who told me.”

I was glad that things had worked out so well for Disher and that we still had a job to go back to if my plan didn’t work out.

I arrived at Ambrose’s house a few minutes before eight and crept up to the junction box. I was reconnecting the phone lines when I sensed someone watching me. I stepped back and saw Ambrose looking at me disapprovingly from the kitchen window.

This wasn’t good.

The front door was open, and he was waiting for me in the entryway as I walked up.

“Why did you disconnect my phone?”

“I wanted to be sure that Mr. Monk couldn’t call Captain Stottlemeyer.”

“You could have discussed it with me first.”

“It didn’t occur to me to disconnect the phones until I was walking to my car. After that, it would have been awkward to come back and explain myself to you.”

“But it wasn’t awkward for you to vandalize my home.”

“I’m sorry, Ambrose. It was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it. But the phone is fixed.”

“You violated my home and my trust. You haven’t fixed that yet.”

“I did it for Mr. Monk. I’m trying to get him his job back.”

“And yours, too,” Ambrose said.

“Yes.”

“So you really vandalized my home for yourself.”

“For Mr. Monk, myself, and for Julie. But I think calling what I did
vandalizing
is a little harsh. It was more of a prank.”

“For forty years, people have been pulling pranks on me. Egging my house, toilet-papering my plants, leaving dog excrement on my porch. They know I can’t do anything about it. They think it’s funny and harmless to harass the strange man who never leaves his house. I didn’t think you were one of those nasty people.”

“I’m not and you know it. What I did wasn’t a prank, it wasn’t vandalizing, it wasn’t meant as an insult, and no harm was done.”

“Really? What if Adrian slipped on the stairs and broke his back? How would I have called for help?”

“You could have yelled out the window.”

“My house could be burning down and my neighbors wouldn’t help. You know that.”

It was true. His house was once on fire and his neighbors did nothing. Of course, it was one of his neighbors who started the blaze, but that’s another story.

“You’re right, Ambrose, and I’m wrong. I’m so sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”

Ambrose shrugged.

“How about if I come over next Saturday, make you waffles, and then we can watch
Home Alone
together?”

Ambrose smiled. “That’s a start.”

Monk came down from upstairs carrying a stack of newspapers. “I thought you’d never get here. You need to call Captain Stottlemeyer and tell him that I’ve solved the case.”

“I already have,” I said.

“Is he going to meet us at Sebes’ house?”

“Eventually.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” I said.

Monk came outside. Ambrose called out after him.

“I need those newspapers back, Adrian. In pristine condition.”

Monk stopped and gave Ambrose a withering look. “Have you forgotten who you are talking to? I’m the one who taught you how to iron a newspaper.”

“I don’t like it when my belongings leave the house. What if they don’t come back?”

“They will,” Monk said. “Even Dad came back.”

“I don’t want to wait thirty years for those newspapers.”

“I’ll bring them back before that.”

We got into the car, and on our way back into the city, in stop-and-go rush-hour traffic, I explained to Monk the offer that I’d made to Stottlemeyer.

Monk listened without interruption, and when I was finished, he nodded.

“So is the captain going to meet us at Sebes’ house?”

“You already asked me that. The captain hasn’t accepted our conditions yet. My guess is that he will, but he has until noon today to make his move. If he doesn’t, then we go to the feds.”

Monk squirmed in his seat. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

“You aren’t comfortable with anything.”

“We have to go to Sebes’ house now.”

“He’s not going to let us in, and even if he did, it won’t do you any good to confront him without the police.”

“I could make a citizen’s arrest.”

“All you’d be doing is tipping him off that you’re on to him and giving him a chance to cover his tracks. You have the leverage now to get the city to give you your consulting job back. Do you really want to work at Fashion Frisson and live with your brother?”

“I can’t take the chance that Sebes might kill somebody else while we’re waiting for the mayor and the chief of police to mull over your demands.”

“So we make sure that he doesn’t,” I said, even though I didn’t know how we could keep Sebes under any closer surveillance than the police and the media already were.

Monk nodded. “Okay. That’s what we’ll do.”

I found us a primo parking spot in a red zone behind the row of police vehicles, news vans, and satellite trucks across the street and half a block down from Sebes’ house. We could see part of Sebes’ house and front gate from our car, and that seemed fine to Monk, though he was very uncomfortable with us “flagrantly breaking the law” to do it.

I assured Monk that we weren’t parking if we remained in the car. We were idling. Parking meant stopping and leaving your unoccupied car behind.

Monk wasn’t convinced. I told him that I’d never been ticketed by a cop for idling in a red zone. Once or twice I’d been asked to move on, so I drove around the block until the cop left and then parked in the red zone again.

I wasn’t sure what we were waiting in the red zone to see anyway. If Sebes walked out of the house, the reporters would see him before we did. I noticed a manhole cover in the street near our car and wondered if maybe Disher was on the right track about the secret tunnel after all.

I glanced at the newspapers that Monk had brought along. They all had pictures of Sebes, or his wife, or both of them on the front page. I wondered if he was going to use the newspapers as prosecution exhibits to make his case and, if so, why.

I could have asked Monk all of those questions but I knew that he wouldn’t answer them, not without the killer in front of us.

Monk lived for his summations, it was the one moment in his life when he was in absolute control and the entire universe felt balanced. He wasn’t going to diminish that experience for me.

He suddenly straightened up in his seat. “Start the car.”

I followed his gaze and saw Sebes’ gate open and his black Mercedes glide out. Since the reporters weren’t mobbing the car, I figured Anna Sebes was on her own.

“But it’s just his wife,” I said.

The car passed us and Monk started nudging me.

“Hurry up. She’s getting away!”

I made a U-turn and followed her. “I thought you said that Sebes was the killer.”

“He is.”

“Then why are we following his wife?”

Monk didn’t answer. He just leaned forward, his hands on the dash, keeping her under close scrutiny. I kept a car or two between us so she wouldn’t notice that she was being tailed.

She headed north on Pierce and made a right onto a long, flat stretch of Lombard, which took us past motels, bars, hardware stores, and garages. It wasn’t San Francisco’s most picturesque street.

A Saab and a Miata were between her car and ours, but I could see her just fine. She made it easy by staying in the right lane and being very conscientious about using her turn signals, giving me plenty of notice about her intentions.

“Oh my God,” Monk said.

“What’s wrong?”

He pointed a little ways ahead of us. “I think she’s going to that gas station with the drive-thru car wash.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Her car is filthy!”

“So you think she should be getting a more thorough cleaning.”

“We can’t let her clean that car!”

I gave him a look. “Are you sick? Since when have you ever objected to anything being cleaned?”

“That filth is evidence,” he said. “Her car is covered in bird excrement.”

I saw some bird crap and berry stains on the trunk when she’d first passed us, but I didn’t think her car was any dirtier than mine had been last night.

In Golden Gate Park . . .

... at the scene of Duncan Dern’s murder.

The Saab in front of us came to a sudden stop and I was so distracted by my thoughts that I had to slam on my brakes to avoid rear-ending him. The driver stopped to wait for someone to pull out of a parking space on the street. Half a block ahead, I could see Anna Sebes’ car turning into the gas station.

I tried to go around the car in front of me but nobody in the left lane would let me in. We were stuck.

Monk squealed in frustration and jumped out of the car. While I waited for an opening, Monk ran to the gas station and I lost sight of him.

After what seemed like an eternity, I found an opening and cut into it, nearly clipping the front of a Volvo in the process. I sped around the Saab and into the gas station just in time to see Anna Sebes’ car going into the car wash as Monk banged on her window.

But she didn’t stop. Anna drove right into the center of the automated car wash.

Monk leapt up onto her hood and spread his body protectively across it just as the automated cleaning apparatus moved on a track over the car. He held on tight and pressed his face against the windshield as the high-powered jets blasted the car with water and nearly whipped off his clothes.

I drove my car around to the rear of the car wash and blocked the exit. Then all I could do was get out and watch as the cleaning machine moved back and forth along its track, first soaking the car and Monk with detergent foam and then whipping them with hundreds of strips of cloth on giant rotating cylindrical scrubbers. That had to hurt.

My cell phone rang. It was Stottlemeyer.

“Okay,” he said. “You’ve got a deal. We’ll meet you at Sebes’ place.”

The washing equipment was going into its next cycle, power-rinsing the soap off of Monk and the car. Monk was holding on tight and I could see Anna Sebes through the suds on the windshield staring at him in horror while talking animatedly to someone on her cell phone.

“That’s great, Captain. But there’s a slight change of plans. Could you meet us at Sav-Mor Gas and Wash on Lombard? And bring a forensic team along and something dry for Monk to wear.”

I hung up before Stottlemeyer could ask any questions.

Anna Sebes floored her Mercedes and burst out of the car wash the instant the dry cycle was over.

She was heading right for me.

I dove out of the way and she slammed into my car, plowing it into a telephone pole.

The impact sent Monk flying, landing hard on his back on the hood of my crumpled car. She backed up and was about to drive around my car when a black-and-white police car screeched up from Lombard and blocked her. She wasn’t going anywhere.

I got up off the ground and hurried over to Monk. He was soaking wet and groaning. The front of his clothes was stained with berries and poop, but there was still plenty of the mess on her hood.

“Are you okay, Mr. Monk?”

He propped himself up on his elbows and spit out a mouthful of soap. “Somebody kill me and put me out of my misery.”

“I may be mistaken, but I think that’s what Anna Sebes just tried to do.”

“Could you ask her to please try again?”