Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (13 page)

“Do you mean that she may not really like me? That she has a boyfriend?”

“Yes.” That was one way of putting it. “Do you see any
evidence of her having a boyfriend? Something around her house?”

“Are you referring to the bottle of juice in her refrigerator? She explained that. She’d been trying out Wyatt’s juice diet, but it didn’t go well with her system.”

“But she didn’t throw out the bottle; she kept it in her fridge. And it’s a fairly new bottle. And at the hospital, she indicated that she didn’t know what it tasted like.”

“No, Natalie. Her exact words were, ‘Can you imagine the taste?’ Apparently she could imagine the taste, because she has a half-empty bottle in her refrigerator.”

“So you’re not even going to allow the possibility.”

“It’s not a possibility. Sarabeth is not that kind of girl.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mr. Monk and His Day Off

F
rom the car, I called ahead to Dr. Bell who, true to his word, had postponed his family Saturday in order to wait for us. I dropped Monk off at the homey little office complex on Otis Street and made sure he got safely inside. Then I went home to try to enjoy what was left of my day.

Settling on the front porch with a glass of white wine seemed like the perfect way to decompress and mull over what had happened at Sarabeth’s apartment. But the wine was barely out of the bottle when I thought of a better way to relax. I poured it back in, every drop, screwed the top back on, and returned it to the fridge. Then I made a call.

“Are you in the mood to go to a meeting?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Daniela without a moment’s hesitation. “Let me check a schedule.”

She found a meeting starting in an hour, in the basement of a church just a few blocks off the Bayshore Freeway. We’d been there once before. The people tended to be nice and the location was about halfway between our neighborhoods.

I bet I know what you’re thinking, because I’d probably think the same thing. Isn’t there something dishonest about
a nonalcoholic going to AA meetings? Isn’t there something cowardly and sad about not sitting down with Daniela and explaining the weird circumstance that led me to go to my very first meeting and say, “Hi. My name is Natalie and I’m an alcoholic,” even though I wasn’t.

First of all, I did try to explain. More than once. All it did was solidify in her mind that I was in denial and needed a sponsor like her to help. Second of all, outside of my first visit, I never again claimed to be an alcoholic. Now I go to open meetings, ones where you don’t have to share. I just sit and listen, which is perfectly allowable. Third of all, I actually get a lot out of this process. Hearing the stories of people’s struggles with addiction is inspiring and helps put my own life in a healthier perspective.

It was a small group on this late Saturday afternoon, perhaps a dozen active participants and a few shy or curious observers like me. The church was in the heart of a working-class neighborhood, with a brick basement, a small podium, and folding chairs scattered in a semicircle.

A man named Patrick (no last names) was speaking about last night, his Friday night temptation as he called it. He’d been sober for a month and had refused to go out with the boys on purpose. But his grown son had just moved back in and, despite being specifically warned against it, the boy left a forty-ounce bottle of Country Club Malt Liquor in the house. There it was in the back of the refrigerator, hidden behind the leftovers, just staring out at him when Patrick opened the door for a late-night snack. And speaking about things hidden in the back . . . My mind started wandering.

Today Monk had seen what I’d seen in Sarabeth’s refrigerator, and he came to the same conclusion. But then his power of denial kicked in. I’ve never seen it affect his judgment before, not like this. He still saw everything and could make the connections no one else could. But to ignore one of the few real leads we had . . . Maybe this was a sign of just how much he’d been hurt by Ellen’s departure.

When I looked up from my reverie, Patrick had moved away from the podium and my reaction was to join the usual round of supportive applause. Only this time, no one was with me. I’d got off four or five little claps before Daniela threw a hand over my wrists. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “He started drinking again and you’re clapping?”

“Sorry,” I said, then said it a little louder. “Sorry. Sorry, Patrick.”

At the end of the hour, Daniela and I hung around with the others, mainly so I could apologize again to Patrick and voice my support for his brand-new ten hours of sobriety. “Day by day,” I told him, then watched the poor man walk out of the basement room and up the stairs.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” said Daniela, and handed me the coffee that she’d poured from a leather-bound thermos into one of the foam cups. She always brought her own coffee, just for her and occasionally for me. At a few meetings, she even brought her own folding chair. Much more comfortable. She’d stopped when Jerry, a Teamster—sober six years—accused her of being too snooty. But the good coffee she wouldn’t give up.

“You’ve been distracted tonight,” said Daniela as we took our first sips. “I know why.”

“You do?” I didn’t know how that was possible.

“You feel bad for not taking part. Next time, I want you to stand up and share your story.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready.” No, I was not all ready to stand up and lie about being an alcoholic.

“Yes, you are, Natalie. It’s about commitment. You need to realize the truth, however unpleasant, and commit to a solution. I can’t do it for you. Mr. Monk can’t. Even he has his limitations. If you believe in sobriety—if you believe in anything—you have to become proactive.”

“I need to be proactive,” I agreed. “Yes. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

We stayed for another few minutes, sharing a few of the gluten-free cookies Daniela always carried in her Gucci handbag. Then we wandered up the stairs to the parking lot.

“Thanks for joining me on such short notice,” I said as we arrived at the empty space between my Subaru and her Mercedes. “And for hiring us. I’m sorry we couldn’t be more help.”

“Oh, it’s not over,” said Daniela. “The sheriff’s office dropped the murder charge. But Henry’s just out on bail. The pending charges are failure to report a crime and obstruction of justice. That’s the big one. They consider him a material witness. As long as he refuses to talk, they can prosecute, even if they don’t have a suspect. If they arrest someone and go to trial, Henry could face contempt of court.”

“What does Henry say about this?”

“He’s disappointed. He expected it to go away.”

“Well, at least he’s home. Did you ever contact his wife, Becky? Does she know?”

“I e-mailed her several times after the arrest. She finally got back to me. I’m afraid she’s not in a conciliatory mood.”

“All because of her flossing?” I genuinely felt sorry for the guy. “I think he still loves her.”

“Well, maybe they’ll patch things up if I keep him out of jail. How does this sound? Henry testifies that he saw the murder from his window, although he can’t possibly ID anyone. When he went outside to check, he found the body and tried dragging it to the street—in order to take it to the nearest hospital.”

“That doesn’t account for his shovel.”

“I know, dear. But without the truth, it’s the best I can do.”

“What if the police get their hands on Fat Tony?” I asked. “Caught and convicted. Then the obstruction of justice goes away.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Not for Monk and Teeger.”

“Is that something you and Mr. Monk are willing to go for?” Her gaze narrowed, burrowing into my eyes. “Henry will pay, of course. But I’m just as happy losing this one. I know that’s a horrible thing for a defense attorney to say. But I’d rather have my client serve a little time for being stubborn. It beats pitting you against Lucarelli’s people and risking my friend getting hurt or killed.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. It was nice to know she considered me a friend. “But we’re investigators. It’s what we do. And the next time you have a tough case, I don’t want you hiring someone else because you think I might get myself hurt.”

“You have a point,” she admitted. “I probably would think that way.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll get on it right away. And don’t worry. We’ve faced down bigger crooks than Fat Tony.”

We finished our coffees, every last drop, and I took both foam cups. “Incredibly good coffee,” I said. “Very dark and smooth. Was that kopi luwak, by any chance?”

“Very impressive,” said Daniela, looking very impressed. “The finest coffee in the world. I used to buy it locally, but the shop went out of business. I’m down to my last few pounds.”

“Poop.”

“Excuse me?”

“You bought it at Poop on Union Street. I used to be friends with Ellen Morse, the owner.”

“Yes. Poop. So I don’t need to tell you how the coffee’s made. Tell me, how is sweet Ellen? Have you kept in touch with her?”

“Her brother was just arrested for murder.”

“Oh my.” Daniela took a second, just a second. “Well, if you talk to her soon, give her my e-mail or my number. I’d love to stock up on some more kopi luwak.”

* * *

Before getting into my car, I phoned ahead to Mickey’s, my favorite comfort food establishment, and ordered their famous beef and pork meat loaf with sides of mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. No rolls, of course, because I’m watching my weight. Twenty minutes later, I retrieved a foil-lined bag from their pickup window and was on my way back to the house.

Halfway there, I decided to take a little detour to Haight Street. A police cruiser was still in front of Sarabeth’s
apartment. I rolled down my window and motioned for the officer behind the wheel to do the same. “Hey, Natalie.”

“Hi, Joe.” It was Joe Nazio, a patrolman I knew, since he often took over the desk duties at the precinct house. “Is Adrian in the apartment?”

“Yep. He’s been there for a while. Are you going in?”

“No. I just wanted to keep tabs on him.”

“Is Monk involved with this woman?” asked Joe. “I’m curious because he brought two suitcases with him.”

I was surprised but not shocked. “What size?”

“Kind of medium.”

“He may be involved,” I admitted. “But she’s injured and he’s Monk, so I’m not sure how deep the involvement goes.”

“Is that kosher, spending the night?”

“I don’t think there’s a law against it.”

“Well, if he’s protecting her, maybe I’ll take a break and get some food.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yeah, I know. What do you got in your car? Smells great.”

I wound up parking right behind the cruiser, getting in beside Joe and sharing my oversized portion of meat loaf and side dishes. Joe shared a bottle of warm lemonade from his backseat and wondered aloud why there weren’t any rolls. I told him about my diet and he dutifully told me that I didn’t need one.

The two of us kept an eye on the street and talked about the joy of raising girls. Joe is the father of a six-year-old and thinks it’s the easiest, most gratifying thing in the world. I didn’t want to spoil his fun with any of my war stories. He’d
find out soon enough. Despite the wad of paper napkins, we made quite a mess of the whole front seat.

“This was fun,” I said, swallowing the last of the green beans and wiping a streak of grease off the middle console. “Adrian never lets me eat in the car.”

“Even when he’s not in the car with you?”

“Even when I’m alone, driving to see my folks in Monterey for the weekend. He always knows.”

By the time I finally pulled into my own little driveway, I had a plan. I settled into the living room couch with my first glass of wine and speed dialed Amy Devlin. She picked up on the second ring.

“Here’s our plan,” I said. I didn’t need to introduce myself, because she knew my voice.

“What do you mean, here’s our plan? I’m the lead investigator and you’re telling me what the plan is?”

“Yep,” I confirmed. “You hired us for our expertise and here it is. We focus on Sarabeth Willow.”

“Sarabeth?” She sounded confused. “I thought Monk eliminated her.”

“Monk isn’t thinking straight. You’re getting your expertise from the other half of Monk and Teeger.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that,” Devlin said, separating each word.

“I’ll explain it all later and you’ll agree with me. Officer Joe Nazio says that Adrian arrived at her apartment this evening with two medium-sized suitcases. That means he’s sleeping overnight on her couch, but not doing his morning routine there. That requires at least four suitcases.”

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“Since it’s daylight saving time, Monk will be back at his place by seven a.m.”

“What if it wasn’t daylight saving time?”

“Then it would be six. Monk’s internal clock doesn’t change with the seasons. Don’t worry, Amy. I have this all planned out.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mr. Monk and His Sunday Plans

I
t was exactly seven forty-five when Captain Stottlemeyer rang the bell, climbed the single flight of stairs, and knocked on the door.

“Leland, nice to see you. Good timing.” Monk ushered him inside. “I just finished my morning haircut.” The captain’s timing, of course, had not been accidental. I had Monk’s morning schedule memorized. “What can I do for you?”

Stottlemeyer made himself at home while Monk used a minivacuum, the kind designed for computer keyboards, to suck up the last little pieces of hair from his temples. “It’s an election year, Monk. You know what that means.” The captain and I had rehearsed this. “It means the police commissioner wants to crack down on the Lucarelli family.”

“How does that involve you?” Monk said, shouting over his self-inflicted din. “You’re homicide. Is there some unsolved mob homicide I don’t know about?”

“Not in the city. But there is one in Millbrae.”

Monk shut off his vacuum. “I already investigated that. For what it’s worth, the culprit is Fat Tony Lucarelli, which is what I told the sheriff’s office. But there’s no proof.”

“Then we get proof. The commissioner won’t care how
the case is broken. He just wants a Lucarelli going to jail before the good citizens vote.”

“What about the triple murder?” asked Monk.

“We have manpower for both. There’s only so much we can do with a suspect who disappears without a trace.”

“What about Sarabeth? I promised I would spend the day with her. Jogging her memory about Wyatt. Protecting her. Stuff like that.”

“She already has protection,” said the captain. “Besides, it’s Sunday. I think she can do with a day of rest.”

Monk crossed his arms. “You mean a day of rest from me? Is that what this is about?”

“No, Monk, I need your help. And it’s not the worst idea to give her a little space to recover. She just got home.” Stottlemeyer pointed to the cordless phone on the kitchen wall. “Tell her you’ll see her Monday. Then you’ll come with me. We’ll figure out how to get Fat Tony. It’ll be like the old days, just the two of us.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” said Monk. “But I can tell you right now, she’ll be disappointed.” He took the phone and dialed the number from memory. Sometimes I think he has the whole phone directory committed to memory.

I got all of this later in the day from Stottlemeyer. According to him, there was disappointment involved. But it was all on Monk’s part, since Sarabeth didn’t sound crushed at all by the prospect of a Monk-free day. When Monk promised that he would drop by after work tomorrow, she said, “Okay,” and seemed perfectly fine.

Sarabeth also didn’t sound disappointed when Lieutenant Devlin called and informed her that the twenty-four-hour
guard was being removed from in front of her painted lady. According to what Devlin told her, Wyatt Noone had been sighted in Vancouver, B.C., and no longer posed an immediate threat.

I was with Devlin when she made that call. The two of us were half a block down on Haight Street, with a clear view of Sarabeth’s door, when Officer Nazio’s daytime replacement pulled away from the curb. “Now all we have to do is wait,” said Devlin.

I don’t know anyone who is fond of stakeouts. But we were fairly sure that if anything was going to happen, it would be today, the one day that Sarabeth could count on everyone leaving her alone.

As with most stakeouts, it started with a certain excitement and devolved into boredom and irritation with everything the other person does. As noon approached and no one had come into or left the ground-floor apartment, I got out to stretch my legs—and walk around the block to Page Street to buy something I didn’t need from the 7-Eleven so that I could use their filthy restroom.

It’s little unexpected moments like this that make you believe in God or destiny or fate. If I hadn’t gone around the block at just the right moment and bought the pack of Twizzlers and hadn’t waited in line to relieve myself, then I never would have emerged on Page Street in time to see Sarabeth
Willow exiting from someone else’s ground-floor apartment. An elderly man waved her on her way, and I was close enough to hear her thank him before she turned west and started walking. Her pace was measured and slow, but better than I would have expected for a woman recovering from a bullet wound to the stomach. Dangling from her left shoulder was a small green backpack.

I dialed four on my speed dial—one was for Monk because he insisted on being either one or ten, which didn’t exist, two was for Julie, three was for Stottlemeyer, four was for Devlin—and waited an endless few seconds. “Suspect heading west on Page on foot. Turning right onto Scott now.”

“Follow procedure,” said Devlin. Over the phone I could hear the Grand Am roaring to life.

The procedure was simple. I tailed our target on foot, updating the lieutenant as she maneuvered the maze of one-way streets. As I had hoped, Sarabeth was crossing Oak Street, heading for the westbound Muni stop on Fell, which gave us a minute or two to regroup half a block away.

“How did she get on Page?” Devlin and I were only ten yards away from each other but still on our phones.

“I didn’t count on a back exit,” I explained. “But at least we got her.” The number one rule of a stakeout is to cover all exits. In this case, there had been only one. I hadn’t even thought of the back gate, since it dead-ended into the yard of a neighbor, old Mr. Simonton, as I recalled from Sarabeth’s conversation yesterday.

This development told me three things: one, Sarabeth was on good terms with Mr. Simonton; two, she was smart enough to make up a plausible story for needing to use his
front door instead of her own; and three, she was being cautious. She wanted to get out and didn’t completely trust that we had removed her bodyguard. I also felt I was on my way to proving a fourth, that I’d been right and Monk’s new girlfriend was guilty of something.

Somewhere a cell phone rang. The distance and the street noise combined to make it barely audible. Sarabeth pulled it out of her backpack. I wasn’t close enough to hear, but I could see her face radiating a smile as soon as she answered.

As the Seventy-one, the Haight-Noriega, pulled up, Sarabeth said good-bye, got on the bus, and swiped her pass. I got off my own phone and back into the Grand Am. Devlin kept us in the bus lane, thirty yards back, with no vehicle in between. Reaching around to the back, I dusted away a week’s worth of fast-food wrappers, and grabbed the binoculars. From what I could see, Sarabeth was sitting by herself, on the right side, by the window, about six rows from the rear, completely unaware of our presence.

She stayed seated as the Seventy-one angled its way left through the edge of Golden Gate Park and emerged onto Lincoln Way, the road that marks the park’s southern boundary. At the Ninth Avenue stop, I barely noticed the bald man, middle-aged, carrying himself carefully as he got on the bus. He was at the front of a group of three and planted both feet on each step before going up to the next. Devlin’s inner alarm may have gone off sooner, but mine didn’t activate until the seemingly frail man sat down next to Sarabeth—on a half-empty bus with plenty of seats.

“Can that be him?” I asked, focusing the binoculars.
Could it be that easy? In the midst of a city-wide manhunt, could our guy actually be getting on a public bus and settling in beside one of his victims?

At each stop the bus made, I refocused the binoculars. The green backpack was now on his lap, not hers, and they seemed to be talking.

We stayed in this procession through the left turn onto Twenty-third Avenue, still in the bus lane. It was shortly after the Lawton Street stop, when the blue and white lights began flashing in our rearview mirror and whoop-whoop of a siren ruined everything.

“We’re in the bus lane,” I moaned. I had thought of this before, but really! Since when do the San Francisco police enforce the bus lane?

“Damn,” said Devlin. She pulled over as quickly as she could. “Natalie, follow on foot. Don’t let them get away.”

“What about the cops?”

“There’s only one. I’ll take care of him and catch up.”

“Where’s the camera?” I shouted.

“Go, go, go,” she shouted back, which I took to mean,
It’s under food wrappers or in the trunk or maybe I forgot it. Go!

Devlin got out of the car at the same moment I did, her hands raised. “Get back in the vehicle,” an amplified voice blared. “Both of you. Now.”

I didn’t obey, but grabbed my phone and started running, trying to keep my eyes on the bus and wondering where the next stop might be. The next to the last thing I heard was Devlin speaking in a loud but calm voice. “We’re officers in pursuit. I’m going to reach into my jacket and pull my ID.”

“Don’t do it,” said the bullhorn. “Ma’am, I’m warning you. Get back in your vehicle.” Uh-oh. I knew for a fact that Devlin hates being called ma’am.

There was very little foot traffic on Twenty-third, but that didn’t stop me from running in a zigzag, as if the officer had forgotten about Devlin and was training a bazooka on my back. I saw the bus do one more half stop, no one getting off or on, then make a right turn onto Noriega. At least I thought it was Noriega. I was still more than a block behind.

By the time I made my own right turn on Noriega, it was too late. My heart sank as I saw the Seventy-one blending in with three other buses in the bus lane, all taking in and letting off passengers—plus three cars and a taxi also in the bus lane, driving undisturbed, just to rub salt in the wound. Damn it. It wasn’t fair.

I walk-ran another five blocks before admitting to myself it was useless. Then I doubled over at the waist and tried to catch my breath. I don’t care what they tell you. One Pilates class a week can in no way prepare you for this.

I didn’t want to go back to Devlin with nothing to show, but what could I do? Had we really come this close, only to be foiled by a traffic cop protecting the sanctity of the bus lanes? As I turned the corner back onto Twenty-third, I wondered who I would see lying spread-eagle over the hood of the cruiser—Devlin or the traffic cop. It could go either way.

It turned out no one was on the hood. Two more patrol cars had joined the scene, and Amy was in the center of the action, toggling back and forth between a phone in one hand and a police communicator in the other. I wasn’t sure which
of the uniformed officers had pulled us over, but I was sure he was feeling terrible.

I remained on the sidelines until my breathing had returned to normal. “Don’t apologize,” Devlin said as she saw me walking her way. She pocketed her phone. “It is what it is.”

“Can you send someone to stop the bus?”

“Already done. They stopped it at the end of the line on Ortega. Neither Sarabeth nor the bald guy was on it. The driver is being questioned.”

“I should have started sooner. Run faster.”

“Teeger, stop it. You’re the one who figured she would go. Without you, we wouldn’t have had the stakeout.”

“So what do we do?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you what we don’t do. We don’t let Sarabeth know we’re onto her. When she comes home, we set up a real stakeout. Maybe we’ll get a second chance. We’ll also get a warrant for phone taps, cell and landline. Meanwhile, I’ll call Judge Markowitz and get a record of Sarabeth’s recent calls. When she left the house today, I assume she was talking to him.”

“How about following the money?” I suggested. “If they were both involved in the embezzlement, the money has to be somewhere. Two million dollars.”

“Good idea, Teeger. We may not have enough probable cause to examine her bank accounts, but we can certainly check her recent deposits and withdrawals. She’ll have some serious explaining to do when we find her.”

A chill went right through me. “If we find her. What if we just blew our last chance?”

“Then we have two of them gone. I just hope she’s not as good at disappearing.”