Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (18 page)

“She must love him a lot,” said Monk. I’m not sure how much bad karma you get for being jealous of a man who’s sick with cancer, but I think Monk was pretty jealous.

By the time Dr. Rothstein returned to his patients and we returned to the Subaru, the police were gone. I could only imagine the lieutenant’s mortification as she tried to explain the truth to her team.

“I still think Sarabeth’s involved,” Monk said as he got into the car and snapped on his seat belt.

“What do you mean, ‘still’?” I asked. “An hour ago you refused to consider her at all. Now she’s a suspect?”

“She deceived me,” Monk said. “It shows a diabolical lack of character.”

“She was being nice—and trying not to hurt your feelings.”

“No,” Monk insisted. “She’s involved with Noone. You were right the first time.”

“I was not right.”

“Don’t tell me when you’re right. I’ll tell you when you’re right. You were right.”

“You’re just angry.”

“You’re a smart detective, Natalie. You were right.”

“I was totally wrong.” How did I get myself in this position? “Sarabeth is not involved with Noone. She’s made contact with exactly one person, her husband. Meanwhile, Noone is probably a thousand miles away.”

Monk didn’t hear me. He laughed and shook his head.
“Poor Noone. He’s going to be so mad when he finds out the woman he did all this for is still in love with her ex.”

“Adrian, come on. I know you don’t believe that. You’re just hurt.”

“I may be exaggerating,” he conceded. “But not by much. Sarabeth and Noone are in it together. I’m just not sure how.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mr. Monk and the Facebook Friend

N
othing much happened in the next two days. Monk and I drove into work together on Tuesday and walked on Wednesday when the weather was nice enough. He was okay with this kind of spontaneity as long as I gave him twenty-four hours’ notice, which I did after checking the AccuWeather forecast.

On Tuesday the police commissioner announced a review board to look into what they called the department’s “botched response to the Wyatt Noone case.” I found it amusing that everyone continued to call him Noone, even though a handful of us knew this was a made-up name.

Tuesday had also been a slow day for Amy Devlin. The department had taken her off the task force, pending the results of the review board, and she’d been given a choice between desk time and investigating small crimes. She, of course, chose to be out in the field, no matter how menial the work. Tuesday’s big case was a break-in at a City Smart Furniture store in the Richmond district. The alarm bells had done their primary job, which was to discourage a burglar from hanging around. Nothing had been stolen or even ransacked. That was how exciting her Tuesday was.

Stottlemeyer was no longer actively going after Fat Tony. For all of his talk about the police commissioner wanting an arrest, it had just been a ploy to get Monk away from Sarabeth’s side. The captain was now in charge of the task force. But that investigation had disintegrated into a series of dead ends, following up on phone tips and nationwide sightings that were leading nowhere.

Tuesday night, Julie called to chat. She started out talking about her friend Calista who was all excited about going to Harvard Law. They had been planning to go together. But now Julie thought it was the totally wrong choice and that Calista was bound to be overworked and disappointed. I could hear the envy in Julie’s voice, but I didn’t point this out. I let her have her coping mechanism and agreed that the eastern Ivy League schools were overrated.

Toward the end of the conversation, she once again brought up an internship at Monk and Teeger. Instead of saying, “Let me think about it” (
No!
), I said, “We’ll see” (
Maybe
). Who knows, I thought. If she got to help us on a big case, it might look good on her next law school application. A mother can always hope.

Wednesday night, Monk and I had another dinner with Takumi Ito. This time we dined at Rassigio’s, Monk’s only restaurant of choice. A month or so ago, we solved a mysterious little case involving Tony Rassigio, Jr. Ever since, Monk has been treated like a king. The owners dust off their fake AAA rating card from the board of health, post it in the window just for Monk’s benefit, and never present us with a bill.

Ito looked haggard that evening and barely ate. Despite his protests, Sarabeth had come back to work that morning.
“She’s recovering well,” he said, “and, to be honest, I’m grateful. She knows everything about that office. What a treasure.”

Monk bit his tongue. He literally bit it. And the painful annoyance of a bit tongue kept him from even hinting at his own disappointment and suspicions.

By Thursday morning, I was bored. I tried my best to be a responsible business owner. I sent out an e-mail blast to my list of defense lawyers and security companies. I called a few other private investigators and turned on the Teeger charm, schmoozing and trying to get a lead. It turned out no one was having a busy week.

Meanwhile, Monk alternated between cleaning the office, reading old issues of the trade publication,
PI Magazine
, and touring our little strip mall with a broom and a pad of Post-it Notes that he used to write up polite suggestions and stick them to the doors of our neighbors—ways to make their businesses more symmetrical and tidier. An hour later he would have to go out with the broom again to sweep up the crumpled, discarded notes, which he would soon replace with new notes.

I was at my desk, deciding whether to eat my last doughnut from the shop two doors down. I was also checking Facebook and thinking about putting up the Closed sign and bagging it for the day. That was when Daniela Grace walked in. This time, she didn’t bother with the niceties. “Why didn’t you return my call?” she asked, her fists cocked on her hips.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, standing up and brushing a few sugary crumbs from my blouse. “We’ve been swamped.” To tell the truth, I’d forgotten. She had left a message that morning
asking for a progress report and I’d put off calling back until it completely slipped my mind. When I don’t have progress, I often postpone the progress reports.

“Am I to assume you’ve made no progress at all?”

“Not at the moment,” I said. “But Adrian’s giving your case a lot of thought.”

Monk heard his name and glanced up from the January issue. “What am I doing?”

“You’re deep in thought about the Henry Pickler case.” I turned back to Daniela. “That’s the way he works. It may look like he’s reading a magazine or putting up Post-it Notes or sweeping the parking lot, but what he’s really doing is thinking.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Monk confirmed, then went back to whatever article he was reading.

Daniela pursed her lips and scrunched her forehead as much as the Botox would let her. “So he’s thinking, in his own weird way. And what are you doing?” She came around my desk before I could switch screens. “You’re on Facebook?”

“Yes,” I admitted because I had no choice. “I’m on Facebook.”

“And this is how you’re working on my case?”

“You can learn a lot on Facebook,” I said defensively. “For example, Henry Pickler. I friended him last week but he didn’t accept my invitation. That tells me a lot.” I was winging it here. “I also friended his wife, Becky. She didn’t accept my friendship, either.”

“You friended Henry and Becky? Why?”

I actually hadn’t friended either one of them. I just needed to give Daniela a reason why I was wasting time
during business hours. “Facebook is a useful investigative tool. You can learn a lot about a suspect.”

“I suppose,” Daniela allowed. “Although I wouldn’t take either rejection too seriously. You’re not exactly best chums with Henry. And Becky only knows your name because I mentioned it.”

“You mentioned me?”

“In an e-mail. I sent her four or five e-mails when Henry was arrested. It wasn’t until days later, after he was released, that she got back to me.”

“Hmm.” Monk looked up from his magazine. “Is that unusual behavior for her?”

“What?” asked Daniela. “Not getting back to me? Yes, it was unusual. Becky is always a good e-mailer. And she’s on Facebook at least twice a day.”

“But she wasn’t on Facebook while her husband was in jail?” Monk said. “I meant to phrase that as a question. Was she on Facebook at all during the time Pickler was in jail?”

“I don’t know,” said Daniela. “I suppose I could check. Is this important?”

“It could be,” said Monk. “Any change in habit can be important, especially when it coincides with one’s husband getting thrown in jail.”

“Why don’t you check?” I said, and offered Daniela my chair. Since I was already on the site, all she had to do was log out with my name and log in with hers. “What were the exact dates when he was in jail?”

Daniela checked the dates on her phone’s calendar, then pulled up Becky Pickler’s page and scrolled down. “Is this what you mean about Mr. Monk always thinking?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, and left it at that.

“Well, you’re right,” she said, looking up, both impressed and puzzled. “Becky was not doing either Facebook or e-mail on the dates Henry was in jail. What does that mean?”

Monk shrugged. “Offhand, I’d say she didn’t have access to a computer on those days, or she was too busy.”

“Busy doing what?” Daniela asked.

“I don’t do Facebook,” said Monk, “so I don’t know. Is there any way to see her normal pattern of comments?”

“He means her Timeline,” I explained. “Sure, Adrian, bring your chair over and look.”

Monk doesn’t touch computers as a rule. I had placed one on his desk, but that was just to make the office symmetrical. I don’t think I even plugged it in. His way of doing online research is to sit in front of my computer and give me verbal commands. “Lower. Higher. Click on that picture. Next page. Why does this ad want me to buy women’s shoes?”

Monk took his time going down Becky Pickler’s Wall, looking at her friends’ responses, examining her posted photos, having me click on her friends’ photos. “Where does Becky live?”

“Somewhere in the Seattle area,” said Daniela. “She never gave me her address.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t want Henry finding out where she is,” I said. “I know he’s Facebook friends with her.” And I pointed to his photo on the left, one of Becky’s many friends.

“It seems odd she would keep him on,” said Monk.

“She probably forgot to unfriend him,” said I.

“Most of her other friends are from San Francisco. I don’t
see any from Seattle. I find that very curious. Go lower,” he instructed. “The picture we saw before, with the moon. Go, go.”

“I’m going, Adrian,” I said. “Keep your pants on.” In a few more seconds, I’d scrolled down to the one he’d wanted.

I’ve described this one before, the one of Becky alone on a rugged coastline and the pine tree and the skinny moon—the shot taken by her new, camera-shy boyfriend from Australia. Monk had me enlarge it, then put his nose almost against the screen. He pulled his nose back and twitched it. “This was not taken on Easter Sunday.”

“Of course it was,” said Daniela. “It was posted on Easter and Becky says it was Easter.”

“Not Easter,” Monk insisted. “Easter isn’t determined by the calendar. It always falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon in spring. The moon in this shot is just a sliver, at least a week before or after. Therefore this has nothing to do with Easter.”

“I don’t understand,” said Daniela, speaking for me as well. “Why would Becky lie about Easter?”

“Why indeed?” Monk crinkled his nose. “Have you noticed any difference in Becky since she moved away? Does she seem colder or warmer? More personal? Less personal? What about her sense of humor? Has that changed?”

Daniela shrugged. “Perhaps she’s not as fun-loving. Becky used to repost all sorts of videos; funny cats and dogs, funny quotes about drinking, which I don’t really appreciate. She doesn’t do that anymore.”

“And her e-mails? Have they changed?”

“Again, perhaps not as personal and fun-loving. But I think that’s understandable.”

Monk leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and I could barely make out some movement of his lips. I love it when he does this, I have to admit.

“What’s he doing?” Daniela whispered.

“Solving the case,” I whispered back.

Monk stayed in this position for about a minute, until his lips stopped mumbling and a smile began curling upward. Then his eyes snapped open and his chair went upright.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Monk Is in the Field

M
onk doesn’t care for new people. If you remember, it was one of his hundred reasons for not wanting to open Monk and Teeger.

Police officers are one of his least favorite types of new people. They can be rude. It had taken a while to train Stottlemeyer and Devlin and the rest of the major crimes division to accept his way of handling a crime scene. Even stranger is Monk’s way of handling the solution to a crime. For example, I doubt the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office would have been happy to stand by the side of the road and watch us illegally take a shovel to the vacant lot behind the Pickler home. But here was Captain Stottlemeyer, waiting patiently and confidently while Monk, Daniela, and I trespassed onto Henry’s overgrown lot.

Actually, we weren’t taking a shovel to it. We were taking three, all brand-new. They included two identical models and one more expensive, petite version that Daniela had taken a fancy to in the hardware store. Our intent wasn’t to dig. It was to rattle Henry and bluff out the truth.

We’d been in the middle of the lot, within easy view of his office and kitchen, for only a minute when he came
storming out into his backyard. “What are you doing?” There was a white picket gate in the white picket fence separating his yard from the field, and he used it.

“Hello, Henry,” Daniela shouted back sweetly. “How are you today? I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course I mind. Get off my property now or I’ll call the cops.”

“That actually is a cop right there,” said Daniela, pointing to the captain by the side of the road. The captain smiled and waved back. “We brought him along.”

“We know about Becky,” Monk said. By this point, Henry had made his way across the brush and we stopped any pretense of digging.

“What has Becky been telling you? Whatever she’s telling you is a lie.”

“Nice try,” I said. I was dying to say this next part, but I left it to Monk. He’d earned it.

“Where is she buried?” asked Monk.

It was, strictly speaking, a rhetorical question, although it would save us some effort if he pointed out the spot. Monk looked around. “My guess is not far from where Esteban Rivera died.”

“Are you saying I killed my wife?” The timid, nervous man looked appalled by the very notion.

“Yes,” Monk put it simply. “It’s been clawing at the back of my mind. Why would anyone risk being convicted of a murder he didn’t commit? Because it beats being convicted of a murder he did commit.”

“What?” Henry tried to laugh it off. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, then let’s start from the beginning,” suggested Monk. “Eight months ago you killed your wife. I’m sure you had your reasons. Every murderer does. You buried her in this lot and told everyone she’d left you. Since you’re some sort of expert in this Internet fad, you kept Becky alive by continuing her e-mail and her Facebook entries. You took old pictures of her and posted them as new ones. And the only time you stopped answering her e-mails was when you were in jail and didn’t have access to a computer.”

“At some point you were planning to phase Becky out,” I said. “Maybe have her move to Australia with her new boyfriend.” I always have to get my two cents in.

Monk nodded. “Everything was on schedule until the Lucarelli family decided to send Carlos Menendez a message by killing one of his drug dealers right outside his girlfriend’s house. You saw it and panicked. The last thing you needed was a forensic team combing through your field, maybe with some nosy canine unit in tow.”

“That’s why you were out there with a shovel,” chimed in Daniela. “You needed to bury Mr. Rivera’s body. And that’s when you got caught.”

From the moment the highway patrolmen shined their beams into the field, Henry had to play it by ear. He couldn’t tell the truth. And he couldn’t think up a convincing story involving a shovel in his hands. So he said nothing, trusting that he could hire a good lawyer to get him off, which was exactly what happened.

“I imagine Salvatore Lucarelli was curious,” Monk ventured. “An innocent witness willing to take the rap for his
hit?” Up until this point, Henry Pickler had not admitted a thing.

“They kidnapped me in my own driveway,” said Henry, “without letting me even put my car away. With the top down and the garage door open. Animals.”

“Mobsters can be like that,” I said sympathetically. “Did they torture you?”

“Torture me?” He shivered. “Good God, no. But they roughed me up. I figured it was safe to tell them. I would never rat on them and they would never rat on me.”

“So you admit it,” I said. “You admit you killed Becky.”

“I didn’t admit anything.”

“Yes, you shouldn’t admit anything,” Daniela said. “And that’s the last advice I’m going to give as your lawyer, Henry. It’s been fun.”

“You’re quitting?” He seemed so hurt. “Daniela, you can’t quit.”

“I’m quitting. There are plenty of great defense attorneys. I’m sure you can find one who wasn’t a friend of the woman you killed. Allegedly killed.”

“It’s going to be easy getting a court order to dig up this field,” Monk pointed out. “Especially when the Seattle police do a little checking on Becky’s existence.”

“Plus we can verify that her e-mails came from your computer,” I said, again with the two cents.

Monk was amazed. “You can do that?”

“Of course they can,” Henry said. He looked off at the field, then back at his house. And he sighed. “This is not going to be pleasant.”

“That’s what you get for killing your wife,” said Monk. “And your mother and your father. By the way, Henry, where are they buried?”

I was stunned, but Henry barely twitched. “I didn’t kill my parents. It was an accident.”

“You killed your parents, too?” Daniela asked. “Henry, Henry, Henry.”

“It was an accident,” Henry insisted. “Dad always went foraging for wild mushrooms in the fall. I personally don’t eat mushrooms. Too earthy and dirty. But Mom and Dad loved going out and picking their own. Back to nature. And now they’re really back to nature.” He shrugged. “You can tell I’m not fond of cemeteries.”

“Under the apple tree?” Monk guessed. He pointed to the gnarled little tree not far from the picket fence. “It’s not native to a vacant lot. It caught my eye the first time I paid a visit.”

“I planted it as a memorial eight years ago,” said Henry. “How did you know?”

“You strike me as a logical person,” said Monk. “This lot is the only vacant piece of property in the neighborhood. I thought there might be a reason for never selling it. So while my partner was playing with her e-mails and Facebook, I called the San Mateo County Clerk. They have no record of the death of any Pickler in the past twenty years.”

At this point, eight years after, it couldn’t be proved one way or the other as to whether Henry had fed them the poisoned mushrooms or it had been an accident. It was bad either way. Like the movie
Psycho
, I thought. The worst part wasn’t the murder in the shower; it was Norman Bates keeping his mother stuffed in the basement.

I looked over to Captain Stottlemeyer, gave him a heads-up, and met him halfway across the lot. “How did it go?” he asked. “Is he coming peacefully?”

“I think so,” I said. “If the sheriff’s office handles him right, they’ll be able to get Fat Tony, too.”

At the county sheriff’s office in Redwood City, Henry made a full confession. As luck would have it, the sheriff had taken the afternoon off to go to his daughter’s soccer game, leaving our friend Deputy Sheriff Clayton Jones more than willing to grab the glory.

It was late in the afternoon when two San Mateo County cruisers made their way north into the city, followed by the captain’s Buick sedan and my trusty old Subaru. Waiting for us in front of the barbershop in North Beach was an SFPD patrol car. Another one had been stationed in the back alley.

You could tell by the way Deputy Clayton Jones got out of the cruiser, all swagger, that he intended to be in charge. “I appreciate your assistance on this one, Captain, but I’ll take the lead.”

“It may be your arrest,” said Stottlemeyer, “but it’s not your case. It’s Monk’s case. If it was up to you, Pickler would still be at large and the Rivera case would go unsolved.”

“Actually, it’s not my case,” Monk corrected him. “It’s Natalie’s. She’s the boss. She’s the one Daniela Grace hired. It’s only right that Natalie do the honors.”

“Are you serious? Thank you.” I was shocked and flattered. “Is this because you don’t want to face down Sal Lucarelli?”

“You know better,” he said. And it was true. Monk had taken pleasure in taking down plenty of bad guys just as
intimidating as Sal. “It’s because Sal was rude. He belittled you by calling you pretty. No one should do that.”

“Adrian, I don’t object to being called pretty.”

“Yes, you do. I practically had to drag you away from his throat.”

The captain’s mustache twitched as he suppressed a smile. “Is that right?”

I nodded. “In a way. Sal and his mob were amused by the idea of a pretty little assistant being Monk’s boss. Especially Fat Tony.”

“Natalie hates being called pretty,” Monk repeated.

“Then I guess it’s settled,” said Stottlemeyer. “Natalie does the honors.”

“Wait a minute,” sputtered Deputy Jones. “The murder was in my jurisdiction. Legally . . .”

“You’ll still get the collar,” said the captain. “And he’ll be wearing your cuffs. But this is Natalie’s moment. No one likes being called pretty. I know I don’t.”

“Being pretty is fine,” I insisted. “Under other circumstances it’s very nice.”

“I know,” said the captain. “Shall we do it?”

I realize it sounds silly, a bunch of adults in the middle of the street, arguing over who gets to take the lead. Monk is not legally allowed to make an arrest. Neither am I. But you go through a lot when you’re pursuing a case. And part of what gets you through is looking forward to seeing the smile get wiped off their faces, to finally look them in the eye and let them know you’re the one who’s sending them to jail, not some grandstanding deputy who can’t find three bodies in a vacant lot.

We didn’t wait for Deputy Jones to lodge another complaint. The captain opened the door to the barbershop. Monk grabbed the broom and swept his way through the hair. I followed, like a star walking down the red carpet. When we came to the back room door, I opened it fearlessly.

They were waiting for us, not looking happy but managing to hide it behind their casual bravado. As usual, Sal was at his rolltop desk. “Natalie, sweetie. A sight for sore eyes, even when you barge in like a truck driver. Captain. Monk. What can I do for you?”

“Don’t look at me,” said the captain, and waved a hand in my direction.

I did my best to savor it, taking in Sal’s wary eyes, the confusion on the faces of the boys around the air hockey table, and Monk’s expression, partly proud of me and partly proud of himself for giving the moment to me. The only face missing from this magic moment was Fat Tony’s. “Where’s your nephew?” I asked.

“I got a lot of nephews,” said Sal.

“Anthony Lucarelli,” I said.

“What do you want with Tony?”

“I want you to say good-bye to him. He’s going away.” Pretty good, huh? It came to me on the spur of the moment.

“Tony’s not here,” said Sal. “He said he was going with his girlfriend to the movies.”

Well, that took some of the air out of our sails. “Damn,” said Jones. “I knew we shouldn’t have come so late.”

“What movie?” said Stottlemeyer. He was reaching for his phone.

But I wasn’t about to let my moment slip away. I had seen
something in Sal’s eyes, the way they darted over to the left. I held up my hand and the room fell silent. Everyone was focused on me, even though I had no idea what I was going to do.

It turned out I didn’t need to know. The sound of flushing water erupted from behind the door to Sal’s left and ten seconds later, Fat Tony emerged from the bathroom. From the timing, I don’t think he’d had time to wash.

He was just zipping up his pants when he caught sight of me. “If it isn’t my favorite PI.”

“Anthony Lucarelli, you’re under arrest for the murder of Esteban Rivera.”

Fat Tony just smiled. “I know you’d like that to be true, Natty girl. But I have a dozen witnesses who will swear . . .”

“And we have just one,” I said. “Henry Pickler has turned state’s evidence.”

I love it when their smiles fade. It never gets old.

“Now if you’ll just go back and thoroughly wash your hands, we can put on the cuffs,” said Monk. “Safety first.”