Mr. Monk on the Couch (20 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“H
ow the hell did he get in the room?” Stottlemeyer asked.

We were standing on the long landing outside the open door to Corinne’s apartment while a forensics unit processed the scene, taking pictures and gathering evidence.

“He climbed in through the bathroom window in the back of the building,” Devlin said.

“Who left the window open?”

“I did,” Devlin said.

“Why did you do that?” the captain asked. “It was like inviting him to come kill you.”

“I was,” Devlin said. “He wasn’t going to walk up and knock on the front door, was he?”

Monk rolled his shoulders and shifted his weight between his feet. “The bathroom door was closed throughout the early evening as you watched TV and ate dinner. You went into the bathroom to take a drink of water, and then you went to bed, leaving the door open.”

“This isn’t about her teeth again, is it?” Stottlemeyer said. “Because she’s brushed them. Twice.”

“What I’m saying is that Rico was already in the apartment when Lieutenant Devlin got that drink of water,” Monk said. “She knew he’d snuck in while the bathroom door was closed and that he was hiding in the shower. But instead of apprehending him at that moment, or alerting us that he was there, she turned out the lights and went to bed, and left the door open for him. She gave him the opportunity to crawl out and try to kill her as she slept.”

That was why we didn’t see him on the monitors. It was pitch-dark in the room and he was on the floor until the last moment, when he rose into the light from the streetlamps.

Stottlemeyer looked angrily at Devlin. “What possessed you to do that?”

“I didn’t want there to be a question in anyone’s mind about what he came there to do,” she said. “And I wanted to kick his ass.”

“You could have been killed,” Stottlemeyer said.

“So could’ve he,” she said. “It was lucky for him the SWAT team came in when they did.”

The captain stepped up close to her. “You ever pull a stunt like that again and I will have your badge. Do we understand each other, Lieutenant?”

“No,” she said, “but I understand you, sir.”

She walked off, brushing past Monk on her way to the stairs. He gestured to me for a wipe. I reached into my purse and gave him one, banging my elbow on the flower box outside Corinne’s window in the process.

“She scares me,” he said, wiping his sleeve.

“Me, too,” Stottlemeyer said.

“But the good news is that we’ve apprehended Rico Ramirez, recovered the diamonds, and closed the book on four murders,” I said.

“And disinfected the mobile command center,” Stottlemeyer said.

“And Natalie’s bathroom, too,” Monk said.

“Well, we can’t do much better than that, can we?” Stottlemeyer said. “We can go to bed tonight knowing that, for the moment, all is right.”

“Not quite,” Monk said. “Ambrose is still shacked up with an ex-con motorcycle chick.”

“You can’t have it all, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

That reminded me that there was still the O’Quinn mystery left for me to solve, and with these cases behind us, there was no reason I couldn’t devote the next few days to the task.

Stottlemeyer started to leave and we followed. It was a tight fit on the landing, and I banged my arm on the flower box beneath Corinne’s window once again as I walked past it.

I glared at the box, as if it had intentionally misbehaved, and was distracted by the pleasant flower arrangement, a colorful assortment of blooming geraniums and begonias ringed with bunches of white alyssums. I leaned down to smell them.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Monk said.

“Why not?” I asked. “They say you’ll see the world in a whole new way if you stop and smell the roses.”

“It’s suicidal,” Monk said.

“Flowers won’t kill you, Mr. Monk.”

“You could inhale an excessive amount of pollen, have a severe sinus reaction, and drown in your own mucus. Or a bee could fly up your nose, sting you, and cause your esophagus to swell shut, ensuring your death from anaphylactic shock.”

“I don’t have sinus problems and I’m not allergic to bees,” I said.

“As far as you know,” Monk said. “This would be a horrible way to find out that you’re wrong. Is the sniff really worth it?”

“Yes,” I said, closing my eyes and smelling the flowers again. And when I opened them, I saw more than just the flowers.

“What they say is true,” I said.

“Your sinuses are filling up?”

“I see things in a whole new light,” I said. “I’ve just solved the mystery of Walter O’Quinn.”

“Tell me,” he said.

But I didn’t.

 

Monk didn’t handle the frustration well. He called me twice during the night asking me to tell him what I’d figured out, but I refused.

“I thought you said the case was too boring to be interesting to you,” I said.

“It is,” Monk said. “But if there’s a solution, I need to hear it.”

“You will,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

“I need to know now,” he said.

“Then solve it yourself,” I said. “You have the rest of the night.”

“What’s left to solve?”

“You can find his family,” I said. “Like I have.”

“How did you do that?”

“You’re the detective,” I said. “Detect.”

But to be fair, Monk was at a big disadvantage. He wasn’t privy to the same information that I was, nor had he been able to make the same observations that I had, not that I was going to concede any of that to him.

I picked Monk up in my car at eight the next morning and we drove to the Tenderloin. It was a thrilling change for me to be the one who knew all the answers and for Monk to be the one tagging along, completely in the dark. I wanted to make the experience last, but I was also eager for the conclusion, to reveal what I knew and to satisfy my curiosity about what I didn’t.

I parked in front of the Excelsior, got out of the car, and opened the door to the backseat, taking out the box that contained O’Quinn’s fake ID, the binoculars, the old snapshot of Stacey and Rose, the Western novels, and the photo taken of O’Quinn on his deathbed.

Monk joined me and I carried the box across the street with me to Brewster’s, the coffee place.

“What are we doing here?”

“I’m getting a cup of coffee and something sweet to start off my day. Can I get you something?”

“Do they have Fiji bottled water?”

“They might, but coffee is their specialty. Why not try a cup?”

“Drink hot liquid muddied with the effluent of crushed beans? No, thanks.”

“How about a cup of hot tea?”

“Drink boiled leaves? Oh sure. Maybe I can sample a cup of hot mud, too.”

“You eat meat, Mr. Monk. And you eat fruits and vegetables. I don’t see how coffee or tea is any worse.”

“Even a dog knows better than to drink something that isn’t clear,” Monk said.

“I’ve seen dogs drink beer.”

“That’s supposed to be a convincing argument?”

“You’re the one who brought dogs into this,” I said, and we went into the coffeehouse.

It was filled with the same crowd of young professionals as before, and the baristas were scrambling to keep up with the demand. The girl who’d served me on Friday, Alyssa, was there again, too.

“What can I get for you?” she asked when I approached the counter.

“A coffee and cinnamon roll for me and a bottle of Fiji water for my friend.”

“Coming right up,” she said and asked for my name, which she wrote on the side of an empty paper cup.

I found a table by the window for Monk and me, put my box on the floor, and took out the binoculars.

“Is this a stakeout?” he asked.

“No,” I said, setting the binoculars in the center of the table.

Monk gestured to the binoculars. “Then why do you have those out?”

“You’ll see,” I said. “Be patient.”

Alyssa called out my name and I went up to get our order. She handed me a tray with the coffee, water, and pastry.

“You have a beautiful name,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“I like names that come from flowers,” I said. “Like Rose.”

I turned and went back to our table. I felt Alyssa’s gaze on me the whole way. When I took my seat, I looked back just in time to see her glance at the binoculars.

“The girl was staring at you,” Monk said.

“I know. She’ll find an excuse to come over in a minute.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she won’t be able to help herself.”

A minute or two later, she picked up a tray and a couple of wet towels and stepped out from behind the counter to clean tables. She worked her way over to us.

“Those are nice binoculars,” she said.

“What? These old things?” I said.

“My father used to have a pair just like them.”

“These are his, Rose,” I said.

She froze, and for a moment I thought she might faint. Monk nodded at me with approval.

“A woman in her twenties named for a flower and working right across the street from the hotel,” Monk said. “Very observant. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Who are you?” Alyssa asked. “What do you want?”

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” I said. “My name is Natalie Teeger and this is Adrian Monk. We work with the police. We’re helping them investigate your father’s death.”

“That was over twenty years ago,” she said.

“It was last week,” I said and pulled out a chair.

I could see her mind working in the expression on her face. She was following the implications of my remark, which cast her past, and everything she’d been through, in a new and not very pleasant light. It was dizzying. She took a seat and looked at the binoculars.

“May I?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said. “They’re yours now.”

Alyssa picked them up and held them. Focusing on the binoculars seemed to steady her. “I never thought I’d see them again. My father loved these and kept them on his boat. They were a gift from my grandfather. When I think of Dad on that boat, I picture him with these binoculars, looking at the sea ahead. How did you get them?”

“Your father had them with him when he died.”

“I know,” she said. “They were on his boat when it sank.”

I shook my head and pointed to the Excelsior. “He died in that hotel across the street, in a room on the second floor with a view of this coffeehouse. He brought these binoculars with him so he could watch you down here.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not possible.”

“He’d been living in Mexico all these years, crewing on fishing boats and yachts, under the name Jack Griffin. He came back again because he had terminal cancer and, I think, because he wanted to make things right with his family.” I reached into the box and took out the snapshot. “He had this in his hand when he died.”

She looked at the picture and wiped a tear from her face. Monk motioned to me for a wipe. I reached into my purse and handed it to him.

“Not for me, Natalie, for her.”

“People don’t use disinfectant wipes for tears, Mr. Monk.” I gave her a napkin instead. She took it and dabbed her eyes.

“I remember the day this was taken,” she said. “I was so proud of that bike. He was so proud of the house. Mom was so proud of him. We were all so damn proud. We thought that’s what killed him.”

“I know that he went out to the house in Walnut Creek a few days before he died,” I said. “One of the neighbors saw him. I thought he might have approached you, too.”

“I think I would remember that,” she said. “I guess he was a coward to the end.”

I took out the photo that Captain Stottlemeyer had given me of O’Quinn lying on the bed and I set it on the table in front of her. “This is what he looked like. Maybe he bought a coffee from you.”

She touched the photo and shook her head. “I never saw him, or, if I did, his face meant nothing to me.” Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “How sad is that?”

I wondered for whom. For her? For him? Or for all of them?

“How long have you been back in the Bay Area?” I asked.

She pushed the picture away from her. “Only for a few months.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Vancouver,” she said. “My mother and I went up to Canada after Dad’s boat sank to start a new life.”

“Away from the bill collectors,” I said. “But still close to your mom’s family in Washington.”

She nodded and handed the snapshot back to me.

“You can keep the pictures,” I said.

“I don’t want them,” she said and handed over the binoculars, too. “Or these.”

“What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Has he been buried yet?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Put them in the casket,” she said. “Or in the trash. I don’t care.”

“Maybe your mom would like them,” I said.

Alyssa shook her head. “I’m never telling her about this and I’m begging you not to, either. It took her so long to get past the pain, the anger. She finally got remarried to a very nice, dependable man who would never leave her. I have two stepbrothers. That’s her life now. I’m not sure what mine is.”

“Maybe knowing the truth about your past will help you figure that out,” I said.

She glared at me and I knew that I’d crossed a line. “It’s his life that was a lie, not mine. There’s nothing false about my past or who I am. Everything I felt, everything I lost, was true.”

“You don’t have to worry, Alyssa. I won’t disturb your mother,” I said. “I promise. Nobody will.”

“How did he find me?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Why did you come looking for me?”

I glanced over at Monk for help, but he had nothing to say. I was on my own.