Mr. Monk on the Couch (7 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

M
onk noticed how they were dressed, or rather undressed, and drew his own conclusions. “You didn’t answer the door right away because you were both showering at the same time.”

“That’s correct,” Ambrose said.

“That wasn’t very wise,” Monk said. “You know what happens when you run two showers at once in this house. It causes a significant drop in water pressure and rapid depletion of the hot water.”

“That wasn’t an issue,” Yuki said.

Monk cocked his head and looked at Ambrose. “Have you upgraded the pipes and improved the pressure?”

“His piping and pressure are terrific,” she said with a sly grin.

Ambrose blushed and spoke up quickly. “What brings you here, Adrian?”

“It was my idea,” I said. “I wanted to ask for your help with something, but I really should have called first.”

“Why?” Monk asked me. “He’s always here.”

“Because he has a life,” I said.

“No, he doesn’t,” Monk said.

“Yes, he does. I’m sorry for intruding on you, Ambrose. We’ll come back another time.” I grabbed Monk by the arm and started to lead him away. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ambrose said. “Please, come in.”

Yuki stepped aside and ushered us in. We walked past her into the entry hall and she closed the door behind us.

I looked around. The living room was still lined with stacks of newspapers going back decades and rows of file cabinets containing every piece of mail that had ever come to the house. The décor everywhere else was the same as it had always been. It looked as if nothing had changed in the house since our last visit several weeks earlier. But I knew that wasn’t true. The evidence was standing in front of me in bathrobes.

“Can I offer you some Fiji water? Marshmallows? Perhaps some cinnamon Pop-Tarts?” Ambrose asked, leading us into the dining room.

“No, thank you,” Monk said. “Here’s something I bet you didn’t know, Ambrose. Natalie has worked as my assistant for years and not once has she taken a shower at my house.”

“That’s a shame,” Yuki said.

“She arrives for work already bathed and clean,” Monk said. “You should arrive that way, too.”

“I don’t have to arrive,” Yuki said. “I live here.”

Monk went wide-eyed and turned to Ambrose. “She’s a full-time, live-in assistant?”

I knew the idea was a dream come true for Monk. It was a nightmare scenario for me. And that wasn’t even factoring in the aspects of the situation that Monk still hadn’t grasped.

“It’s been very advantageous,” Ambrose said.

“I hope she’s not staying in my room,” Monk said.

“Of course not,” Ambrose said.

“That would be sacrilegious,” Yuki said. “From what I’ve been told, that room has been kept in the same state since the day you left for college. There should be a red velvet rope across the doorway.”

Monk glowered at her. Ambrose spoke up quickly, directing his remarks to me.

“So, Natalie, what do you need my help with?”

Ambrose sat down at the table and we followed his lead, taking seats as well.

I gave him a quick rundown on the man who died in the hotel room, what Monk had deduced about his life in Mexico, and Stottlemeyer’s discovery that his fingerprints weren’t in the system and that his identification was fake.

“He had this snapshot in his hand when he died,” I said and passed the picture to Ambrose. “I’d like to find out who he was, why he was in San Francisco, and locate any family he might have left behind.”

“What name did he leave when he registered at the hotel?” Yuki asked.

“Jack Griffin,” I said.

“The Invisible Man,” she said.

“He shouldn’t be,” I said. “All lives mean something. Someone must have cared about him, and whoever it is deserves to know about his fate.”

“I’m talking about his name,” Yuki said. “Jack Griffin was the name of the Invisible Man, as portrayed by Claude Rains in the 1933 movie adaptation.”

“Really?” I said.

“His name was just ‘Griffin’ in the H. G. Wells novel,” she said. “They added the first name ‘Jack’ for the movie. The name changed many times over the years in subsequent adaptations.”

Ambrose beamed with pride. “Isn’t she amazing? She’s full of facts like that.”

“That’s handy if you are frequently in need of trivial knowledge,” Monk said.

“Knowledge is knowledge, Adrian. The value of it is situational. What might seem trivial one moment could be vital the next,” Ambrose said. “This might be one such instance.”

“It’s not,” Monk said.

“He chose that name on purpose,” I said. “It’s telling.”

“I agree,” Ambrose said. “It clearly indicates that all of this man’s actions were carefully premeditated, that he was very self-aware, and that he didn’t want to be seen, even in death.”

“Maybe we should honor that,” Monk said.

“You make a good point, Mr. Monk. But I just can’t do that. Maybe that’s selfish of me, and maybe it will turn out to be a mistake, and then you can say ‘I told you so.’ ”

“I will,” Monk said. “But I won’t be petty and vindictive about it.”

“Just smug and superior,” I said.

“Thoroughly and justifiably,” Monk said.

I turned to Ambrose. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to help.”

“I would be glad to assist you,” Ambrose said.

“Me, too,” Yuki said. “I know something about how terminal cancer affects a man. As Dub got sicker, nothing else mattered to him except finishing his last story. Maybe, in his own way, Griffin was trying to do the same thing.”

Ambrose nodded. “Isn’t she incredible?”

Monk groaned.

“Thank you both,” I said. “I’m hoping that the photograph and his belongings will give us clues that could explain who he was and why he came to San Francisco to die.”

I took out my notebook and shared with them my inventory of items, as well as my observations and questions. While I spoke, Yuki went to the living room, got a notepad and pen, and made some notes of her own.

When I was done, Ambrose picked up the picture again, sat back in his chair, and nodded. “That’s an excellent start, Natalie. But I think there’s a lot more information we can extract from this photograph.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well, there’s the materials used in the roofing, the setback of the home from the street, the location and type of sewer grate in the curb, the dimensions of the sidewalk, and the shape, height, and position of the streetlamp,” Ambrose said. “From all of that, we can make some informed assumptions about the building codes and utility requirements that were in force at the time, which could help us pinpoint where and when this picture was taken. We might also be able to determine the manufacturer of the roofing, the sewer grate, the streetlamp, and so forth.”

“Wow,” I said. “I never thought of that. I wouldn’t know where to begin to find that information.”

“Of course you do or you wouldn’t be here,” Ambrose said. “It’s with me. I wrote the book on sewer grates.”

Knowing Ambrose, I assumed he meant that literally. He probably wrote the books on roofing materials and streetlamps as well.

“There’s also the snapshot itself,” Yuki said. “We might be able to determine the type of photo paper and the process used to develop it, and from that, the type of camera that took the picture. If you let us hold on to the photo, I’ll scan it and e-mail you a high-res jpeg so you can examine it in detail.”

“Isn’t she wonderful?” Ambrose said.

“You’re sweet, Ambrose. I’m going to go get dressed.” She got up and nodded to Monk and me. “It was nice to see you both again. Don’t be strangers.”

Monk watched her leave the room, and the instant she was gone, he turned to Ambrose.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Why do you say that, Adrian?”

“You don’t even know that woman,” he said.

“I know more about her than you knew about Natalie before you hired her,” Ambrose said. “And I know how I feel.”

“You’ve lived in this house for decades,” Monk said. “Frankly, you are naive in the ways of the world and how predatory and dangerous it is out there.”

“Why do you think that I’ve stayed inside all of these years?” Ambrose asked.

“Well, now you’ve opened the door and let that outside world right in,” Monk said.

“I would have done it sooner if I’d known it would be Yuki. She’s changed my life,” Ambrose said. “And I have the two of you to thank for it. If you hadn’t taken me on that road trip for my birthday, I never would have met Yuki. I feel reborn. That road trip was the greatest present anyone has ever given me.”

I smiled and squeezed Ambrose’s hand. “I am so happy for you, Ambrose.”

“Oh for God’s sake, wake up. What do we know about this woman?” Monk asked. “She could be an ex-con.”

“She is,” Ambrose said.

“She could have killed someone,” Monk said.

“She has,” Ambrose said.

Monk slapped his hands on the table in frustration. “And you let her into your home? You’re insane. You’ve become a danger to yourself.”

“Then so are you, Mr. Monk,” I said.

“How can you say that? You know me. I would never act as impulsively, as irresponsibly, and as self-destructively as he has.”

“Yes, you would,” I said. “You already have.”

“What are you talking about?” Monk asked.

“I’m an ex-con,” I said.

“You were arrested for a minor offense in college,” Monk said. “It’s not the same.”

“I’ve killed someone,” I said.

“That was in self-defense,” Monk said.

“Even so, all those things didn’t stop you from letting me into your home.”

“But not in my shower,” Monk said.

“Is that what’s bothering you, Adrian?” Ambrose asked. “That Yuki and I are together?”

Monk stared at him. “You’re
together
together?”

“How could you not know that? How could you not see the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me?” Ambrose said. “Why does everyone think you’re this astoundingly observant detective when you are totally blind?”

“Oh my God,” Monk said, lowering his head and covering his face with his hands. “This just keeps getting worse.”

He was right. I had to save Monk from himself. I got up from my seat. “I think it’s time for Mr. Monk and me to go.”

“I’ll call you when we have some information for you,” Ambrose said.

Monk got up and pointed a finger at Ambrose. “Don’t come crying to me when Yuki strips this house of valuables and runs off with her Hells Angels friends to get tattooed.”

“She’s already tattooed,” Ambrose said. “She has a snake on her back. I think it’s beautiful.”

“The apocalypse is nigh,” Monk said. “And the first horseman just rode in on a Harley.”

And with that, Monk marched out of the house, slamming the door behind him. I was about to say something when Monk came back in, went straight over to one of the stacks of newspapers in the living room, straightened the issue on top, then stormed out again.

“Please forgive him, Ambrose,” I said. “He doesn’t handle change well.”

“I didn’t like change, either, until the change was Yuki. Does that make sense?”

I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Perfect sense.”

CHAPTER NINE

T
he drive back into San Francisco across the Golden Gate Bridge was an ordeal, as I knew it would be.

“Can you believe what Ambrose has done?” Monk lamented.

“I’m very happy for him.”

“Then you care nothing for his well-being.”

I’d had it with him by that point and couldn’t hold back any longer.

“As I recall, Mr. Monk, the whole point of taking your brother out on that road trip was because you’d achieved a balance in your life that you felt he’d been denied. One of the things that saddened you was that he hadn’t found someone to love. Well, now he has. So what are you complaining about? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Not with some biker chick that he picked up on the side of the road.”

“Who cares where you find love as long as you find it?” I said. “Or it finds you?”

Monk looked at me gravely. “I think they’re fornicating.”

I wanted to slam my head against the steering wheel. “You’re missing the whole point.”

“Take me to Dr. Bell’s office right away.”

“You were just there this morning,” I said.

“This is a crisis,” he said. “A psychiatric emergency.”

“Are you having a mental breakdown?”

“No, I’m fine,” Monk said. “I’m the epitome of clear thinking and rationality.”

“So what’s the emergency?”

“Do you have amnesia? My brother is fornicating with a homicidal tattooed motorcycle mama! Dr. Bell might be the only one who can save him.”

“How do you expect Dr. Bell to do that?”

“By committing Ambrose to a mental institution.”

“On what grounds?”

“Insanity, of course. If what Ambrose is doing isn’t insanity, nothing is.”

“By that, you mean having sex.”

Monk gave me a stern look. “Do you realize what that actually involves?”

“I have a distant memory,” I said.

“At least he had the good sense to do it in a shower,” Monk said, “where there’s plenty of soap, cleanser, disinfectant, rubber gloves, and scrubbing brushes.”

I didn’t bother arguing any more with Monk. It was pointless when he was that distraught. Instead, I did as he asked and took him to Dr. Bell’s office. I didn’t think Dr. Bell would do anything about Ambrose, but I hoped that he could do something for Monk.

 

I dropped him off in front of Dr. Bell’s office and sped away. I didn’t want to be around when the disinfectant wipes hit the fan.

I found a parking spot a few blocks away off Columbus Avenue and walked down to Washington Square. It was a nice day, and I was happy to just sit there and watch the children play, and the couples make out, and the dogs chase balls, as if all of them were actors on a stage, performing for an audience of one.

But after about an hour, my cell phone rang and a very irritated Dr. Bell insisted that I come get Monk immediately. I didn’t ask Dr. Bell how the session went and he wouldn’t have told me if I had.

When I drove up to Dr. Bell’s office, Monk was already waiting for me, pacing on the sidewalk out front. He got in the car and slammed the door.

“The planet has slipped off its axis and is rolling into the abyss,” he said.

The fact that Monk was using a belabored metaphor like that could only mean that things didn’t go well.

“I take it Dr. Bell declined to institutionalize your brother for falling in love.”

Monk shook his head. “He wasn’t paying attention to what I was saying. He was too busy listening to the fatties in his compulsive overeaters group.”

“You crashed their session, Mr. Monk.”

“Oh come on. What do they have to talk about? So I told them: ‘Stop eating so much, you’re all fat enough as it is. If you can’t do that, simply wire your jaws shut until the tonnage is gone.’ There. Done. Problem solved. I assumed we were ready to move on to a real psychiatric emergency, like my crazy brother taking showers with a sociopath. But things inexplicably got ugly.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“No, you can’t. They became an angry mob. They charged me like rampaging elephants. I wasn’t sure whether they were going to crush me, or eat me, or both. Those people desperately need help.”

“Which is what they were trying to get from Dr. Bell when you intruded on their therapy session and ridiculed their problems.”

“Ambrose is on his own,” Monk said. “There’s nothing I can do for him.”

“He’ll appreciate that,” I said.

“You say that now,” Monk said. “But wait until his heart is broken.”

“It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“This isn’t love. It’s lunacy.”

“Love is a kind of lunacy.”

“I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason,” Monk said.

 

We went back to Monk’s place, where he went straight to the refrigerator, took a drink of Fiji water right out of the bottle, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked me in the eye defiantly, as if I represented the conventions he was breaking. Maybe that’s because I was the only one around. It actually would have made much more sense for him to look defiantly into a mirror. I had no problem drinking out of the bottle or using the back of my hand as a napkin.

“Am I shocking you?” he asked, then took another sip from the bottle.

“Not really,” I said.

“I guess there are no boundaries of human behavior left to cross after what we’ve seen today.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “I think I’ll go home and try to cope.”

He opened the refrigerator again and tossed me a bottle of Fiji water.

“Drink responsibly,” Monk said. “Don’t open that until you get home.”

“Will do,” I said. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Nope,” he said, took another swig, and wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand.

 

It was shortly after eight the next morning when my phone rang. As soon as I heard it, I knew for certain that it was Captain Stottlemeyer and that someone was dead. I was right. Sunrise in San Francisco almost always casts light on a corpse.

I called Monk with the news and it immediately put him in a good mood. There was nothing like the violent, tragic end of another human being’s life to brighten his day.

I really shouldn’t say that. It’s not fair to Monk.

The truth is, it wasn’t the murder itself that made Monk happy—it was the challenge of solving a puzzle, the opportunity to set things right, and the chance to feel needed. It was just a shame that someone had to die for him to feel those things.

And I knew that this time it wasn’t the mystery he was looking forward to as much as the opportunity to clean it up, literally instead of just figuratively.

Although it didn’t lift my spirits that someone had been murdered, I did feel that shot of adrenaline, and that flutter of excitement in my chest, that came with the knowledge that I’d soon be caught up in another investigation. I discovered that the death of the Invisible Man wasn’t enough to sate my eagerness to prove myself.

Monk was waiting for me on the street outside of his apartment building when I drove up. He was holding the box that contained a set of disposable full-body coveralls, rubber gloves, filtered respirator mask, goggles, and rubber boots. He put the box in the backseat and then got into the car beside me.

I glanced at him. He had dark circles under his eyes, his hair was slightly askew, and I saw a wrinkle on his sleeve.

“Rough night?” I asked.

He nodded. “I hit the bottle pretty hard and then I went to bed without bathing or brushing my teeth.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” I said as I steered the car away from the curb and headed for the crime scene, which was down in the Mission District.

“This situation with Ambrose has me reeling.”

“He’s happy, Mr. Monk. There’s no reason to reel.”

“Happiness is an illusion, Natalie. It doesn’t actually exist.”

“Of course it does,” I said. “It’s what you feel when you’re not sad.”

“That’s unconsciousness. And I’m pretty sure that I’m miserable when I am unconscious, too.”

I gave up, as I usually do, in any discussion where I try to change Monk’s mind about something. He’d have to make his own peace with Ambrose’s relationship.

The crime scene was the Bargain Thrift Store on Mission between Seventeenth and Eighteenth streets. It was a largely Latino neighborhood, and on that block alone there were two taquerias, three nail salons, a check-cashing center, a used-book store, two pawnshops, a beauty salon, a bakery, two corner produce markets, one fortune-teller, and three storefront
iglesias pentecostales.

The street in front of the Bargain Thrift Store was clogged with official police vehicles, so we had to park a few doors down in front of the Adult Supercenter, a banner above the blacked-out windows reading “Hundreds of New Toys Just In.”

“That’s disgusting,” Monk said as we got out of the car. “They’re trying to lure in children.”

“No one under the age of twenty-one is allowed inside. The advertising is aimed at adults.”

“Adults don’t play with toys, kids do. And no parent in their right mind would buy toys for their kids in there.”

“I don’t think those are the kind of toys that they are selling.”

“What other kind of toys are there?” Monk looked back at the store. “Look at the sign on their window: ‘We have lifelike dolls of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Come in and play.’ ”

I thought about what would be involved in explaining why he was wrong, and the examples that I would have to give, and I made a decision.

“You’re right, Mr. Monk. My mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

As we crossed the street, Monk stopped a uniformed officer and pointed to the adult store. “You need to go into that store and tell them that they shouldn’t be selling toys in there. What if children wander in, looking for Hot Wheels or Barbies to play with?”

I stood behind Monk and nodded vigorously at the cop, hoping he’d get the message.

“I’ll get right on it, Mr. Monk,” the cop said and headed for the store.

Monk smiled and we continued on toward the crime scene. “There’s an officer who is going to rise quickly through the ranks.”

I looked over my shoulder in time to see the officer double back and shoot me a thumbs-up. Monk was right—he would go far.