Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu (11 page)

She’d been stomping her foot when she was angry since she was three years old. I thought it was adorable, and couldn’t help smiling whenever she did it, which only infuriated her more.

She stomped her other foot. “Mom! Stop it!”

I turned to Monk for some support on this, knowing how tight he was with his money (my pay-check was certainly proof of that). But Monk had a strange, bemused expression on his face. His mind was somewhere else.

“Mr. Monk?” I said.

He snapped out of it, smiled, and looked at Julie. “How would you like another ride in the police car?”

“Are we going out to get me a different pair of shoes?” Julie said hopefully.

“We’re taking you down to police headquarters for interrogation.”

“For real?” Julie said.

“For real,” Monk said.

“We are?” I asked.

“We are,” Monk replied.

“Cool!” Julie said, tossing the Nikes and putting on her new Juicy jacket. Her shoe shame was momentarily forgotten, eclipsed by the irresistible excitement of being a crook.

Julie had only been to police headquarters once before, and on that day there had been some sort of big sweep of the Tenderloin by the vice squad. The building had been filled with hookers, drunks, drug addicts, gang members, and murderers. The place smelled like a cross between a men’s locker room and the bar where I worked before Monk hired me. And some of the language she heard would have embarrassed Tony Soprano.

She loved it. For her it was like visiting a new attraction at Disneyland, only the performers weren’t Mickey Mouse and Buzz Lightyear; they were Georgette the tranny and Julio the pimp. It was scary for her, but in a thrilling, riding-on-a-roller-coaster way: frightening but safe.

It wasn’t the kind of environment I wanted to expose my daughter to, but there had been no school that day, I had to work, and I was stuck without someone to take care of her. Besides, there wasn’t anyone or anything in that building that wasn’t out there, in plain view, every day of the week on the streets of San Francisco, from Union Square to Fisherman’s Wharf, from Chinatown to Golden Gate Park. It’s that kind of city.

She was going to see it all anyway. And I believe a parent’s job is to prepare her children for independence, for survival in the real world; and sheltering them from the uglier aspects doesn’t necessarily do them any good. At least at police headquarters, the bad guys were handcuffed and there were plenty of cops around to protect us. There was no real danger. Afterward she grilled me with a lot of tough questions about sex, drugs, and crime, which, for me, made the experience worthwhile. We tackled some big, awkward, important issues that day.

That said, I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of taking her back there on a Saturday night, and I hoped Monk had a good reason for the field trip. I didn’t have the energy for another one of those major, land-mine-laden discussions with Julie.

The place wasn’t the madhouse I expected it to be. There wasn’t a perp, skell, or scumbag in sight. With the Blue Flu going on, I guess it was more important for officers to be on the street than at their desks filling out arrest reports.

I was relieved, but Julie was clearly disappointed that she wasn’t going to get another peek at the seamier side of life.

We were met by Officer Curtis as we came into the homicide department.

“Your Jeep is parked in the back,” she said, handing me the keys. “Officer Krupp and the patrol division would appreciate the return of their black-and-white.”

“What about my ticket?” I said.

“It’s gone away,” she said.

I handed Officer Curtis the keys to the patrol car and introduced her to Julie.

“Mom,” Julie protested.

“Oh, excuse me,” I said. “This may look like my daughter, Julie, but she’s actually a psychopath who eats children. Captain Monk and I have brought her in for a brutal interrogation.”

“Then she should be handcuffed.” Officer Curtis took out a plastic band from her pocket, looped it around my daughter’s wrists, and cinched it closed.

Julie growled. Curtis made a show of putting her hand on her holster.

“Don’t make me take you down,” Curtis said.

“Try it, cop,” Julie said. “And I’ll use your bones for soup.”

“Come with me, insane psycho cannibal killer,” Monk said, leading her into the squad room, where Frank Porter was putting photos of the Strangler’s victims (luckily not the crime scene pictures of their corpses) on a bulletin board covered with the information gathered about their lives. Monk went over to study it.

Sparrow was at a computer, checking her e-mail and eating potato chips.

“I’m surprised you’re both still here,” I said.

“So am I,” Sparrow groaned and glanced at her grandfather. “He won’t leave. I think he’s afraid that if he does, they won’t let him back in tomorrow.”

I could understand that. He’d thought he’d lost his badge forever, and now that he had it back again he didn’t want to lose it. And yet, he probably knew this reinstatement wasn’t going to last and wanted to enjoy every moment of the experience while he could.

“Your piercings are so cool,” Julie said, staring at Sparrow’s ears. “Did they hurt?”

“It was excruciating,” I said. “She was writhing in agony for weeks.”

“They didn’t hurt as much as piercing my—” Sparrow began, but I interrupted her.

“She doesn’t want to hear about piercing your whatever.”

“Yes, I do,” Julie protested. “Maybe I want to pierce my whatever.”

“Believe me, you don’t,” I said.

“Where’s my whatever?” Julie said.

“Julie?” Monk approached. “Could I ask you some questions?”

He brought Julie up to the bulletin board and showed her the pictures of the shoes recovered from the right foot of each victim.

“What can you tell me about these shoes?” Monk said.

“One is a Nike, one is an Adidas, and that’s a Puma,” she said. “They’re all running shoes with air soles.”

“Anything else?”

She shrugged. “They’re old.”

“They look new to me,” Monk said.

“They’re new but they’re old. They are all styles that aren’t being made anymore,” Julie said. “Whoever wore these shoes were major geeks.”

Monk smiled. “You have the makings of a great detective.”

“I do?” she said.

Monk nodded. “You’ve just figured out what the three Golden Gate Strangler victims had in common.”

“I did?” Julie said in astonishment.

“What did you say happens to old styles that don’t sell at the department stores or at the outlet malls?” Monk asked.

“They’re sold out of a truck at a freeway off-ramp,” Julie said.

“And those guys don’t take checks or credit cards,” I said as it dawned on me what Monk was getting at. “It’s a cash-only business. I know from experience.”

“That’s why we couldn’t find any running-shoe purchases on the credit card statements of the three victims,” Monk said. “Because all the victims paid cash for their shoes from some fly-by-night seller.”

“It’s not just guys selling shoes out of their trunks,” I said. “There are all kinds of closeout, overstock, and remainder outfits that open up in empty storefronts for a few weeks at a time and then go away. They are never in one place for long.”

“We need to locate every gypsy shoe seller in San Francisco and show them pictures of the victims,” Porter said. “Maybe someone will remember selling shoes to the women.”

“Or maybe one of the sellers is the Strangler,” Monk said.

“I’ll get the information out to patrol and tell them to keep an eye out for anyone selling running shoes on the street,” Officer Curtis said.

“I appreciate that,” Monk said. “Thank you.”

“If this information leads to the arrest of the Golden Gate Strangler,” I said, “I think Julie should get some of the reward money.”

“You’ll have to take that up with the mayor,” Monk said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I will.”

“What reward?” Julie said.

“Let me put it this way,” I said. “If you get it, I promise never to buy shoes on sale for you again.”

I took Julie into one of the interrogation rooms and questioned her about her crimes for a while. When I was through with the suspect, Officer Curtis took her down to one of the empty cells, locking her up for ten minutes before cutting her cuffs and setting her free on a technicality. Julie couldn’t have been happier.

Monk was pretty happy, too. He finally had a lead to track in the Strangler case. And I was already thinking of ways to spend the city’s reward money, which put a smile on my face.

We were on our way out of the building when Officer Curtis ran up to us.

“Captain, there’s been a holdup at a minimart near Geary and Van Ness,” she said. “They took a couple hundred bucks and shot the proprietor dead.”

Monk gave me a look. He wanted to go to the scene, but there was no way I was taking my daughter there.

“Do you mind staying here with Officer Curtis for a little while?”

“No problem,” she said.

“Let’s look through some mug books,” Officer Curtis said, leading her away. “That’s always fun.”

At least I knew Julie would be in good hands while I was away. I couldn’t ask for a better babysitter than a policewoman with a gun.

 

The Speed-E-Mart was flanked by an adult video store and a falafel place on the street level of a shabby, four-story office building that was covered with decades of grime. Hand-painted posters in the minimart window advertised cheap beer, cigarettes, and lottery tickets.

The harsh glow from the fluorescent bulbs inside the market spilled out into the street, bathing the police cars, sidewalks and asphalt in a dull yellow light.

A woman stood outside the store, leaning against the wall and nervously smoking a cigarette. She was in her thirties, wearing faded jeans and a red Speed-E-Mart clerk’s vest over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. The dark circles under her eyes were as ingrained on her face as the grime on the building.

Standing beside her was a uniformed cop in his fifties, his gut slopping over the edge of his pants and straining the buttons on his shirt. He had his notebook out and was making some notations in it with a stubby pencil. The officer saw us coming and met us at the entrance to the minimart.

“I’m Sergeant Riglin,” the officer said. “Are you Captain Monk?”

“Yes, I am,” Monk said. “This is my assistant, Natalie Teeger. What happened here tonight, Sergeant?”

“A couple of black guys came in, held up the place. The cashier, who was the owner of the market, emptied the register, and they shot him anyway. The bastards. The name of the deceased is Ramin Touzie, age forty-seven.”

Monk tipped his head toward the woman. “Who is she?”

“Lorna Karsch, age thirty-four, works nights here as a clerk.” Riglin referred to his notes. “She was in the storeroom when it went down, came out when she heard the shots, and saw two black individuals exiting the premises.”

“There’s a blue stain on the cuff of her right sleeve,” Monk said, adjusting both his sleeves.

“Yeah, so?” Riglin said.

“There isn’t one on her left sleeve,” Monk said.

“Is that important?” Riglin asked.

It was if I ever wanted to get home tonight. Monk wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the case as long as her sleeves didn’t match.

“Would you like me to ask her to change her shirt or stain her other sleeve?” I said.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Riglin said.

“I wish I were,” I said.

“It’s a beautiful blue,” Monk said.

“What is?” I asked.

“The stain,” Monk said. “Deep, vibrant, and rich.”

“Uh-huh,” Riglin said. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

“Who called the police?” Monk asked.

“She did,” Riglin said, gesturing to Lorna. “So did the guy who runs the porno shop next door.”

“Do we have any security-camera footage of the shooting?”

Riglin shook his head. “The clerk says the VCR broke a couple of days ago. The owner was gonna buy a new one tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Monk said. “I’d like to look inside. Has anything been moved?”

“No, sir,” Riglin said.

Monk and I went into the store. The cashier’s counter was to the left of the front door, facing the four cramped aisles of groceries and the refrigerators and freezers that lined the back of the store. The drawer of the cash register was open.

We peered over the counter. Ramin Touzie was crumpled in the tight space between the counter and the wall, a gunshot wound in the center of his chest, his head resting against the side of a plastic trash can. He was wearing a Speed-E-Mart vest over a rugby shirt.

Monk cocked his head, something catching his eye. He walked around the counter, removed a pen from his pocket, and used it to lift out an open box of Ziploc bags from the trash can. Those were the same brand that Monk bought by the case.

He set the box of Ziploc bags down on the counter.

“It’s a crime,” he said.

“You’re talking about the box of Ziploc bags?”

“What else?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “How about the dead guy behind the counter?”

“Why would someone open a box of Ziploc bags, take one or two out, and throw the rest of them away?” Monk said. “It’s unconscionable.”

“Maybe that’s why those two guys came in, stole his money, and shot him,” I said. “As punishment for wasting Ziploc bags.”

“What kind of world are we living in?”

Monk looked into the trash can again and scowled. I followed his gaze. There was an open box of aluminum foil inside, with most of the roll still left.

“It’s so wasteful,” Monk said.

“I’m going to assume you mean the senseless taking of a human life and not the loss of a couple feet of aluminum foil.”