Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu (4 page)

But Monk wasn’t listening to me anymore. He was staring at the old man. “He’s still standing.”

“Good for him,” I said. “He’s a fighter.”

“He should be flat on his back by now.”

“Mr. Monk, I’m surprised at you. Where’s your compassion?”

Monk slid off his stool and marched over to the old man. I gathered up my bags and chased after him.

“Okay, gramps, the jig is up,” Monk said, blocking the man’s path.

“The jig?” the old man wheezed.

“You’re going down.” Monk jabbed his finger at the man’s face.

“Get out of my way.” The old man pushed past him, but Monk put his foot in front of the wheels of the oxygen tank trolley, stopping it.

“The only place you’re going is jail,” Monk said.

“Leave me alone,” the old man yelled, yanking his trolley free.

Monk pulled his sleeves down over his hands and embraced the tank, holding it tight. The old man tugged, but Monk refused to let go.

“Give it up, geezer,” Monk said.

I stood between the two of them and looked at Monk. “What are you doing?

“He’s a fake,” Monk said. “Call security.”

But I didn’t have to. Two beefy guys with matching earpieces and identical ill-fitting jackets approached out of nowhere. One of them spoke up.

“I’m Ned Wilton, store security. What’s the problem here?”

Wilton was an African-American man with a barrel chest and a military buzz cut. He looked like a weight lifter turned Secret Service agent.

“Isn’t it obvious?” the old man said, gasping for breath. “I’m being attacked by this lunatic.”

“He’s part of a shoplifting ring,” Monk said.

The old man started coughing. Wilton glanced at him, then back at Monk.

“Did you see this man steal any items?”

“No,” Monk said. Wilton’s jaw muscles tightened. I wondered if worked on those muscles at the gym, too.

“Then why do you think he’s a shoplifter?”

“Look at the gauge on his oxygen tank,” Monk said. “It’s empty.”

The old man abruptly collapsed on the floor and began to gasp for breath, clutching at his chest. The other security guy crouched at his side. “We’d better call an ambulance.”

Wilton nodded, and the other man spoke into a radio he had pulled out of his jacket pocket.

“It’s an act,” Monk said. “The gauge has been at zero for at least five minutes, and you saw him wrestling with me over the tank. If he really had emphysema, his skin would be blue by now.”

The old man was having spasms, writhing and choking on the floor. A crowd of horrified shoppers was beginning to gather. Wilton broke out in a sweat.

“I think he’s dying,” the other security guy said.

Monk ignored him. “The tank is full of stolen merchandise. The lining of the tank jams the security tags, allowing him to go in and out of the store without setting off the sensors.”

The old man gurgled. His legs twitched. Even Wilton wasn’t buying the performance now.

Wilton unlatched the top of the tank. It was stuffed to the rim with designer clothing.

The old man stopped flopping and sighed with resignation. “Oh, hell,” he said.

“Your days of villainy are over,” Monk said.

“Thank you, sir,” Wilton said to Monk. “We appreciate the assist. I think we’ve got it covered now.”

“Then you know about the pregnant lady,” Monk said.

“What pregnant lady?”

Monk motioned to the woman in the café, who was standing up at her table and heading out. “The one who isn’t pregnant.”

She glanced at us and must have seen something on our faces she didn’t like. She bolted. Without even thinking, I charged after her. It was no contest. I took her down with a flying tackle, a skill I learned from my brother.

We hit the ground hard. Her tummy pack burst open like a piñata, spilling clothes and toiletries all over the floor. The woman snarled at me, and I snarled right back. I grabbed the blouse she’d taken from me and I held it up in my fist victoriously.

You don’t want to get between a mother, her daughter, and a Juicy blouse at 80 percent off the regular price.

Monk and Wilton rushed over. Wilton restrained the woman and called for more backup on his radio. I got to my feet.

“Nice tackle,” Monk said.

“How did you know she wasn’t pregnant?” I asked.

“She walked straight and didn’t waddle. And when she dropped her purse, she bent at the waist to pick it up.”

I didn’t notice that, and I was standing right behind her at the time. I guess I was blinded by righteous shopper indignation.

Wilton looked back at Monk. “Anybody else we should know about?”

“The nun in the café,” Monk said.

She was still sitting at the table, pretending not to notice us, toying with her cross.

“She’s wearing a habit from the order of Saint Martha of Bethany, but she’s got a crucifix around her neck with a figure of Jesus on it,” Monk said. “The nuns of that order wear a simple gold cross. She’s the ringleader and the lookout.”

A half dozen other security personnel showed up, and Wilton sent two of them into the café to apprehend the non-nun.

“This was fun,” Monk said. “We should go shopping more often.”

I folded the blouse and headed toward the nearest cashier. I didn’t want to get arrested for shoplifting. “You’re very observant, Mr. Monk.”

“No,” Monk said with a satisfied smile. “I stare.”

I hid my purchases for Julie in my room. She had a report card coming up in a few days, and I decided to save the new clothes and shoes as a reward for the good grades I knew she was going to get.

Saturday morning, the mother of one of Julie’s friends called and offered to take the kids to the movies, one of those Lindsay Lohan sequels to a Disney remake. She invited me to come along too, but I bowed out. I was looking forward to a few hours of peace. Plus, I was going to owe that mother a Saturday off. That was how it worked and, believe me, the moms kept track.

No sooner was Julie out the door than Stottlemeyer called. I figured he was looking for Monk, and that it meant there was another murder to investigate. So much for my free day.

“Monk isn’t here,” I said. “It’s Saturday, so he’s probably outside scrubbing his sidewalk.”

“I’m not looking for Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “I was thinking you might be free for a coffee or something.” Before I could reply, he quickly added, “I’m not asking you out.”

“Of course not,” I said. Then I cringed, thinking of all the different, hurtful ways he could take that. His wife had just left him, so his self-confidence must have been in the toilet as it was. The last thing he needed was me making him feel like the least desirable man on earth. “I mean, not that you aren’t datable. You’ve very datable. What I meant was that I knew you didn’t mean it the way it could have been meant, know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” he said. “This was a bad idea. Forget I called. This never happened.”

When Karen walked out on Stottlemeyer, I told him to call me if he needed anything. It was a safe offer to make, since I knew the captain would never take me up on it. For one thing, Stottlemeyer was a cop, so he had to be tough, stoic, and invulnerable, because to be anything else would be a sign of weakness (which is probably one of the reasons his marriage tanked, but what do I know?). For another thing, we weren’t friends. The only connection we really had was our concern and affection for Adrian Monk.

Obviously, I was wrong.

“Wait, it’s okay,” I said. “A coffee sounds great. Really great. I was looking for an excuse not to do laundry, wash the dishes, and pay bills. Where would you like to meet?”

We met at a coffeehouse and newsstand down the block from me. The place was filled with ratty couches and armchairs, which I’m sure the owner thought gave it a homey,
Friends
-like feel. Instead it felt like we were having coffee in a crummy apartment. But the coffee was good and the place was close by.

Stottlemeyer looked almost as worn down as the furniture: hair askew, puffy eyes, wrinkled clothes. I wanted to hug him, but that’s the mother in me. I want to hug everybody who looks the least bit unhappy. I never had that urge until Julie was born. Instead we shook hands.

He mumbled a “How are you?” and we made some unmemorable small talk while we ordered our coffee and pastries and found a table. Then there was a long, awkward moment of silence while we blew on our coffees and tried to ignore the long, awkward moment of silence.

“I’m beginning to understand Monk a whole lot better,” he finally said.

“Why is that?”

“He always had his problems, but when he was with Trudy, he found a balance. He could function. But after he lost her, he lost himself,” Stottlemeyer said. “He fell apart. He tries desperately to organize every little detail of the world around him because he thinks if he succeeds, he can put himself back together again.”

“You’ve always known that,” I said.

“Yeah, but not like I know it now,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Why is that?”

“I’m alone,” he said. “You’d think I wouldn’t mind, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“My wife used to tell me I was in my own little world, shutting her and everybody else out,” he said. “She said that it was like living in the house alone. But it’s not. I know the difference.”

“Now you do,” I said, and regretted it the instant the words came out of my mouth.

He nodded. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m lucky I stayed married as long as I did, given my profession. I see the worst side of humanity every day. I thought I was protecting her from it. Do you think if I told her everything, if I came home and vomited up my day, she’d still be with me?”

I shrugged.

He stared into his coffee. “Up until now, I always had the job to keep me busy, to occupy my time. The thing is, Natalie, I don’t know how to be alone.”

“You aren’t,” I said. “You still have your family and friends.”

“Is that what people told you when your husband died?”

“Your wife isn’t dead.”

“She might as well be,” he said. “And each time I see her and she walks away, I die a little, too.”

“Have you told her that?”

“She knows,” Stottlemeyer said.

I wasn’t going to argue the point. I didn’t know him or Karen well enough to judge whether he was right.

“So you’re afraid you’re going to turn into Mr. Monk?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I am,” he said. “Only without the part where I become brilliant at solving crimes.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Natalie, you know what I did last night? I shined my shoes. I
never
shine my shoes.”

“Did you measure the laces to be sure they were even? Did you place them in their original, mint-condition shoe boxes and arrange them by color?”

“No,” he said.

“Then you aren’t Monk,” I said.

“It sure felt Monkish to me,” Stottlemeyer said. “I took one look at my shoes this morning, went outside, and rubbed mud all over them.”

Okay, now
that
was strange. But I kept my opinion to myself.

“Shining your shoes, cleaning your pantry, whatever—it’s the little things, the mundane rituals and responsibilities of life, that get you through the worst of it,” I said. “You’re functioning even if you feel like you’re not. I think it’s part of healing. And then one day, you wake up and the sadness isn’t so heavy and your garage is organized. It’s like a bonus.”

He seemed to mull that over for a while; then he sighed. “Thanks, Natalie. I appreciate this.”

“Anytime, Captain,” I said, purposely keeping it formal. I didn’t want him rebounding in my direction. “What are you going to do now?”

He shrugged. “Start cleaning my garage, I guess.”

My cell phone rang. It was Monk. And I couldn’t believe what he told me.

“I’ll be right over,” I said. I snapped the phone shut and stared at Stottlemeyer.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The mayor wants to see Mr. Monk,” I said. “Do you think the mayor wants him to work on a case?”

I saw the possibility of Monk’s getting the reward for the capture of the Golden Gate Strangler disappearing along with any hope of my getting a raise.

“He knows Monk won’t work with any cop but me,” Stottlemeyer said. “And that no cop but me will work with Monk.”

“Then what could it be?”

“Maybe he wants Monk to negotiate with the police union,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Why would the mayor want him to do that?”

“Can you think of a better way to break the will of the union negotiators?” Stottlemeyer said. “After an hour in a room with Monk, they’ll either shoot him or shoot themselves.”

 

The San Francisco City Hall was built not long after the 1906 earthquake to scream to the world that the city was back—bigger, stronger, and more opulent than ever.

The building’s Beaux Arts flourishes, Doric columns, and Grand Baroque copper dome meant you’d never mistake it for anything but a capitol of some kind. As if the grand dome wasn’t grand enough, it was topped with an ornate steeple and a torch that lit up at night whenever the city council met.

The building always struck me as garish and pompous, rather than majestic and imposing. I guess that’s fitting for a place that houses mostly politicians and bureaucrats.

But standing in Mayor Smitrovich’s office, I felt like I was in an aquarium. There were tarpon, swordfish, and dorados mounted on the walls, their mouths agape, forever twisting in midthrash. A pair of window cleaners worked outside, peering in at us from the other side of the glass behind the mayor. All that was missing to make the effect complete was a ceramic mermaid and a castle for us to swim around. We introduced ourselves.