Mr. Monk Gets Even (11 page)

“So he then suggested that he use pins,” Monk said as they continued on to Julie’s car. “He wanted to deliberately put permanent holes in the clothing.”

“Unbelievable,” Ellen said.

“That’s how rips and tears start. He might as well have taken out a pair of scissors and cut the clothes to shreds.”

“Insane,” she said.

Julie gave her another look, trying again to discern any sarcasm in her statement and realized, to her dismay, that Ellen was completely serious.

“So I introduced the man to the concept of writing down the necessary adjustments and measurements on a piece of paper instead of the garment.”

“Did he thank you?” Ellen asked.

“Strangely, no,” Monk said. “He actually seemed irritated. Perhaps he’s illiterate and was trying to hide his disability. That would explain why he was using chalk marks.”

“That’s a very clever deduction,” Ellen said.

“So I didn’t press the issue and risk embarrassing him,” Monk said. “Instead, I wrote the measurements down for him.”

“You’re so sensitive, Adrian,” Ellen said.

They were just about at Julie’s car when Monk stopped suddenly, cocking his head at an angle to look at something.

Julie turned to see what had attracted his attention. It was a poster-size blowup of the cover of Cleve Dobbs’ memoir,
Just Peachy
, in the window of a small bookstore.

The cover featured a picture of a defiant Dobbs, his white shirtsleeves rolled up, holding a Peach device in his hand, thrusting it out at the reader. The picture wasn’t recent. It was taken several years earlier during his heyday, prior to his firing from Peach and after he got a trainer and lost his gut, but before his trademark bushy goatee became streaked with gray. He looked uncomfortable in the businessman’s white shirt but clearly proud of his newly muscled arms.

Monk pointed to the tattoo—“CaringForever”—scrawled on his arm.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“I think it’s a statement of his personal commitment to charitable causes,” Julie said.

“He’s donated tens of millions of dollars to good causes,” Ellen said. “Like sewage treatment plants in third-world countries that turn human waste into electrical energy.”

Monk cringed. “That’s just wrong.”

“It’s restoring balance,” Ellen said, “turning waste into energy.”

“I’m not talking about that,” he said and pointed to the tattoo again. “There is no space between ‘Caring’ and ‘Forever.’ It’s two words. He needs to add a space.”

“They aren’t words on a computer screen,” Julie said. “It’s a tattoo on skin. It’s permanent. You can’t do it over.”

“That’s why you shouldn’t put anything on your skin that can’t be immediately washed off,” Monk said. “Because if you make a mistake, you have to live with it.”

“I’m not defending tattoos, but the truth is, we have to live with most of our mistakes anyway,” Ellen said. “It’s better to own them than pretend they can be undone.”

Monk faced the window again, rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from one side to the other, and smiled, as if he were looking at the real Cleve Dobbs instead of his picture.

Julie sighed and looked at Ellen. “There goes my night and probably yours, too.”

“What do you mean?” Ellen asked.

“Mr. Monk just solved a murder,” she said.

“No, I didn’t,” he said. “I solved three.”

CHAPTER TEN

Mr. Monk Is Peachy

E
llen Morse was not at all pleased when Monk abruptly canceled their date and decided he had to go back to the police station right away.

Julie wasn’t too thrilled about it, either, nor was her boyfriend, whom she feared wouldn’t stick around with her for much longer the way things were going.

But both Ellen and Julie knew that Monk would not wait, and that it was possible someone else could be killed if the murderer wasn’t caught quickly.

So Ellen went back to her store and Julie and Monk stuck their soap in the trunk of her car and headed back downtown.

Captain Stottlemeyer was in his office with Devlin, both of them eating McDonald’s takeout at his desk, when Monk and Julie came in. Julie immediately took a seat on the couch and began texting her boyfriend.

“This is shocking,” Monk said.

“Hello, Monk, it’s nice to see you, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “Please, come in and complain about something. It will help my digestion.”

“It most certainly will,” Monk said.

“How do you figure that?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Because I won’t stand by and let you continue to eat your meal on your desk,” Monk said. “You might as well be eating your food off of a toilet seat.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t urinate in my office,” Stottlemeyer said, then glanced across the desk at Devlin. “Do you?”

“Only when you’re not around,” Devlin said. “And I really, really have to go.”

“There is no need to be crude,” Monk said. “Especially when impressionable youngsters are present.”

He tipped his head toward Julie, who was busy texting and making a show of ignoring what was going on, though everyone knew that wasn’t the case.

“The fact is,” Monk continued, “that your desk is covered with files that have been all over the city, touched by hundreds of disease-caked hands, and coated with a layer of dust. As if that wasn’t filthy enough, you walk all over San Francisco, on dirty sidewalks and streets, and through bloody crime scenes, and then come back here and put your feet up on the desk. And now you are eating off of that same disgusting surface.”

“I’ve got a paper bag under my burger and fries, which is protecting them from my desk and vice versa,” Stottlemeyer said, holding the Quarter Pounder in his hand.

“And where has that bag been?” Monk said. “Let’s set aside for the moment where it was before it was in your custody. Think about where it has been since you drove through McDonald’s on your way here from the hospital. The bag was on your car seat or on the floor. Now think about what has been on your seat and on the floor and how long it has been since your car has been washed.”

Stottlemeyer did. He made a face and set his hamburger down on the bag. “Okay, you may have a point.”

“If you’re not going to eat that hamburger,” Devlin said. “I will.”

“Really? After all that?” Stottlemeyer said.

“Especially after all that,” Devlin said. Defiance was her default mode.

Stottlemeyer lifted up the bag and set it in front of Devlin, then took a sip of his Coke and regarded Monk again. “I’m sure you didn’t come all the way down here because you got a tip that I was eating at my desk. Was it to hear about Dale?”

Monk shook his head. “I assume he’s conscious, in pain, handcuffed to his bed, and under constant guard.”

“He is,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk nodded his approval. “I’m here because there’s been a major break in the investigation into the serial killings.”

“I wasn’t aware we had any serial killings,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Monk thinks the murders of Bruce Grossman, David Zuzelo, and Carin Branham are connected,” Devlin said, speaking with her mouth half full.

“They are,” Monk said. “They were all murders made to look like accidents by someone the victims knew.”

“That may be true,” Stottlemeyer said. “But we don’t know the killer is the same person.”

“I do,” Monk said. “And now I can prove it.”

Devlin swallowed what she was eating. “You couldn’t at the crime scene. What’s changed since you left the crime scene two hours ago?”

“I bought soap,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer sighed. “I can see how that would change things.”

“There’s a bookstore that is selling Cleve Dobbs’ memoir on the same block as the soap store,” Monk said. “Are you familiar with him?”

“I am,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I am surprised that you are.”

“He wasn’t until this afternoon,” Devlin said.

“Dobbs has a tattoo on his arm, the kind that doesn’t wash off,” Monk said.

“Most are,” Devlin said. “I’ve got a few myself.”

Monk ignored her comment. “If you make a mistake on the tattoo, or change your mind, it’s too bad, you are stuck with it.”

“I am aware of that, too,” Stottlemeyer said.

“This is what his looks like.” Monk picked up a pen from Stottlemeyer’s desk and wrote “CaringForever” on a yellow legal pad.

The captain glanced at it. “I don’t see what this has to do with the murders of those three people.”

Monk turned to Devlin. “How does the woman who was killed today spell her first name? Is it K-A-R-E-N?”

“No,” Devlin said. “It’s C-A-R-I-N. Why?”

Now Julie, suddenly interested, looked up from her phone, which indicated to Stottlemeyer that Monk might actually be on to something.

“What difference does it make how she spells her name?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Because it was clear from the evidence at the scene that she was killed by an old lover or boyfriend,” Monk said.

“To you,” Devlin said. “I’m not convinced.”

Monk ignored her and pointed to the drawing. “If you look at the tattoo, you’ll see that the two words run together, and that the
F
in
forever
is capitalized. There should be a space between the two words. It’s the
g
at the end of
Caring
that ruins everything.”

“You think the tattoo used to say ‘Carin Forever’ and that when they split, Dobbs added the
g
to the tattoo,” Stottlemeyer said. “That’s why the two words run together.”

“Exactly,” Monk said.

“So, just to be clear, you believe that Cleve Dobbs, one of the most well-known men on this planet, and also one of the richest, killed Carin Branham,” Stottlemeyer said. “And you are basing this theory on the fact that there’s no space between the two words
Caring
and
Forever
.”

“There’s more,” Monk said.

“There always is,” Devlin said.

“Bruce Grossman, our first victim, replaced Dobbs on the board of Peach,” Monk said.

“Do you know how many thousands of people in the Bay Area have worked for Peach?” Devlin said.

“How many of them have fired Cleve Dobbs or broken his heart?” Monk asked. “I am certain if you look into David Zuzelo you’ll find a connection to Dobbs, too.”

Stottlemeyer ran his hands through what was left of his hair. “Let’s assume that there is. You’re saying that Cleve Dobbs suddenly decided, weeks after the release of his bestselling book, to stroll down memory lane and kill people. Not hire someone to do it, but murder them himself.”

“Yes,” Monk said.

“Why?” Stottlemeyer said.

“I don’t know,” Monk said.

“Is there anything else, perhaps something that would actually qualify as admissible evidence, that connects the three murders to Dobbs?”

“What more do you need?” Monk asked.

“Has it occurred to you that someone with a grudge against Dobbs, or Peach, could be killing these people?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Or that Dobbs, rather than being the killer, could be a potential victim?”

“No,” Monk said.

“But that doesn’t mean it isn’t so,” Devlin said.

“Usually it does,” Monk said.

“Egomaniac,” Devlin said.

Stottlemeyer glanced at Julie. “What do you think?”

“I’m not a detective,” she said.

“I’m trying to include you in the discussions,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Honestly, Leland, I’d prefer if you tried to end the discussion instead so I could go home. But I will say that what Mr. Monk is suggesting about the tattoo makes some sense. Johnny Depp had Winona Ryder’s first name tattooed on his arm when they dated and he had it changed to ‘Wino’ when they split up.”

“Who is Johnny Depp?” Monk asked.

“He’s a pirate,” Devlin said.

Stottlemeyer sighed. “Look, I’ve had a long day, one that included watching as a fat murderer got cut open and had all his blubber sucked out. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m heading home and so are you. In the meantime, Lieutenant Devlin will look into the pasts of both Carin Branham and David Zuzelo for any links to Dobbs or Peach.”

“I will?” Devlin said. “Just because Monk saw a tattoo on Dobbs’ arm?”

“It won’t cost us anything to explore the possibility that he’s right. You will have to admit, he usually is. And if Dobbs is a potential victim, I’d like to get to him before the killer does.”

“He is the killer,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer looked at Monk. “If Devlin finds a Peach connection between the victims, then I’ll give you a call and we’ll go talk with Dobbs. But that won’t happen until tomorrow morning at the earliest, so go home. I’m sure some dust has accumulated that needs your urgent attention.”

Monk couldn’t argue with that, nor could he possibly ignore the notion of dust piling up at his home once the idea had been planted in his head, which, of course, was exactly why Stottlemeyer mentioned it.

“You have to promise me one thing,” Monk said.

“What’s that?”

“You will clean all of the crumbs, ketchup drops, bits of lettuce, french fries, and grains of salt off of your desk before you go.”

Stottlemeyer sighed. “I won’t leave until every grain of salt is removed.”