Mr. Monk Gets Even (22 page)

“Of course I do,” he said and turned his back to me to get his coat from the closet. “I was going to tell Devlin this morning.”

“You
have
changed,” I said.

“I thought I told you that,” he said, his back still to me as he put his jacket on.

“You lied to me. You’ve never lied to me before. You wouldn’t have even tried. That’s why your back is still turned, because you’re afraid to show me your face. You didn’t solve the murder this morning—you solved it last night, at the scene, and kept the solution to yourself.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Perhaps.”

How had I missed his tell? I’d clearly been away from him for too long. Or maybe it was jet lag. Either way, I’d have to up my game and up it fast.

“You wanted to give Devlin a chance to solve it herself,” I said. “But why?”

He turned around to face me but kept his head low.

“Penance,” he said.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” I said.

“Dobbs is dead and Dale is gone,” Monk said. “That proves otherwise.”

“So you thought letting Devlin best you was the way to make up for what you see as your recent shortcomings, your inability to predict the future.”

“Something like that,” he said. “It seems important to her to solve a crime before I do.”

“Very perceptive of you,” I said.

“I don’t miss much,” he said. “Except how and when Dale was going to escape and that Dobbs was going to be murdered.”

“How did you figure out who killed him?”

“I considered the time of death, the fury of the attack, where the attack occurred, and the pattern of injuries on Dobbs’ body and the blood spatter on the walls.”

I sighed. “His wife killed him.”

Monk raised his head and looked at me. “How did you know?”

“I guessed,” I said. “It’s not like there’s a huge pool of suspects.”

“There’s everybody he’s ever known and worked with.”

“Yes, but she’s the only woman in his life that I knew about.”

“Here’s what happened,” he said, and he told me as I drove us down to police headquarters.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mr. Monk and the Interrogation

A
lthough Devlin was acting captain, she hadn’t moved herself into Stottlemeyer’s office. She sat at her desk outside his door. I don’t know whether it was out of respect, or whether she believed he’d be coming back.

She rose from her seat when she saw us arrive and seemed quite pleased with herself.

“We’ve arrested Cleve Dobbs’ killer,” Devlin said.

“Who is it?” Monk asked in a very wooden way. That’s because he already knew who it was and was acting as if he didn’t. And Monk doesn’t know how to act.

But if Devlin picked up on his stilted delivery, she probably took it as a sign of his discomfort at finally being bested by her solving the crime before he could.

“It’s Jenna Dobbs,” she said. “I’ve got her sitting in the interrogation room right now.”

“That’s a surprise,” Monk said, although it wasn’t for him at all.

“We kept her under surveillance last night and this morning we served a search warrant on her car,” Devlin said. “We found a Hefty trash bag under her spare tire. The bag contained her bloody blouse, wrapped around a bloody knife that had her prints all over it. The ME is doing a DNA match, but I’m certain the blood will be from her husband.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Monk said. “What made you think to search her car?”

“Well, I have to admit you deserve some of the credit for that.”

“I do?” That time, his surprise was genuine.

I was surprised, too, that she would think to credit Monk for her work. Then again, it made sense, since she’d undoubtedly felt slighted numerous times when her work wasn’t recognized as being key to his solutions.

“Your harping at the crime scene on the lousy alibi she gave her husband got me wondering why she did it and where she really was while he was possibly out killing people.”

“He definitely was,” Monk said.

“Jenna wasn’t shopping last night. She was with her personal trainer at his place in Marin County and she was with him at the Belmont Hotel when Grossman was thrown off a cliff,” Devlin said. “She’s been having an affair.”

“She lied and gave her husband an alibi because of her own guilty conscience,” I said.

“I think that’s part of it,” Devlin said, then looked at Monk. “I believe Jenna began to have doubts about him after the scant evidence that she’d heard from you.”

“Scant?” Monk said.

“Maybe he’d lied to her for years about his tattoo. Maybe he’d lied to her about where he’d been when those three people were killed,” Devlin said. “Whatever it was, you struck a nerve. You raised doubts that ate away at her. She became convinced that her husband was a liar and a serial killer—”

“He was,” Monk interrupted.

“—and that she was going to lose everything they had because of it,” Devlin continued. “And it enraged her.”

“Now we know how the killer got into the house with ease and why Dobbs’ guard was down,” I said, playing along, as if I was discovering it all for myself, as if Monk hadn’t already told me everything. He didn’t know about the affair, but he had deduced the rest.

“Jenna came home, took the knife from the kitchen, and then went upstairs, confronted her husband and killed him,” Devlin said.

“That explains why Dobbs only sustained injuries to the front of his body,” Monk said. “He was facing his wife. He was pleading his case.”

“And probably pleading for his life,” Devlin said. “After she killed him, she changed her blouse, wrapped the knife with it, and stashed them both in a Hefty bag in her car before calling 911.”

“Why didn’t she try to get rid of the knife somewhere far from home?” I asked.

“She didn’t have time,” Devlin said. “She was afraid that she’d be seen coming home by neighbors and that we’d discover the call that her husband made to her at six thirty. And she knew the ME would determine the time of death was around seven p.m., so she had no choice but to call 911, stash the knife temporarily in her car, and get rid of it later.”

“But you were on to her before she got the chance,” I said. “You’ve solved his murder. But the problem is now you’re going to have a very hard time proving Dobbs killed those three people or why he did it.”

“I’m hoping he told his wife, and that she will tell us,” Devlin said. “Care to watch?”

We did.

• • •

Jenna sat by herself in the interrogation room, staring into the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying but her expression was resolute and determined. She was girding herself for battle and I can only imagine the pep talk she was giving herself.

But, of course, she wasn’t really alone. Monk and I were on the other side of the glass, hidden from her view in the observation room and staring right back at her, and she undoubtedly knew that.

Devlin came in with a file and took a seat on the other side of the table, her back to us.

“You’ve been advised of your rights,” Devlin said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to call your lawyer?”

“Positive,” Jenna said. “I want to talk you out of this madness so you can concentrate on catching my husband’s killer before it’s too late.”

“I think we already have,” Devlin said.

“Now you’re sounding like that awful man Captain Stottlemeyer had you drag off of our property.”

“Adrian Monk. Let’s talk about that, shall we?”

“No, let’s not,” she said. “Let’s talk about how you failed to protect my husband from the monster who killed those other people.”

Devlin leaned forward. “You said your husband was with you when Bruce Grossman, David Zuzelo, and Carin Branham were killed.”

“He was,” Jenna said, crossing her arms over her chest. “But why are you harping on that when he’s dead? Why aren’t you out there hunting the killer down?”

“So you’re telling me that Cleve was with you in bed with your personal trainer, Teddy Rudin, at the Belmont and again at Rudin’s apartment in Sausalito where, incidentally, you were yesterday evening,” Devlin said. “Don’t bother lying to me again. We know you parked at the Belmont and that Rudin had a room. We’ve got your Golden Gate Bridge FasTrak data and we’ve got detectives getting a statement from your boy toy right now. He’s gladly telling all.”

Jenna glowered at Devlin for what seemed like a good thirty seconds before she finally spoke. “Having an affair is not a crime.”

“Lying to protect a murderer is.”

“Cleve didn’t kill anyone,” Jenna said. “That’s why I lied, to save him from false charges.”

“That may be what you thought at the time, but you changed your mind later, didn’t you? You started to think about all of his lies and it made you furious.”

“No, that’s not true,” Jenna said.

“There you were, feeling guilty about your affair, while he was out killing people. That had to hurt. Your husband was a serial killer and, if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d suckered you into defending him. It was one last betrayal and sickening indignity on top of all the others.”

Jenna gave Devlin another death stare. “You couldn’t be more wrong or incompetent. I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about my affair and I don’t now. The sex between Teddy and me was an extension of my workouts, nothing more. As for Cleve, he could be a ruthless bastard, but he wasn’t a killer. That’s just laughable. Why would he do such a thing?”

“Here’s what I think: You knew he’d killed those people, and that your alibi wouldn’t hold, and that when he got caught, you’d lose everything. So you murdered him, out of rage and in the dim, desperate hope that if he was dead, nobody would ever be able to pin those killings on him.”

“Listen to me, and listen carefully,” Jenna said. “Take notes if you find it too complex for your feeble mind to comprehend. Yes, I wasn’t shopping yesterday. I was in Sausalito, screwing my trainer, though I certainly don’t need any training where that is concerned.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” Devlin said.

“I left his place at six. I was on my way home when Cleve called me about a half hour later and asked about dinner. You can check that out for yourself, I’m sure. When I came home, I looked out the window of the great room and saw him dead on the patio. I immediately called 911. The police were there in minutes. That’s it. I never, for one second, believed that my husband killed anyone and I certainly didn’t murder him.”

“The evidence says otherwise,” Devlin said.

“What evidence?”

“We found this hidden in the trunk of your car this morning.” Devlin opened the file and passed a photograph to Jenna. “That’s your blouse, and a knife from your kitchen, both covered in your husband’s blood.”

Jenna’s eyes went wide as she regarded the photo. “That proves nothing.”

“Your fingerprints are on the knife, which the ME has positively identified as the murder weapon, and we found strands of your hair on the blouse.”

Jenna tossed the photo back at Devlin. “It’s obviously a setup.”

“Okay, then tell me how your blouse and bloody murder weapon got in your car.”

“It was planted by the murderer,” she said.

“How?”

She shrugged. “He must have crept in during the night and put it in the car.”

“But you set your alarm last night and we’ve had your house under constant surveillance,” Devlin said. “And so has the media. So how did the killer get in to plant it and out again without setting off your alarm or being seen?”

She thought for a moment. “The killer must have still been in the house when I got there, planted it, and slipped out before the police arrived.”

“You talked to your husband at six thirty, you got into the house at seven fifteen, called 911 at seven twenty-four, and the first police officer arrived at seven twenty-eight,” Devlin said. “That’s a four-minute window. Where were you when you called the police?”

“The kitchen,” she said.

“Then anybody walking in or out of the garage would have had to walk past you, and you didn’t see anyone or hear the garage door open, or you would have told us. The garage door was closed when the police arrived at the scene. So how did the killer plant the bloody blouse and knife in your car and get away?”

“Maybe he hid in the house and slipped out in all the excitement, dressed as a cop.”

“Or maybe he called Scotty and asked to be beamed up to the
Enterprise
,” Devlin said.

“I’m not the detective, you are. Do some damn detecting. I was framed. You figure it out.”

“If I were you, Mrs. Dobbs, I’d make a deal. Leniency from the court in exchange for telling us whatever your husband confessed to you about the killings while he was pleading for his life.”

Jenna gave Devlin another death stare. “I want to talk to my lawyer now.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Devlin said. Then she got up and walked out.

She joined us in the observation room and looked at Jenna through the glass. Jenna stared back at us defiantly. It was almost as if she could see us.

“So,” Devlin asked, “what do you think?”

Monk rolled his shoulders. “For the most part, I thought you did the best job possible.”

“For the most part? What part didn’t impress you?”