Mr. Monk Gets Even (27 page)

“Immediately following Monk’s press conference,” Stottlemeyer said, “I am going to be making an announcement of my own.”

“Your resignation, I presume,” Fellows said. “Don’t expect a letter of recommendation.”

“I’m going to reveal that I got a tip from a private citizen about one of our deputy chiefs, whose entire career is based on a lie,” Stottlemeyer said. “That deputy chief is you.”

“And that private citizen would be me,” Julie said. “I couldn’t figure out how someone as arrogant and stupid as you could have possibility earned a degree in criminology, so I checked with your university. You got a degree in business administration in 1980, but the closest you got to a criminology degree was a sophomore English class on contemporary detective fiction. The criminology degree wasn’t even offered until a year after you graduated.”

Fellows sat down slowly in his seat and wouldn’t look at either Stottlemeyer or Julie. Instead, he focused his gaze on a picture of one of his golden retrievers on his desk.

“You said you came to cut a deal,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It was as if he couldn’t summon the air to speak. “What do you want?”

“All charges against me dropped and expunged from my record, a written apology, official commendations for Monk and my detectives, and your immediate resignation,” Stottlemeyer said. “Use whatever excuse you want for quitting, but be out of here by Monday morning or I’ll go public.”

Fellows nodded. Julie stepped up to the desk and wagged her finger at him the way he had at her.

“I warned you,” she said, and then she and Stottlemeyer walked out.

• • •

Monk didn’t hold a press conference, of course. But Captain Stottlemeyer did. No mention was made of his suspension. It was as if it never happened (and, officially, it never did). He announced that Dale had been captured as a result of exemplary work by police consultant Adrian Monk and homicide lieutenant Amy Devlin, both of whom were being rewarded with commendations from a grateful department for their efforts.

He reported that Dale Biederback was now recuperating from his surgery in his cell at San Quentin, where he was already serving two life sentences in connection with previous murders. But he would soon be standing trial for the murder of Jason McCabe and the murders of the four people killed by the crash he engineered in Union Square.

Monk had defeated his archenemy yet again, but his happiness didn’t last.

It never did.

He was still troubled by the three open murders on his unbalanced balance sheet. He looked at the murders from a dozen angles, but with Cleve Dobbs dead, the only hope he had of closure, of balance, was if Jenna Dobbs talked.

And so far, she was keeping her mouth shut.

What Monk needed was a distraction. There wasn’t another murder to occupy his mind, so I got him thinking about his brother’s wedding and his speech.

“What speech?” Monk asked when I stopped by his place for a visit on Friday morning.

“You’re his brother and his best man,” I said. “You need to make a toast at the reception.”

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“You have to,” I said. “That’s the tradition.”

I knew he’d fret about that and I left him to do it. At least it would take his mind off the three solved but officially unsolved murders.

The last few days had been a whirlwind. Cleve Dobbs was murdered, Jenna Dobbs was arrested, and Monk solved the mystery of Dale Biederback’s apparent escape.

It was an addictive pace and it was easy to get caught up in it again. And when it was over, there was a definite crash, like the kind that follows too much sugar and caffeine.

I spent the day like a tourist, walking all over the city and revisiting my favorite haunts in a melancholy, nostalgic daze. It was as if I’d been away for years instead of months.

But my new life in Summit was never far from my thoughts, not with my badge and gun in my purse. I liked the weight, what they represented, and how they made me feel. In a way, I felt like someone with a secret identity.

Or somebody living two lives.

There was the life I had led in San Francisco, and had revisited over the last three days, and the life I led in Summit.

The contrast between them was so distinct that it was hard not to keep comparing the two in my mind, and to wonder whether there was a way to bring them together, if not geographically, then perhaps in some other way.

It took me all day to realize I was wrestling with some big decisions that, just one week ago, I didn’t know I’d have to make.

• • •

Sunday came fast and Ambrose’s wedding day was upon us. It was a day I certainly thought would never come and, if it was unbelievable to me, it must have been utterly inconceivable to Monk.

What were the odds that someone who’d only left his house three times in thirty years would meet a woman and fall in love? And that woman would agree to marry him?

It was improbable and also incredibly romantic.

The wedding was scheduled for noon. At about nine forty-five, Julie and I put on our fanciest dresses and drove over to pick up Monk and Ellen, arriving at Monk’s door at ten sharp.

Yes, I know it was a full two hours in advance, but Monk wanted to be absolutely sure there was no way we could arrive late to his brother’s wedding.

I resisted the urge to let myself in with my key and knocked on the door instead. I didn’t work for him anymore and it wasn’t my home. What made me think I could just breeze in like Kramer on
Seinfeld?
What if Monk was finally in a romantic clinch with Ellen?

I know that seems improbable, but stranger things have happened, like an agoraphobic, middle-aged writer of instruction manuals marrying a tattooed ex-con biker chick.

Monk opened the door and stood in front of us, wearing his tuxedo. I’d never seen him dressed in anything but his usual clothes and a hazmat suit, so it took a moment for the sight to sink in. I stepped inside and walked around him, my hands in front of me, Monk-style.

The tuxedo was simple, black, and a perfect fit.

“The name is Monk,” I said. “Adrian Monk.”

“Yes, of course it is,” he said. “Are you feeling all right?”

I knew explaining the James Bond reference to him would be more effort than it was worth, so I just let it go.

“You look great, Mr. Monk,” I said.

He tugged at his sleeves. “I’m not very comfortable.”

“You’re never comfortable,” I said.

“I’m more uncomfortable than usual.”

“That’s because the tuxedo is something new,” Julie said.

“I don’t like new.”

“Look at the bright side,” Julie said. “It’s only new once. Tomorrow it will be old and familiar.”

“I won’t be wearing this tomorrow,” he said.

“Why not?” Ellen said, coming out of the living room in an elegant black dress. “Now that you have a black-tie outfit, we can paint the town.”

“I’ve always wanted to paint the town,” Monk said. “But with actual paint.”

She laughed, though I know Monk didn’t mean it as a joke. “We can go to parties, the theater, and the finest restaurants.”

“Those are places I try to avoid.”

“Now you won’t have to because you finally have the right clothes for the occasion.”

“The right outfit for those occasions is a hazmat suit,” Monk said. “And I have two.”

“This is a much better look for you,” Julie said. “Like Mr. Clean in a black tux.”

“I tried to put a flower in his lapel but he wouldn’t let me,” Ellen said.

“I am not going to show up at my brother’s wedding covered with yard trimmings,” Monk said.

“It’s one flower,” Ellen said.

“It would have to be two,” Monk said. “One on each lapel. I’d look like a compost heap with a bow tie.”

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“I wish I could wear my regular clothes,” he said.

“I meant about the wedding,” I said. “Don’t dodge the question.”

“It’s a big change,” he said.

“For Ambrose,” Julie said. “Not for you.”

“He’s always been my rock,” he said. “I knew that my home would always be there and that he would always be in it. Now he’s leaving and when he comes back, it will be
their
home, and when I show up, I will be a guest. It will be the same physical structure, but everything inside will be different. I could say the same about Ambrose. I’m not sure I know him anymore.”

“So now you can look forward to getting to know him again,” I said. “And Yuki, too.”

“There’s another way to look at this,” Ellen said. “If Ambrose can change so much and find happiness, so can you.”

Monk rolled his shoulders and checked his watch. “We should go.”

“It’s ten oh five,” I said. “We’ll be way too early.”

“I want to get there before the crowd,” he said.

“We are the crowd,” I said. “Have you come up with your toast?”

“Yes, I wrote it down.” He patted his chest with both hands. “I have it right here.”

“Which pocket is it in?” Julie said.

“Both,” Monk said.

“You tore the paper in half?”

“I made two copies,” he said. “One for each pocket. This way I won’t be off balance and will have a spare in case of an emergency.”

My cell phone rang. I dug it out of my purse. The caller ID said it was Stottlemeyer. I was tempted not to answer it. But on second thought, I realized that Stottlemeyer knew it was Ambrose’s wedding day and wouldn’t be calling to drag Monk into a case. So I answered it.

“Good morning, Captain. What are you doing working on a Sunday?”

“Crime doesn’t rest on Sundays.”

“But you usually do,” I said.

“I have to catch up on the paperwork that accumulated while I was on my little vacation,” he said. “I came across something ironic that I thought Monk would appreciate.”

“I’m not sure he understands irony,” I said.

“I’m sure he’ll get this,” Stottlemeyer said. “Put me on speaker.”

I did and held the phone up. “It’s Captain Stottlemeyer.”

“Hey, Monk, congratulations on Ambrose’s wedding. I hope you’ll give him my best.”

“I will,” Monk said.

“I thought you’d like to know that you were right about the trip Dr. Wiss won to Hawaii. The contest was a sham sponsored through a dummy company that Dale set up. Dr. Wiss was told that his wife won the contest for being the one millionth customer to purchase a particular brand of shoes online. And Jason McCabe’s lipo operation was bankrolled by a fake charity called Freedom from Despair, which was supposedly dedicated to easing the medical burdens of the homeless. They reached out to McCabe through a homeless shelter in the Tenderloin. The counselors there identified the Freedom from Despair rep as Stella Chaze.”

“I know you take comfort in confirming in detail the conclusions I have already reached, but it really isn’t necessary to share that process with me for my peace of mind,” Monk said. “I have absolute faith in my own deductions.”

“That was just the warm-up for the best bit of news,” Stottlemeyer said. “I got the autopsy report on Cleve Dobbs.”

“We know how he died,” Monk said.

“What you don’t know is that he was killed for nothing,” Stottlemeyer said.

“We know why he was killed, too,” Monk said.

“The irony is that Cleve would have been dead in a year anyway,” Stottlemeyer said. “He had an extremely aggressive form of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“What a horrible way to die, your whole body slowly becoming paralyzed while your mind remains sharp,” Ellen said. “You become a prisoner of your own body until you no longer have the ability to breathe. Jenna did her husband a favor.”

“I’m sure that was the last thing she had in mind,” I said.

Monk tilted his head from side to side. “Captain, I need you and Devlin to meet us at the Dobbs estate right away. Be sure to bring the house key.”

“Why?” Stottlemeyer said. “We know what happened. The case is closed.”

“There are still three murders that haven’t been solved,” Monk said.

“Have you forgotten about your brother’s wedding?” I said. “Can’t this wait until afterward?”

“Absolutely not,” Monk said.

“We’re going to be late,” I said.

“I’ll make it fast,” he said. “As long as those murders are unsolved, the universe is not in balance. I don’t want that for my brother. I want everything even. For him and for me.”

“Why can’t you just tell us now what you know?” Stottlemeyer said. “Why do we have to go to the Dobbs estate to hear it?”

“Because that’s where the answers are,” Monk said. “And that’s when I will actually know what I know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Mr. Monk Gets Even

T
he media circus had long since decamped and moved on from the front of the Dobbs estate. It had been five days since the murder, a lifetime in the network news cycle, so there were no cameras and no reporters to see us drive up in our finest clothes.

We’d been there only a minute or two when Stottlemeyer and Devlin arrived in the captain’s Crown Vic. We got out of my car and waited for them at the gate.

“This is exciting,” Ellen said to Julie. “I’ve never seen Adrian at work.”