Mr. Monk Gets on Board (22 page)

   C
HAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mr. Monk Misses a Beat

I
t was after midnight. The four of us had been twiddling our thumbs in the darkened Melrose library for nearly two hours. Amy Devlin and I were quietly pacing, careful to keep out of each other’s way. Monk sat perfectly still in a leather wing chair, while Stottlemeyer was in the matching one. From what I could see, he was the only one actually twiddling his thumbs.

“This is ludicrous,” Devlin whispered. Monk tried to shush her but she didn’t care. “I don’t mind wasting a night. Part of the job. But this is disrespectful.” She was referring to the fact that Monk had arranged this whole midnight event, or nonevent, without informing us of what to expect.

Stottlemeyer had removed the police guard from the mansion this morning. Jeremiah “Jerry” Melrose, heir and executor, had finally been given permission to let his father’s estate go into probate. And the only two residents, Jerry and Smithson the butler, had been instructed to remain in their parts of the house with the lights out.

“Reminds me of the old days,” said Stottlemeyer. He sounded a tad wistful. There had been a time, toward the beginning of their relationship, when Monk would purposely keep everyone out of his mental loop. I’m not sure if it had been a matter of trust with Monk or his flair for the dramatic, but the last moments of a case would often be like this—with the police and me waiting in the dark, waiting for Monk to spring some sort of unfathomable trap.

Rather than being insulted like Devlin or amused like Stottlemeyer, I was concerned. I knew the man better than anyone. “Adrian. Come here.” I took him by the elbow. He let me guide him out of the wing chair and into a corner. “What are you doing?”

“I’m solving the case,” he said. “Just a little longer.”

“You could have solved it without a production,” I said. “Why are you being this way?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and the catch in his voice proved he wasn’t showing off or being dramatic. He was scared. “It comes and goes. Sometimes everything is clear and sometimes it’s not. Ever since I woke up . . .”

“You mean from drowning?” I didn’t know what else to call it. That’s what he called it himself.

He nodded. “Like tonight. I know who’s going to walk in. But when I start to explain it inside my own head, it gets hazy.”

“Have you told this to the doctors?”

“Yes. But”—he seemed pleased with himself—“I was careful to state it as a hypothetical. You know. What if someone happened to wake up after a drowning and a medically induced coma, and his mind was hazy. I don’t think they knew I was talking about me.”

“What did they say?”

“They said it’s not uncommon. Probably temporary.”

“Of course it’s temporary. It’s been only a few days. Being through all of that and now being back home . . . I’d be hazy.”

“Yes,” Monk said. “But you’re not expected to be brilliant every single minute. In fact, you’re not expected to be brilliant at all. In fact, people expect very little. . . .”

“Okay, I get it.” I wasn’t insulted. After all, Adrian Monk was defined by his genius. It was how he defined himself. I didn’t want to think about how that might have changed. “I’ll help you through this one. No one will know.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. I’ve seen you do this hundreds of times. Just tell me who we’re expecting. And please don’t say Malcolm Leeds, because that would really freak me out.”

Monk had his mouth open to give an answer. But we were interrupted by a dot of red from the security system panel. Ten seconds of steady red followed by maybe fifteen seconds of flashing red. Then it flashed off. Someone had just come through the front door and switched off the alarm.

The captain and lieutenant had seen it, too. Without a word we shrank into the dim corners. I thought I could hear the soft tread of footsteps on the staircase, but it might have been my imagination.

A minute later, the library door eased open, then closed with barely a squeaky hinge. This time I heard the footsteps and the click of a table lamp.

It was Portia Braun, revealed in the soft glow. Not unexpected, I had to admit. Except that she was carrying a dead ringer of Malcolm’s faux-leather messenger bag over her shoulder. We watched from the shadows as she tiptoed across the room to the leather-bound Shakespeare on its stand by the window. I guess it was Devlin who turned on the other lights.

“Good evening, Ms. Braun,” said Captain Stottlemeyer. “Mind if we look inside your bag?”

You could see the fight-or-flee response surge through her before she settled on a third, more sensible option. Surrender. Her shoulders slumped as Lieutenant Devlin put the bag on a table and, at a nod from the captain, opened it. There in a cotton-padded interior, taking up almost the entire bag, was a twin to the Shakespeare folio on the stand.

“The second fake,” said Devlin. “The spare from London.”

“No,” Monk announced. “The six-million-dollar original.”

That statement was enough to throw everyone for a mental loop, except for Monk and probably Portia.

Had the book on the stand been a fake all along?

If so, had Malcolm Leeds been part of the swindle when he authenticated it? If not, how had the book been switched out and why? And was that Malcolm’s bag on the table? Or a twin? All three of us were asking these questions aloud until Monk held up a hand. It was time for him to do the thing he did best in the world.

“They were in on it together,” he explained.

Okay, this was disappointing. Not totally unexpected, just disappointing.

“I knew from the first time I met Leeds. Or maybe the second time. Was it the first or second time?” Monk was looking at me. Helpless.

“How did you know?” asked Devlin.

“Um.” I could see his eyes wander. “It was something Leeds said.”

I began reviewing everything Malcolm had said in front of Monk that day, like someone else’s life flashing in front of my eyes. And then it hit me. “He said Portia was from East Germany.”

“Yes,” Monk agreed, his mind back on track. “She taught at the University of Munich, so one might assume the woman was Bavarian. But Leeds mentioned she was East German, even though he supposedly never met her before.”

I nodded and tried to take over. “Portia and Malcolm met here in San Francisco. Some mutual friend probably introduced them.” I was just spitballing, looking to Monk to contradict me. “That’s when they came up with the plan to substitute a fake. After the theft, Portia would use a new passport to disappear, and Malcolm would never be under suspicion to begin with. How am I doing?”

“Good,” Monk said. “And it was Leeds who arranged for the copies to be made in London.”

“Yes, London,” said Devlin. “How did you know we should look at London?”

“I knew because of . . . his watch. Something about his wristwatch.”

“Are you okay, Monk?” asked the captain.

“I’m fine.” Monk rolled his shoulders. “I’m just giving Natalie a chance.”

I said, “Thanks,” and kept thinking.

I thought back to one time I’d seen Malcolm’s Rolex. “Malcolm had just gotten back from a trip to New York, so he said. But his watch wasn’t three hours off. It was more. Am I right? Adrian?”

“Right,” Monk said, remembering. “His Rolex was eight hours off. That means England. It’s not the only country in that time zone. Theoretically, the copies could have been made in Spain or Portugal or West Africa. But since Shakespeare wasn’t Spanish or Portuguese or West African . . .”

“Got it. But why two copies?” Devlin asked.

“Why not?” I said. “Everyone needs a backup. It’s logical to have a backup.” I knew this was how Monk thought. Backups for everything. If Monk had a better reason for this last deduction, he didn’t say.

Stottlemeyer eyed us. “What’s with all this back-and-forth? A tag team match?”

“I’m just trying to contribute,” I said. “Do you want to go on, Adrian?”

“Why don’t you?” said Monk.

“Thanks,” I said. But nothing was coming to mind. For a crazy second, I looked over to Portia.

“Don’t expect me to help,” she said, her mouth curling in a sneer. “I’m no good with silly fairy tales.”

I plowed ahead anyway. “The original plan went wrong. Circumstances forced Portia to return the real folio and toss the copy in the lily pond—and kill Lester Melrose.”

“It was just luck how Leeds got involved as your consultant,” said Monk, “although there aren’t that many rare book experts. Leeds came in and did his job. On the second day, he came prepared. While we were arresting his partner, he stole the Shakespeare book again and replaced it with the second fake.”

“You mean when our backs were turned?” Stottlemeyer was stunned. “Right here in this room?”

“He had his messenger bag with him,” I said, recalling the moment well. “And the rest of us were busy with Ms. Braun’s arrest.”

“Right under our noses?” You could see how angry the captain was with himself. But how could he have suspected that his consultant was one of the bad guys?

Devlin turned to Portia and grinned. “Did you see what Leeds was doing? Damn, that must have galled. You get handcuffed for murder, and he’s right across the room stealing your prize.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Portia. That comment alone set my mind at ease. We must have been right on the money.

“Malcolm Leeds knew he had a limited window to disappear with his prize.” Monk seemed focused again and on a roll. “That’s why he needed to cozy up to Natalie and get me distracted.”

“Yes,” I agreed before listening. “Hold on. What? Cozy up to me?”

A smirk is not Monk’s most attractive look. “I told you he was using you, Natalie. And I believe your response was ‘Shut up.’”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up. When you two met, you kept bragging about how I couldn’t get on without you. That’s why he wanted you on that cruise, to keep me off balance.”

“Shut up.”

“Captain. Natalie’s telling me to shut up.”

“Boys and girls, that’s enough,” growled Stottlemeyer. “Let’s just say, for sake of argument, stop arguing. Okay?”

We stopped. “Good,” said the captain. “Now where were we? All right, Malcolm takes Natalie to Mexico for whatever reason. He double-crosses his partner and jumps ship with the book. Is that right?”

“Right,” I said. This part was pretty straightforward. “Malcolm didn’t expect Portia to be released. But she was. It was easy for her to fly to San Marcos, follow him from the dock, kill him, grab the book, and fly back. All that remained was for her to replace the book—yet again—and inherit it legally.”

Devlin and Stottlemeyer were both smiling, amused by the whole process. If there weren’t two murders involved, it would be pretty funny, you have to admit. Four different substitutions—first putting in the fake, then the original, then a different fake, then the original again.

I was grateful that Portia hadn’t chimed in about Malcolm using me as a patsy. Despite my volley of “shut ups,” that detail had the annoying ring of truth.

“That is the most atrocious fable. I never went to Mexico.” Portia was wearing black-framed glasses tonight and looked even more like a scholar. “My car pass shows me going over the San Francisco bridges that day, several times.”

“Huh,” said Stottlemeyer, unfazed. “That’s funny.” He cocked his head. “It’s funny you should mention the FasTrak pass. Most people give an alibi by mentioning witnesses or business or friends. You went straight for the FasTrak.”

“It’s true,” said Portia. “You can check my pass.”

“We did,” said Devlin. “Unfortunately, we didn’t check your friend’s pass.” I could tell that she was mentally kicking herself for being so sloppy. “We’ll do that first thing in the morning.” She took out her iPhone and checked her notes. “Your roommate, Gretchen Wilder. She teaches across the bay. She must have gone back and forth that day, several times. It would be very curious to see if her FasTrak and yours crossed at exactly the same time. Wouldn’t that be weird? Almost like both passes were in the same car.”

“It would be a fascinating coincidence,” said Portia. She was less belligerent than a moment before, but still belligerent. “But this would not prove I went to Mexico. I’m certain you have already checked the airlines? Yes?”

“Yes,” Devlin admitted. “Nothing under your name.”

I couldn’t believe this woman was still trying to get away with it. “What about this?” I asked, pointing to the messenger bag on the table. “This belonged to Malcolm Leeds. In Mexico.”

“No. This is mine,” said Portia, hardly skipping a beat. “When Mr. Leeds was here, I admired his bag. I went out and bought one just like it. In cash,” she added before we could ask. “I don’t remember where.”

All right, this was downright rude. Any decent killer would have confessed by now.

The captain was just as frustrated as me. “Ms. Braun. We have you on a charge of breaking and entering.”

“I plead guilty to that, although, in my defense, no one ever confiscated my house keys or changed the code. Is that a felony?”

“We also have you in possession of stolen property.”

“Property that I am about to inherit.”

Despite her talk, I felt that we had her, at least enough for a grand jury and an indictment. We could probably find a witness at the car rental place in Mexico. But this woman had proved slippery before.