Mr. Monk Helps Himself (12 page)

“You think something’s in the garage?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“John Harriman was not at the children’s event that day. It was his wife who gave Smith access to the garage because she wanted him to make a dramatic entrance through the front door. Yes, something was in the garage.”

“Well, kiddies. We have a suspect.” Captain Stottlemeyer clapped his hands and turned to face us. “Nobody talks to the Harrimans. Got it? Our goal now is information. Whatever can help us get a search warrant for that garage.”

“I’ll focus on Harriman’s personal history,” Devlin volunteered. “Any crimes he could be covering up. Suspicious deaths of relatives or associates. Influxes of cash. How far back should I go?”

“Eight years, two months,” Monk said. “Eight years, three months this coming Tuesday.”

When he realized we were staring openmouthed, he explained. “I know I should say ten years. Ten is a more civilized number. But Harriman bought this house eight years and two months ago. I doubt he would have taken the trouble to have the movers pack up and transport incriminating evidence to a new place, so I’m guessing this happened after they moved.”

“Thanks,” said Stottlemeyer, including us both. “Good work.”

“I’m going to need to visit Mr. Smith’s house again,” Monk said. “Personally this time.”

“Really?” Devlin sounded dubious. “You don’t need me to go in there with my camera and describe it?”

“No.” He sighed, long and hard, as if carrying the weight of a thousand clowns. “I’m afraid I have to see it myself. Last time we missed something.”

“What? What did we miss?” the captain asked.

“I’ll tell you when we get there.” And he started to leave.

“We didn’t miss a thing,” Devlin protested, but no one listened.

I followed my partner out of Stottlemeyer’s office and to the elevator, but not before catching the captain’s eye. The man was shaking his head, exhibiting a familiar blend of admiration and curiosity.

Two perfect exits in a row. I was on a roll.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mr. Monk Gets Mail

I
drove Monk to his Pine Street apartment building, and this time when he made noises about sharing a fun evening of washing and drying all his lightbulbs, I actually said yes. It was my way of rewarding him.

He’d been feeling a little lonely and disconnected, I could tell. Ever since Ellen slammed her shop door in his face, he’d been quietly entertaining the possibility that he might, just might, be wrong about some things. I think that, plus my brilliant maneuver of calling him Adrian, had made last night’s marathon phone session a lot easier.

The call had begun with him refusing to do anything that made him uncomfortable, as if no one else in the world did uncomfortable things. I know it’s much harder for him than it is for the rest of us. But somewhere around eleven thirty, he began to realize that his friends needed him to step up right now—the captain, Devlin, me, and especially Ellen—at least just a little.

“Are you going to tell Ellen about this?” he asked as we celebrated our day of investigation with two tall glasses of water.

“I will,” I assured him. “She’ll be so proud of you.”

“It’s your fault,” Monk said, and he meant it. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

“It’s called a partnership.”

Monk tilted his head from side to side. “I could have walked inside, you know, except for that sign on the door. ‘Poop.’ In big brown letters. She should change the name.”

“Adrian, this is not about her changing. It’s about you changing.” He still winced when I used his name. I had to remind myself not to overuse the magic.

“Me changing? Well, the first thing I’d change is the name of her store.”

I didn’t pursue it. He had already done so much I didn’t want to overload him. I held up my glass and we air-toasted. Much more sanitary than a real toast. “Clink,” I said, and he clinked me back. “Now, how about those lightbulbs?”

As Monk went to fetch his cleaning supplies from the closet, I switched on the TV and began to flip through to the music channels. Monk was fond of Bach when he cleaned. There was a mathematical precision to Bach’s music that he found soothing. We had tried Mozart once, but Mozart can get a little crazy.

On my way to the classical end of the dial, I happened to slowly flip by CNN. A handsome, big-featured face was on a split screen with Wolf Blitzer and I made the mistake of stopping.

“Our books are open,” Damien Bigley told the CNN host. “We intend to cooperate fully with any investigation. It is inconceivable that Miranda would have done anything to hurt the good name of BPM. Ours is a philosophy based on ethical behavior and honesty.”

Wolf seemed unimpressed. “We have reports from an unnamed source that your wife admitted to these financial misdeeds in her suicide note.”

“That is totally untrue,” Damien replied, handling it more calmly that I would. Where do reporters ever get these inside sources? “Miranda mentioned the pain and heartache her actions would cause her family and friends. Nothing more.”

“So, are you denying these charges?”

Damien brushed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and looked sincerely at the camera. “As far as I know, no charges have been filed. We are going through an audit, scheduled months ago. And we’re cooperating fully with the state district attorney.”

Wolf looked straight ahead on the split screen, which was his version of looking Damien in the eyes. “Mr. Bigley, do you believe your wife capable of embezzling from her company?”

Damien looked away. “The economy has been hard on everyone,” he said. “But Best Possible Me was Miranda’s life. How could anyone steal part of their own life?”

“He’s lying.” The voice startled me.

Monk stood behind me, his arms loaded with a lightbulb-cleaning kit he had bought online from Japan. “You can tell by his eyes. He knew what was going on, whatever it was.”

“Exactly.” I snapped off the set. To hell with Bach. “That’s the great thing about her suicide. For him. His wife takes the blame and he gets to be with his mistress.”

“It was still a suicide,” Monk pointed out.

I cringed. “You don’t think he could have hypnotized her?”

“It doesn’t work that way. Even under hypnosis, you maintain control.”

I guess Monk should know. He had once gone to a hypnotherapist for treatment. This was years ago. Through some mistake that only seems to happen to him, he found himself regressing to the age of seven, the last time in his life when he’d been truly happy.

For days, he’d gone around as an emotional seven-year-old, carefree as a puppy, playing in the trees and even adopting a frog. We thought he was under the spell of his hypnotism and didn’t know what to do. But along the way, he solved a murder and, when he needed to, pulled himself out of his trance.

“Okay. Not hypnotism,” I said. “But it had to be something. He knew she was going to do it—on that particular day. How do you explain that?”

“I don’t have to. I was there when she jumped. It was her choice.”

Monk circled around my chair to the coffee table. “Do you want to start on one side of the apartment and work across, or should we start with the twenty-five-watt bulbs and work up to the three-ways? You’re the guest.” He pointed. “What’s that?”

He was talking about the state of his coffee table. His binder of phobias had been pushed aside and replaced by a manila envelope.

“Oh.” I’d completely forgotten. “When I came to pick you up, I brought in your mail. This was the only thing.” I hadn’t mentioned it to him at the time because we’d been on a mission and I didn’t want him distracted. “Who’s it from?” I asked.

“No return address.” He retrieved two wipes and held the padded envelope at an angle to the light. “Gum residue,” he announced. “There was a return address label but it came off. Handwriting isn’t familiar. The postmark is smudged and almost out of ink.” He held it out and I inspected the blocky letters, addressed to a “Mr. A. Monk.”

“You open it,” he said, which is his usual reaction to getting something unexpected in the mail.

I grabbed a pair of scissors from the scissor sanitizer in the kitchen (another online purchase from Japan) and slit it open. “It’s money,” I said, peering inside. Without thinking, I dumped the contents onto the coffee table.

It was money, all right, but not American. The bills were old and of various shades of brown and gray and green, all basically the same size as U.S. bills. The denominations ranged from one to one hundred. “What country are they from?”

Monk peered down at them. “From right here,” Monk said. “Confederate money.”

“Confederate? From the Civil War?” I was instantly fascinated. “Who would send you Confederate money?” I checked the envelope again but there was nothing more inside except two pieces of stiff cardboard to keep it from bending. I had expected at least a note. “Are they valuable?”

“Depends on the rarity. Ambrose used to collect them as a kid, until mother made him wash them all with Ajax. Then the bills disintegrated and he lost interest.”

I turned over a five-dollar bill and found a beautiful engraving of an “Indian Princess.” On the back of a fifty was a portrait labeled “Jeff Davis.” I began to gently sift through them. Stonewall Jackson. A woman I’d never heard of named Lucy Pickens. “They’re like little pieces of history.”

“Natalie, what are you doing?”

“I’m playing with money.”

“Stop!”

It never even occurred to me, not until I heard the panic in his voice. Money in a manila envelope, sent through the mail with no return address. Sent to the detective genius heading up the poisoned-money investigation. And here I was playing with it, like a kid in a sandbox.

“Augh!” I dropped the bills and froze.

“Go wash your hands. Don’t touch anything. Here, follow me.”

I held up my hands and followed him into the kitchen, where he quickly turned on the hot tap, unwrapped a bar of soap, and dropped it in my palms. “Scrub like the wind. Like the wind. And keep the water hot.”

While I scrubbed away, he ran back into the living room and dialed 911.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mr. Monk and the Headache

O
bviously, I didn’t die.

This is kind of embarrassing, so I don’t want to drag it out and build up a lot of suspense. But it was totally a false alarm. The EMTs showed up at Monk’s apartment, this time with their own hazmat masks and gloves. Stottlemeyer and Devlin showed up a few minutes later to take the money and envelope into custody. Meanwhile, Monk and I were whisked away to the emergency room at San Francisco General.

By midnight, we’d been released with a clean bill of health. There was no poison on the bills or on the envelope. Never had been. And that was a point I had to continue making to Monk as the captain dropped him off in front of his place. I could see him eyeing the window of his second-floor sanctuary.

“You don’t have to spend all night cleaning,” I told him. For the tenth time.

“People in hazmat suits were in there. Hazmat!”

“Yes, but they didn’t find anything.”

“But they were wearing them. Imagine where those suits were before they came here. Those men don’t wear them to tea parties.”

“Fine.” I sighed. “Do what you want. Just be bright-eyed and brilliant when the captain picks you up. We’re revisiting Dudley Smith’s house. You promised us you’d find a clue.”

All three of us got out of the car, and the captain and I watched as Monk disappeared into his building. “He’s going to clean all night, isn’t he?” the captain said.

“I’m not my partner’s keeper.”

“I’m glad you guys are okay. That’s the important thing.” He brushed his mustache, which was his tell for being sincere.

“I feel so guilty wasting everybody’s time.”

“No, you were right. It was a weird situation. Any idea who might have done it?”

I’d spent the last few hours mulling that question. “If the money had been poisoned, I could understand—a murder attempt. But this was totally harmless. Maybe the killer had meant it as a warning. Get off the case or next time you’re dead.”

Stottlemeyer frowned. “An odd warning. And why Confederate money? It’s harder to get and more expensive. I could understand if he wanted to poison you. Sending Confederate money would almost guarantee that it gets handled.”