Mr. Monk Helps Himself (14 page)

That was one factoid I’d learned over the years. Fingerprints don’t last forever, no matter what they tell you on cop shows. They’re basically made up of skin oil and sweat. In some cases, they last for years. In most cases, not.

Monk raised his hand, like a kid in school. “I hate to be the party pooper, but can you rule out an innocent origin of the bottle?”

I’d thought about this, too. A defense attorney could argue that John Harriman had bought the tampered bottle in a store, like the victims, and just never used it or turned it in to the authorities.

“We can,” said the captain. “The plastic seal was on the bottle but loose. It hadn’t yet been heat shrunk.”

That seemed good enough for me. “How about Smith himself?” I asked. “Could he have been the Cemedrin killer?”

Devlin shook her head and checked her notes. “Not possible. In 2009, Dudley Smith was living in Vincennes, Indiana, going to school.”

“At his age?” I asked, although I have nothing against adult education. I was doing it myself. But why Indiana?

“Clown school.” Monk closed his eyes and did a full-body shiver. “Dear God, the man was a worse pervert than I thought.”

“Monk’s right,” said Devlin. “About the school. Vincennes is home to the Red Skelton Clown Academy. It’s part of the university.”

“Really, Monk?” asked Stottlemeyer. “How did you know about the school?”

“It’s the first rule of phobias,” Monk said. “Know your enemy.”

“Okeydokey.” Stottlemeyer turned to his lieutenant. “So, we’ve eliminated Dudley and an innocent origin of the bottle. What else you got?”

Amy flipped to her next page. “I’m running a background on Harriman and his wife, focusing on a connection to any of the victims. Also any history of mental-health issues.”

“Excuse me.” Monk raised his hand again. “Isn’t this technically an FBI case?”

“Half of it,” said Stottlemeyer. “It’s also an SFPD homicide. We’re just following the leads.”

“But aren’t we required to turn over evidence? It’s an open federal case.”

“Technically, yes,” said Stottlemeyer.

“What did the lab say when you gave them the bottle?” asked Monk. “They must have known.”

“Are you familiar with Ms. Jasmine Patil?”

I didn’t know about Monk, but I wasn’t.

“I asked for her personally.” The captain brushed his mustache. “A twenty-three-year-old CS technician who was raised and schooled in New Delhi. Moved here two years ago and doesn’t ask questions.”

Monk got it. “You’re not turning this over to the FBI.”

Of the four of us, not one had had a good experience with the bureau. For instance, during our last encounter, less than a year ago, they’d accused Monk and me of laundering money for the Italian mob. That was also the case in which Monk accused an FBI special agent of murder and the theft of half a million from the evidence room. Monk of course had been right.

The bane of our existence over there was Special Agent Joshua Grooms, a beefy, intimidating man with an off-centered widow’s peak that drove Monk crazy. Hold on! Can you have more than one bane? Because our second bane would have to be Special Agent George Cardea. We had embarrassed both agents professionally on more than one occasion.

“Do you really want to deal with them?” Devlin asked. She and Stottlemeyer had obviously discussed this before we arrived.

“Of course not,” I agreed. Grooms and his macho crew had always been a thorn in our side. Plus—and I couldn’t help thinking it—a high-profile case like this would be a perfect way to inaugurate the new team, Monk and Teeger, PIs extraordinaire. On the other hand . . . “Won’t we get in trouble?”

“Not if we play it right,” said Stottlemeyer. “We arrest Harriman for the Smith murder, then quite by chance make the connection to the big oh-nine case. No one but Monk would have made the connection to begin with.”

“Grooms is going to be pissed,” I said, although I couldn’t help smiling.

“If he ever finds out we had the Cemedrin bottle and knew what it was and didn’t turn it over . . .” Monk shuddered.

“That’s why officers Garcia and Chandler are no longer on the team,” Devlin pointed out. “The only ones who know are in this room.”

“Monk, I need you to promise me something.” Captain Stottlemeyer got up from his desk and faced my partner. They were still two feet apart, but to Monk it was the same as being toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye. “I need you to promise you’ll stay on this case.”

“He’ll stay on the case,” I said.

“I need to hear it from Monk.”

“I’ll stay on, Captain,” Monk said with a hard swallow.

“Are you sure? It’s a clown case, Monk. Before it’s over, you may have to deal with squirting flowers and clown cars and God knows what else.”

“Stop saying the C word,” Monk croaked.

“I’m serious,” said Stottlemeyer. “If you can’t promise me, then we’ll call it off. We’ll turn everything over to Grooms and just hope his people can pull it off.”

“Even though they haven’t pulled it off for the past four years,” Devlin said.

“Don’t pressure him. It needs to be his choice. No matter what, Monk. Can you promise?”

“Yes, sir,” said Monk, as determined as I’ve ever seen him.

“Good. Let’s shake on it.” The captain stepped back and extended his hand. “And no wiping afterward. I want a real shake.”

“No wiping?” Monk shivered. “What is this, some barbaric ritual, like becoming blood brothers?”

“Worse. We’re germ brothers. Joined by our hand germs. What do you say, buddy?”

Monk stepped up to the captain again, toe-to-toe, two feet apart. And they shook.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mr. Monk Stays at Home

F
or a while, I thought I wouldn’t be able to get away. Monk and Stottlemeyer had become germ brothers, as Monk kept calling it, and the case looked like it was ready to swing into gear. But Lieutenant Devlin still had more research to do.

Our immediate goal was not to raise any flags, either in the department or with the FBI. And then there were the Harrimans. Within the San Francisco financial community, these fat cats were very well connected, which also meant politically connected.

Killers, and this is just from my experience, get sensitive when you start snooping around. We couldn’t afford to get on the Harrimans’ radar, not until we had enough evidence to go in front of a friendly judge and get a search warrant for their garage.

Anyway, this is a long way of saying that I still had my weekend.

When I first drove into the BPM Sanctuary, the iron gates had been open and welcoming. On this visit, they were closed, with a temporary guard checking photo IDs against names on a list. It was understandable.

Although I’d tried not to turn on a TV for the last few days, it was hard not to know what was happening. As Damien had predicted, the irony proved irresistible, at least to the late-night hosts. Bill Maher did a comedy monologue about the hypocrisy of the self-help movement. Jimmy Fallon, dressed in Miranda drag, did his version of her infomercial.

And there was one I overheard in the shower. I was just waking up to my golden oldies when they rebroadcast David Letterman’s Top Ten list: Top Ten Life-Improving Suggestions from Miranda Bigley. “Number Ten: Live each day as if it’s the last day you walk up to a cliff.” I raced out of the bathroom and nearly took a tumble on the tile, just to keep myself from hearing the other nine.

The faces arriving at the Sanctuary were mostly familiar, the same ones I’d seen on the cliff a week ago, looking so shocked and lost. The few additional attendees were probably her most loyal fans who couldn’t stay away. Combined, we made a full contingent, with every cottage on the property occupied.

Teresa Garcia was working the front desk when I checked in. It was hard not to think of her differently now, as something more insidious than the beautiful, bubbly woman who could work out your kinks.

It didn’t help when Damien Bigley walked up to us. “Teresa, you remember Natalie Teeger.”

“Of course,” Teresa said. Her sad smile looked practiced. “We never got around to that massage you had scheduled.”

“I was hoping you’d have an availability tomorrow.” I don’t know why I said it, except that it would have been awkward not to. Did I really want this woman touching me? God help me, I felt as skittish as Monk.

“I’m sure I can work you in. I’ll check the book and leave a note on your door.”

“Did you know that Natalie here is a police officer?” Damien said.

“I believe you mentioned it.”

“Natalie was on the scene in San Francisco when Miranda’s body washed up.”

“I happened to be with Captain Stottlemeyer,” I said. “He and I were working a homicide when the call came in about Miranda.” You’ll notice that everything I said was true, if perhaps misleading.

“Well . . .” Teresa seemed taken aback. “I’m glad you could take time away from your homicide . . . I mean, to deal with her remains.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.” If that sounded a bit edgy, I meant it that way.

Dinner that evening was a subdued affair. No speeches or greetings. For me and the other meat eaters, there was a simple grilled salmon. For the vegetarians, it was something with sautéed eggplant and broccolini.

Half an hour later, we gathered in the meditation center. The building was packed by the time I got there. Apparently, other guests had been invited just for the memorial and had begun filling the seats while I was still fiddling with my lemon curd mousse.

The stage was a festival of flowering plants, overflowing from a hundred or more oversized pots. Miranda had spoken more than once about the sadness of cut flowers. “How is it possible to celebrate life by killing so much beauty?” It must have taken them all day to set them up. In the center was a simple black podium backed by a framed photograph of Miranda, about the size of an emperor’s portrait in a museum.

I meandered through the rows, searching for a single seat in the somber throng. I gave up and found a spot to myself by a side wall, not far from the stage. I was there, leaning against the wall, when Damien got up.

“Thank you for coming. There have been several memorials around the world to Miranda’s memory, from London to Mumbai, where she had been such a beloved figure. But this one, at the peaceful retreat she called home, would have meant the most.

“I can’t help wondering how Miranda visualized this moment. It may not be the most pleasant thought, but to me, it’s comforting. She knew we would be here, in this room, celebrating her life. I wonder what she would say to us.”

For an awful second, I thought he was about to play a recording, with Miranda explaining everything, like the CDs that had made her famous, only this time dealing with the senseless thing she was about to do. I wasn’t sure I could have dealt with that, and luckily I didn’t have to.

Damien’s eulogy was brief and heartfelt. He ended by inviting anyone who wanted to say a few words or to share a memory to come forward. He then took a seat on the dais, half hidden by the living flowers, alongside Teresa Garcia and a few other members of the BPM staff.

I’m not fond of this part of a memorial. Mourners at a microphone can be long-winded and self-serving and—I know it’s a terrible thing to say—boring. But this was actually wonderful. So many people loved Miranda and had been helped by her.

My sight line for all this wasn’t the best. I was basically staring at the sides of the speakers’ heads, but the sound was good. And the view? I could look through the dozens of flowering pots to see . . . Well, this was interesting. Very interesting. I could see Damien and Teresa playing footsie.

At first I thought I was wrong. I had to be wrong. From the torso up, Damien and Teresa were mournfully solemn, sitting side by side but focused totally on the speakers. The widower and the friend. But below the waist, shielded from view by pots and foliage, they were playing footsie like a couple of teenagers in chemistry class.

I don’t need to tell you how outraged I was. Anyone would be. From Monk’s first deduction about the blood drop to their reservation at the Belmont, I’d known about the affair. But to be carrying on like this at a memorial service . . .

I desperately wanted someone to be standing close to me, someone I could reach out and tap on the shoulder who would bear witness to this, so it wouldn’t just look like I was making it up. But the nearest standee on the sidelines was over two arm lengths away.

I don’t know exactly what I was doing during this moment of outrage. Staring? Angling for a better view? Making angry little noises in the back of my throat? Whatever I did was enough to draw Damien’s attention. For the first two seconds, he affixed me with a sympathetic little smile—at the exact same time he was playing teenage footsie. Outrageous. Then he saw where my eyes were really focused.

He reacted, and it was like reversing a pair of magnets. Two feet that couldn’t seem to get enough of each other suddenly flew off in opposite directions. Teresa’s foot continued to reach out but Damien’s was now swinging wildly trying to avoid hers, all the while his brown eyes boring into mine.

I don’t know what I would have done if a speaker hadn’t just left the stage. But one had, a doughy man in his sixties who had just talked himself into big, gasping tears. There was a lull now as he cried his way off.