Mr. Monk Helps Himself (21 page)

Mr. Monk Phones It In

E
llen and I went directly back to my kitchen, picking up where we’d left off and dividing the last of the Rocky Road. “How long, do you think?” Ellen asked, leaning back against the counter and enjoying the first bite.

Monk had a thing against letting anyone use a phone in a moving car, one of his few quirks that made perfect sense. I’m sure he’d been timing us, figuring out exactly how long it would take us to get home. Unbeknownst to him, we had gone slightly faster than the limit and hit all the lights.

Ring, ring, ring . . . “Right about now,” I said, and picked up my phone.

“All right, I give up. Who? Who’s been threatening me?”

“You’re a bright boy, Adrian. You figure it out.”

“But you’ve got secret information. Did you find out from your pals at the cult? No, wrong. Your cult wasn’t involved with poisoned money or the clowns. Was there something at the clown house? No, that wouldn’t account for the massage stones.” He was thinking out loud, and it was kind of fascinating. “Does Ellen know? Or is it just you?”

“This isn’t twenty questions.”

“If the next package is a bomb and I get killed, I’ll never forgive you.”

“It won’t be a bomb.”

“Does that mean you know what it’s going to be?”

“Not a clue.”

“But the fact that you know it’s not a bomb means it’s nonthreatening, not in a life-and-death way, so . . .”

“Good night, Adrian,” I said sweetly, and hung up the phone.

Ten seconds later, Ellen’s rang. Without exchanging a word, we turned off our phones and returned to our melting ice cream.

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” said Ellen as she led the way to the living room sofa. “I’m curious, of course. And amused.”

“Adrian could figure it out,” I told her. “But it’s connected to one of those subjects he blocks out.”

“Good. Serves him right. Brilliant is as brilliant does.”

“I think the line is, ‘Stupid is as stupid does.’ From
Forrest Gump
.”

“Same thing,” Ellen said. “Adrian may be brilliant, but he doesn’t always act that way. You may not be as brilliant. But my money’s on you.”

“Thanks.” It was a very supportive thing to say. But I had no idea what I was going to do next.

“So what are you going to do next?”

“Augh!” My hands flew to my head. “I don’t know.”

“If you were with Adrian, what would you do?”

Good point, I thought. If I act brilliant, maybe I’ll be brilliant.

“Wouldn’t Adrian go back to the Sanctuary?” asked Ellen. “Look for clues?”

“The only trouble is Damien and Teresa know that I’m suspicious. They wouldn’t let me through the gates.”

“Well, then Adrian would send his trusted assistant, to be his eyes and ears and report everything she sees.”

It took me a second to get her drift. “You would be willing to do that?”

“Sure. There’s a retreat this weekend. From all the e-mail blasts I’m getting from BPM, I know it’s not completely booked. Not like in the old days.”

Wow. This might actually work, I thought. Ellen knew how the Sanctuary operated. She was friendly with both Damien and Teresa. And, as far as I knew, they were unaware of her connection to Officer Natalie Teeger.

“I can get Suzie to cover at the shop,” she added. “Not that there’s a lot to cover.”

“You really want to do this?”

“I’ve always wondered what it was like. To be honest, sometimes I get jealous when you and Adrian are out there chasing the perps. I could use a little adrenaline rush.”

“Ellen, this isn’t fun and games.” I tried to sound serious, not excited by the prospect. “We don’t know what Damien’s really up to.”

“Natalie.” She put down her bowl, looked me in the eyes, and matched my seriousness. “Miranda was my mentor. You’re not the only one. Do you know what it’s like, listening to you talk about going in there and peeling away the layers and not being a part of it? Let me help.”

What could I say? She was right.

“Okay. But only if I can split the cost.” Like I said, a weekend at the Sanctuary wasn’t cheap. “I wish I could pay for the whole thing. But I’m not even sure if I’m still on the payroll.”

“Don’t be silly,” she countered. “I’m the one staying there, taking their seminars, and eating wild salmon. Business isn’t so bad that I can’t treat myself to a little adventure.”

“Fine,” I said. “But if we ever get paid for this case, you get half.” I couldn’t imagine that kind of thing happening, but it was my way of saving face.

“Agreed,” she said. And we shook on it.

To seal the deal, I opened a bottle of Coastal Fog, a chardonnay bottled in the hills just above Half Moon Bay. I’d found it a month ago in a local wine shop and considered it a good omen at the time, a promise of a wonderful weekend to come. Now I considered it a promise to solve this case. “To Miranda,” I toasted.

“To Miranda,” she toasted back.

We sipped in silence and then both apparently had the same thought. “Do you want to see how he’s doing?” Ellen asked. I laughed and nodded.

At the count of three, we powered up our phones. Ellen’s was a little faster than mine. “Fifteen calls,” she said, checking the display.

“Fourteen,” I said, checking mine. “You win.” And then, of course, mine rang.

“No, you win,” Ellen giggled.

We were still giggling on the third ring when I answered. “Hello, Adrian.”

“Who’s sending me stuff?” he demanded without a word of greeting.

“Nice talking to you, too.”

•   •   •

Making a reservation was as easy as Ellen had thought. In fact, they were giving a twenty percent discount this week, which made me feel better about her paying.

For the rest of the week, I didn’t go into work and work didn’t come to me. And by work, of course, I mean Monk. I guess we’d come to some unspoken agreement. He would solve his case and I would solve mine. And the results would determine our future partnership, whatever it was.

I’m not sure that’s what Monk had in mind, because, like I said, it was unspoken. But he was mad enough not to call again or show up on my doorstep.

For the next two days, Ellen came over and we prepped for the weekend. My number went onto her speed-dial list, as well as those of the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office, Captain Stottlemeyer, and Lieutenant Devlin.

We downloaded a Google map of the compound and quizzed each other on every nook and cranny of the place as well as possible exits and escape plans. Ellen practiced taking secret photos, regular and close-up for documents, then sending them off by touch, with an innocent smile on her face and a phone hidden in a pocket.

She scheduled a massage with Teresa for Saturday and another on Sunday, which she could always cancel if they weren’t needed for general spying or conversation.

She Facebook-friended both Damien and Teresa and the Sanctuary itself, and we pored over their comments and timelines, just to get to know them better. It turns out they were both fans of Bon Jovi, Holistic Homes, and Oliver Stone movies.

On the last evening, we sat down over another bottle of Coastal Fog—decent but a little sweet—and mulled over various scenarios. What if we lost cell service or they took her phone? What if she couldn’t get off the premises and I couldn’t get on? I toyed with the idea of lending her my Glock 22. But she nixed the idea as being dangerous and illegal, and I had to agree.

In short, we did more prep work than I’d ever done in my life for any case. But then I was going to be working with an amateur this time, not with the seasoned pros who’d always had my back.

And not with Adrian Monk.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mr. Monk Is Defriended

I
was born and raised in Monterey, another picture-perfect seaside town, less than two hours south of Half Moon Bay. My hometown is a bit larger, but both places were settled as Spanish missions. Quaint, touristy storefronts, built during the California gold rush, decorate the main street, although only theirs is named Main. Ours is Alvarado.

A few steps away from the art galleries and restaurants and boutiques is the great outdoors, miles of craggy, foggy coastline and every possible activity: horseback riding, surfing, hiking. But you would think from all the ads posted around town that most of the native population is made up of whales who like to be watched by people who like to stay in B-and-Bs. You’d probably be right.

Ellen and I arrived late Friday afternoon in separate cars. We parked at a scenic lookout about a mile north of the BPM Sanctuary and compared notes one last time.

“Oh, look what I picked up at Target.” Ellen reached into her bag and pulled out a small cherry red clamshell of a flip phone. “It’s prepaid and pretty cheap for just a couple of days.”

“You’re not taking your iPhone?”

“Sure. But this is my backup. You know, like cops carry an extra gun strapped to their ankle, just in case.”

It made total sense, although I hated to think of a situation where she might need a phone strapped to her ankle. She gave me the number. I tried it and it worked. Then I added the number to my speed dial and rearranged my list, making them one and two and dropping Monk to number three.

After exchanging hugs and saying our good-byes, I watched her drive south on the Cabrillo Highway. Two minutes later I followed her, stopping half a mile south of the BPM Sanctuary at the closest place to spend the next two nights. This would be my one-woman command center—the Myrtle & Thyme, a charming B-and-B that had been highly recommended on TripAdvisor.

I met my hostesses, Cathy and Darlene, a sweet middle-aged couple who asked a few questions about my visit but not too many. They did happen to see my binoculars in the backseat and handed me one brochure for a bird-watching tour and three for whale watching.

I settled into the upstairs back bedroom, a bright and cozy hideaway decorated in floral prints and possessing an unobstructed view of the ocean. I proceeded to unpack, make myself a cup of chamomile tea with the electric kettle on the sideboard, and go about my main job for the evening: worrying myself to death.

I’ve always been the type to second-guess my decisions. The Best Possible Me CDs had been helpful in this regard, teaching me how to trust myself and move forward. But now, alone and with someone out there trusting me as her backup, the doubts were starting to return.

I eyed my Glock, sitting prominently on the bedside table. What if Ellen got hurt? Or killed? That would be a tragedy. For her, obviously, and her family and friends. But also for Monk. He had already lost one woman in his life to a violent death. The loss of a second would be devastating. And I would be indirectly responsible.

The other option, on the opposite end, was that nothing would happen.

What if there was no danger at all? I wondered. No Damien-Teresa conspiracy to reveal? What if, like Monk said, we were just a couple of cultists, trying to deny the sad truth about our cult leader? That would have its own implications.

Among other things, it would mean I probably shouldn’t be a partner, that I don’t have the instincts or skill, and that I should just fade into the background, content with handing out wipes at a crime scene. My expired police badge and all my work in Summit, New Jersey, would suddenly mean nothing. And I’d be back where I’d been nine years ago.

But at least Ellen would be safe. I had to think of it that way.

I put the gun away in a drawer. Much better. Then I gravitated to the only reading matter in the room: a three-punch binder filled with fliers from the local restaurants, including a separate section for restaurants that delivered.

When my phone dinged, I threw down the binder and flew across the room. It was a text from Ellen. “Anyone up for a game of footsie?”

A second later, it dinged again, this time with a photo. It had been taken under a tablecloth, probably at one of the larger tables facing the sea. It was a shot of a leg in a stylishly distressed pair of jeans curled seductively around a shapely bare brown leg in a white Dansko sandal with a two-inch heel.

I immediately texted back. “What are you doing?”

Twenty seconds later. Ding. “Meet and greet. With feet.”

Yes, of course. The meet and greet. “Hope you had your flash off,” I texted.

Ding. “Not to worry. This ain’t my first rodeo.” Ten seconds later, she dinged again. “Actually, it is.”

“BE CAREFUL!” I shot back. Do people take you more seriously when it’s all in caps? I hoped so.

I knew firsthand the euphoria of being undercover and getting away with a few little jokes. Before you know it, you’ve drawn some unwanted attention to yourself. I could have kicked myself for not warning her.

I waited a few minutes. But she didn’t text back, which I took as a good sign.

As long as I was on the phone, I did a quick Facebook check and was just in time to catch a new post from Lieutenant Amy Devlin. “I need a martini. Hold the ice, vermouth, and olive. Make it a double.”

This made me laugh—not because I wanted her to drink, but because I knew the cause. I checked back on her Timeline and saw her earlier posts for the day. One other mentioned alcohol, one mentioned prescription medication, and one was a copy of the Serenity Prayer, printed over a pair of clasped hands. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. . . .”