Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu (13 page)

There aren’t a lot of empty warehouses in San Francisco, at least not that I know of. Most of the parking structures in this city are packed with cars and people, but even if they weren’t, Monk’s wife was killed in one, so that wasn’t an option. And with real estate so valuable, the closest thing we had left to an abandoned amusement park was the ruins of the Sutro Baths.

So that’s where we found ourselves, on a wind-swept gravel parking lot above the weedy swamps and the wave-splashed footings that once supported six hundred tons of iron girders and one hundred thousand square feet of rainbow-colored stained glass over six saltwater swimming pools, one freshwater pool, a museum, and art galleries.

Stottlemeyer was waiting for us, sitting on the hood of his car, smoking a cigar and watching an elderly park ranger show some overweight, middle-aged tourists a creased scrapbook full of pictures of the Sutro Baths, built in 1896, and the adjacent Cliff House, a five-story, wooden, faux French château erected at the same time and perched improbably over the churning sea.

The Cliff House crumbled in flames a decade later and was subsequently rebuilt on a smaller, much less ambitious scale (and remodeled many, many times over the ensuing decades). But the baths survived until 1967, though by then it had become a forgotten, decaying skating rink, relentlessly hammered by time and tide. It finally burned down, too, while being demolished for a resort that was never built.

It’s not much of a story, is it?

But the park service treats the place as if the submerged foundations and scattered chunks of exposed concrete are the ruins of some Mayan temple, when, in fact, it’s got no more historical significance than the remains of a Howard Johnson.

It was chilly and gray, and the air was thick with sea mist. The seals were barking on the jagged rocks offshore, and seagulls cawed overhead.

“What are we doing here, Captain?” Monk asked Stottlemeyer.

“You tell me, Monk,” he said. “You asked for this little rendezvous.”

“I mean, why did we have to meet way out here?” Monk said. “Surely there was someplace closer that doesn’t overlook rocks bleached with seagull guano.”

“Because I don’t want to be seen with you. If just one cop spots us together, I’m finished in the department. No one will ever trust me again.”

“But everyone knows we’re friends,” Monk said.

“We shouldn’t be,” Stottlemeyer said. “Not anymore. Friends don’t betray each other.”

“I didn’t betray you.”

“You’re sitting at my desk,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I’m sitting in an interrogation room.”

“It doesn’t matter where the hell you’re actually sitting, Monk. You’re the captain of homicide.”

“
Acting
captain,” Monk said.

“The two most important things in my life were my wife and my job. Now I’ve got neither one. I think you know exactly what that’s like.”

Monk blinked hard. Stottlemeyer might as well have slapped him.

“I’m sorry,” Monk said. “This was a very bad idea.”

He lowered his head, hunched his shoulders, and started slouching his way back to my car. My heart broke for both men. I looked at Stottlemeyer’s face. What I saw wasn’t anger. It was pain.

“Wait,” Stottlemeyer said. Monk turned back to face him. “What I’m trying to tell you is that I know how you feel, maybe more now than I ever did before, and why you had to take the badge when Smitrovich offered it to you.”

“You do?” Monk said.

“I’m not saying what you did was right, or that I appreciate your screwing over every cop in the department, but I understand why you did it.”

“So, you’ll help me?”

“You mean will I work against my own best interests and those of my fellow cops?”

“I mean, will you help me catch a serial killer before he takes any more lives, and stop three murderers from getting away with their crimes?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Not to me,” Monk said.

“That’s one of your big problems right there.” Stottlemeyer scowled and ground his cigar out on his hood. “Okay, tell me your troubles.”

Monk told him.

Stottlemeyer rubbed his unshaven chin and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Let me tell you about Randy Disher—”

“I don’t think he can help us,” Monk interrupted.

“Let me finish,” Stottlemeyer said. “You think Randy is enthusiastic and hardworking, but you don’t respect him much as a detective.”

“I never said that,” Monk said.

But that’s what he must have thought. I did. Don’t get me wrong; I like Disher. He’s a friendly guy, but I often wondered how he ever made it to lieutenant.

“Randy is a people person. He’s likable, nonthreatening, and courteous. People naturally open up to him, even the ones who should be on their guard,” Stottlemeyer said. “They tell him things they wouldn’t tell anybody else, things that they sure as hell wouldn’t tell me, and they don’t even realize they’re doing it. That’s his gift.”

“Does he solve any cases?” I asked.

Stottlemeyer narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you think I’d keep him around, that he’d be my righthand man, if he didn’t? He’s got an excellent clearance and conviction rate.”

“I didn’t know,” I said.

“Why should you? You’re not a cop, and the cases he solves aren’t unusual, high-profile, or particularly colorful. But, by God, he closes them.”

“What does Lieutenant Disher’s work have to do with me and my problems?” Monk asked.

“Frank Porter is the most dogged investigator I know. If the facts are out there, he will find them. Cindy Chow can untangle a conspiracy better than anybody because she sees them everywhere. She finds connections between people, places, and events that anybody else would miss. Mad Jack Wyatt is a force of nature on the streets, relentless, fearless, and unstoppable. He won’t let go of a case once he’s on it. And you, Monk, are a deductive genius, but I’m just guessing. The truth is, I don’t know how the hell you do what you do.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” Monk said. “But I’m missing your point.”

“For a genius, it’s amazing how often you can be a complete idiot.”

“
That’s
your point?” Monk said.

“I don’t investigate every murder myself. I delegate. I keep an eye on things, and I offer advice, but mostly I match cases to the unique talents of my individual detectives,” Stottlemeyer said. “You have a team of skilled detectives. Use them. Save yourself for what you do best and let the others do the rest.”

“What if they miss something?”

“Then they miss something. Maybe you’ll catch it later; maybe you won’t. You’ve got to live with that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Monk said.

“Then you aren’t ready to be captain.”

“Is that what you think?” Monk said. “That I’m not qualified to do this?”

Stottlemeyer looked out at the sea. “I can’t answer that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

I glared at Monk. It was bad enough that he’d already asked Stottlemeyer to choose between his friendship to him and his loyalty to the police force. It seemed to me that Stottlemeyer made the choice and didn’t much like himself for what he’d picked. Now Monk was making things worse by pressing his friend even further.

“The truth is, Monk, that I don’t care whether you are or not,” Stottlemeyer said. “The best thing that could happen to me and every cop in this city is for you to fail miserably. So I’ll give you one guess what I’m rooting for.”

I didn’t have to guess, and if Monk was smart, he didn’t either. I headed for my car, hoping Monk would take the hint and keep his mouth shut.

“Thank you for your help,” Monk said.

“Don’t ask for it again, because you won’t get it,” Stottlemeyer said, his back to him. “You’re on your own until this flu bug passes.”

“Then I hope everyone gets well very soon,” Monk said, and then got into my car.

 

On the drive back downtown, Monk called headquarters and asked Porter to oversee the sweep of gypsy shoe sellers, assigned Wyatt to search for the stolen car belonging to John Yamada’s ex-wife, and asked Chow to find Diane Truby’s stalker and bring him in for questioning. Monk decided to handle interviewing Max Collins, the investor who lost millions of dollars following Allegra Doucet’s bad astrological advice.

“Why did you pick the astrologer case for yourself?” I asked.

“Following the shoe lead requires legwork and manpower; they don’t need me for that,” Monk said. “It’s clear what happened to Yamada and Truby. We just don’t know who the killers are or why they committed the crimes. Those answers will come through investigation and perseverance. But Allegra Doucet’s murder is a complete mystery to me. All I know is that she was stabbed, but nothing else about the crime scene makes sense.”

“You’re hoping you’ll meet Max Collins and get one of your aha moments.”

“That would be nice,” Monk said.

“And you’re okay letting Porter, Chow, and Wyatt run with the other cases in the meantime.”

“No. The only thing stopping me from curling into a fetal position and sobbing is my seat belt.”

“But you’re following Stottlemeyer’s advice anyway,” I said.

“He’s good at this,” Monk said.

“You ought to tell him that sometime,” I said.

“He knows,” Monk said.

I don’t know why men can’t tell anyone, even their closest friends and loved ones, what they feel. Do they just assume that everybody around them is psychic? Or do they think that admitting any feelings, even something positive like love or admiration, somehow makes them weak?

“But has he heard it from you?” I asked him.

“He doesn’t want to hear it from me. Not anymore.”

“Only until this is over,” I said.

Monk shook his head. “That depends on how it ends.”

The Greenwald Gallery was filled with what I assumed were astronomically expensive paintings and sculptures. Otherwise it wouldn’t have been in Union Square, wouldn’t have been open by appointment only, and wouldn’t have been protected by armed security guards inside and outside the doors.

We were greeted by a tall, thin, sharply dressed British woman. The cut of her suit at the shoulders, waist, and hips was almost razor-edged. Even her features were sharp. Anyone who got close to her ran the risk of slicing their throat on her pointy cheekbones, her angular chin, or the tip of her surgically refined nose, which she held up high as if to keep it above our foul stench.

“I’m Prudence Greenwald, owner of the gallery. Mr. Collins is expecting you, Detectives. He’s in the back,” she said with a refined British accent. “Follow me, and please do not touch any of the artwork.”

Her accent was fake, something she picked up to go with her surgical makeover.

Okay, I don’t really know if that’s true, but that’s what I wanted to believe. I didn’t bother telling her that I wasn’t a detective and that Monk was acting captain of homicide. I liked her mistakenly thinking I was an authority figure.

“Do you have any of those paintings of dogs playing poker?” I said. “We simply adore them.”

“Not presently,” she said.

“How about portraits of Elvis?”

She sneered at me. “I’m afraid not.”

“Then I guess we’ll just be browsing today,” I said.

We found Max Collins admiring a tangle of iron strands that resembled an enormous hairball coughed up by a cat. The sculpture was displayed on a white pedestal under a pinpoint halogen.

Collins wore his impeccably tailored suit as if he were modeling it for himself, but I looked around and couldn’t see his reflection anywhere. He must have been imagining how good he looked. He was in his mid-thirties, with teeth so white and skin so golden that George Hamilton probably sent him fan letters.

“Thank you for meeting me here, Captain,” Collins said, offering his hand to Monk, who shook it, then motioned to me for a wipe. “I couldn’t miss this appointment. These pieces just came in from a private collector who is selling some items to raise cash for another endeavor. His loss is my gain.”

“I understand you’ve had a few losses of your own lately,” Monk said, wiping his hands. “Thanks to Allegra Doucet’s investment advice.”

“Let’s just say I’m focusing my investing interests these days on works of art.”

“You’ve given up on astrological advice?” I asked, taking the wipe and putting it in a Ziploc bag, which I then stuffed in my purse.

“I still read my horoscope in the
Chronicle
; I’ve just stopped relying on the stars to guide my investing.”

“And this exquisite sculpture would be a particularly good investment,” Prudence said. “It’s one of Lofficier’s finest works. It’s called
Existence.
”

Monk looked away, repulsed.

“You don’t like it?” Collins said.

“It doesn’t have a shape,” Monk said. “It isn’t even symmetrical. It’s wobbly and uneven.”

“That’s its beauty,” Prudence said. “It depicts the circle of life and, within it, the eternal struggle between the spiritual and the physical, between politics and art.”

“But it’s not a circle,” Monk said. “It’s a mishmash.”

“What you’re seeing is the complexity of the piece,” Prudence said.

“What I’m seeing is the mish,” he said. “And the mash.”

“I take it you’re not a fan of abstract art,” Collins said to Monk.

“I like things that are neat and clean,” Monk said. “How did you get involved with Allegra Doucet?”

“Interesting segue,” Collins said. “I’d been hearing about her for a while. She advised some heavy hitters in the business community on investing, using astrology and their personal charts as her guides. I heard they had some success.”

“So you sought her out,” Monk said.

“Not really. I grew up in the Haight. My mom still lives there. I was visiting my mom one day, passed Allegra’s place, and finally decided, ‘What the hell?’ Allegra and I connected immediately. She did my chart. It was uncanny how accurate it turned out to be. So I kept going back for more advice.”