Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out (16 page)

“So Clovis knew his killer and didn’t feel threatened by him,” Stottlemeyer said. “He invited him in.”

“One last, dumb mistake,” Cahill said.

The entry hall led into an open kitchen and large living room that faced picture windows and the wraparound deck. There was a shag carpet and a large stone fireplace with a swordfish mounted over it. Monk froze and let out a little terrified squeal.

The source of his anxiety was a large Dalmatian sitting docilely on the white couch beside a young police officer, who was petting the dog and holding its leash.

“It’s all right,” Cahill said. “The dog is tame. She was on the deck barking when the officers arrived. But she ran up and licked them when they came in.”

“How are they doing?” Monk asked.

“Who?”

“The officers,” Monk said.

“One of them is sitting there on the couch,” Cahill said. The cop on the couch waved. He didn’t look old enough to drink alcohol. I thought about offering to commiserate with him.

“Why isn’t he on his way to the hospital?” Monk asked.

“Because he hasn’t been hurt,” Cahill replied.

“He was licked by a wild animal,” Monk said. “The officer may look fine now, but in a few days, when he’s foaming at the mouth and shooting civilians, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

Monk lifted his hands and started scanning the room, but he made a point of never turning his back on the dog.

“You’d better go get yourself checked out,” I said to the officer. “I’ll handle the dog.”

The officer shot a look at Cahill, who nodded her approval.

“Yes, ma’am.” The officer got up and left. I sat down next to the dog and held her leash.

“Interference,” Stottlemeyer whispered to Cahill.

“You have an observation?” Monk asked Stottlemeyer.

“I was just saying to Captain Cahill that there are no signs of a struggle. Nothing seems to have been disturbed at all.”

“There’s a huge disturbance.” Monk squatted by the fireplace and examined the wrought-iron tools, which were hanging individually from hooks on a special stand.

“Where?” Cahill asked.

“On the couch,” Monk said. “The animal will have to be euthanized.”

“Why?” Cahill asked.

“Look at it,” Monk said. “It’s in agony.”

“She looks fine to me,” Cahill said.

“How can you say that?” Monk replied, continuing to move around the room, hands out in front of him, one wary eye cast at the dog. “She’s a mess, neither black nor white, wearing a coat of schizophrenia. Imagine how she feels.”

“She’ll feel worse being killed,” I said.

“I sincerely doubt it,” Monk said.

Cahill looked aghast. “You can’t put down a dog for having irregular spots.”

“It’s an act of mercy to end its suffering.”

“You’re suffering,” Stottlemeyer said to Monk. “The dog’s not.”

Monk suddenly froze, as if he’d stepped on a land mine. “Nobody move.”

“What’s wrong?” Cahill asked, her hand instinctively going to the butt of her gun.

“I’ve got dog on me,” Monk said. “You probably all do, too. The important thing now is not to panic.”

I glanced at Monk’s pants and saw barblike strands of black and white dog hair sticking to his pants. Stottlemeyer looked at his own legs and brushed the hair off.

“Stop!” Monk yelled. “Are you insane? Do you want us all to die?”

“What’s the problem?” Stottlemeyer asked innocently.

“Now the hair and dog particles are in the air.”

“Dog particles?” Cahill said.

“It’s like asbestos,” Monk said, “with added dog.”

“Added dog?” Cahill said.

“Just stand very still until help arrives,” Monk said. “Try not to breathe.”

We were all silent and very still for a moment.

“Isn’t somebody going to call for help?” Monk asked.

“Not until you tell us what happened to Lincoln Clovis,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Talking requires breathing,” Monk said.

“Cover your nose and mouth with your hand,” Stottlemeyer said.

Everyone covered their noses and mouths except for Stottlemeyer.

“Here’s what happened,” Monk said, his voice muffled by his hand. “Bob Sebes hit Clovis on the back of his head with an ash shovel and dragged him out onto the deck. Sebes tied the rope around the railing post, slipped the noose over Clovis’ head, lifted him onto the rail, and rolled him off. You’re not covering your nose and mouth, Captain.”

“I have a mustache,” Stottlemeyer said. “It filters dog particles.”

“How do you know it was Bob Sebes?” Cahill asked.

“He doesn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “Sebes is under constant observation and electronic monitoring. The man hasn’t left his house.”

“It was Sebes,” Monk said.

“The GPS strapped to his ankle is tamperproof, Monk, and there are a dozen officers and a hundred reporters camped outside his door. It wasn’t Sebes.”

“It was him,” Monk said.

“How do you know Clovis was smacked with the ash shovel?” Stottlemeyer asked, abruptly changing the subject. “I don’t see any blood on it.”

“Or dust,” Monk said.

“What does dust have to do with it?” Cahill asked.

“Clovis hasn’t made a fire in ages,” Monk replied. “There’s a fine layer of dust on top of the firewood in the basket and on top of all the fireplace tools—except the shovel.”

“I’ll be damned,” Cahill said.

“Will you call for help now?” Monk whined. “Please?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mr. Monk Shares the Moment

M
onk’s rescue was reluctantly accomplished by two crime scene investigators armed with lint brushes, which they used to remove the dog hair from his pants, and a roll of plastic sheeting, which they unfurled on the carpet to give us a safe path to the door.

Monk insisted on accompanying Stottlemeyer back to the police station to personally examine the readings from Bob Sebes’ GPS ankle bracelet. So the captain called ahead to rouse the police tech expert from his bed to come down to the station and walk us through the data.

By the time we got to the station, a surprisingly perky and alert Disher was there to meet us, along with Ingo Koenig, a bleary-eyed, scrappy-haired man with a neck that seemed too short and narrow to support his massive head. He was like Charlie Brown come to life, only without the shirt with the zigzag stripe.

They were at Disher’s desk, huddled over a laptop computer. There were several windows open on the monitor. One window showed a map of Pacific Heights, another showed a multicolored graph that looked like a flatline EKG, another had raw stats that meant nothing to me, and yet another seemed to be a timeline of some kind.

Stottlemeyer made the introductions, then asked Ingo to tell us about the GPS monitoring unit and bracelet that Sebes was wearing around his ankle.

“The judge would probably have locked Sebes up if his lawyer hadn’t convinced him that the Triax XG7 8210, out of all the brands out there, is the ultimate in constant, tamperproof monitoring technology,” Ingo said.

“Nothing is tamperproof,” Monk said.

“I suppose you could wrap the unit in aluminum foil or lead to block the unique wireless signal from being emitted. Or you could use a bolt cutter, or a blowtorch, or even the actual key to remove the bracelet.”

“So how can you say it’s tamperproof?” Monk said.

“Because the beauty of the Triax XG7 8210 is that any attempt to tamper with it will be instantly detected. There’s an infrared beam between the unit and your leg. If you try to slip anything between the bracelet and the skin, or to move the unit away from your body beyond its preset range, we are alerted. If the strap is broken, cut, or unlocked, we are alerted. Any time the transmission of your unique signal is broken, for any reason, we are alerted. But that’s only a fraction of the XG7 8210’s ingenious monitoring features. . . .”

Ingo then explained the XG7 8210’s other features with a passion that approached reverence. We learned that the unit utilized GPS technology to not only track the offender’s movements but also to enforce individual inclusion and exclusion zones.

For instance, if the person is a stalker or sex offender and is not allowed within two thousand feet of schools, or a particular home or place of business, the unit will alert authorities the instant he breaks those boundaries or is in the vicinity. Sebes was under house arrest; therefore his unit would alert authorities the moment he stepped outside of his property line or, as Ingo called it, his inclusion zone.

The unit could also analyze changes in the skin and sweat to detect any drug or alcohol use.

“Some people buy these units by mail order to keep tabs on their troublesome kids or their philandering spouses,” he said.

I could understand the temptation. I’d worry a lot less about Julie if she had an XG7 8210 strapped to her ankle.

“So you’d know if Sebes ever tampered with the unit or left his house?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Me and the half dozen other law enforcement agencies that are constantly monitoring his unit,” Ingo said. “Even if we weren’t watching twenty- four-seven, the system is designed to call my house if there is any breach of the established protocols.”

“Have you received any alerts?” the captain asked. “Has Sebes tampered with his device in any way?”

“We’ve detected no irregularities of any kind.” Ingo pointed to the readouts on his laptop screen to prove it.

The captain nodded. “Has Sebes left his house in the last twenty-four hours?”

“No, he hasn’t. In fact, I can even tell you which rooms of the house he’s been in.”

Stottlemeyer turned to Monk with a look of smug satisfaction.

“See, Monk? There’s no possible way the killer could be Bob Sebes. So you can stop fixating on him and open your mind to other possible suspects.”

Monk cocked his head from side to side and then pointed to the screen and a spike on an otherwise flat line on a graph.

“What is this blip,” he asked, “around ten forty-five last night?”

“Sebes had a drink or two,” Ingo said. “We forgot to deactivate the alcohol-monitoring function on his unit.”

“What kind of drink?” Monk asked.

“I would say a strong martini or several glasses of wine, judging by the traces of ethanol the unit detected.”

I felt a tingle of realization at the base of my neck, as if someone was standing right behind me, breathing on my skin.

“What difference does it make what Sebes was drinking?” Disher asked. “He’s not under arrest for being a drunk.”

Monk smiled. And everyone in the room but Ingo knew what that smile meant. Me, most of all, because I’d miraculously made the same connection, at the same moment, that Monk did.

“Because it proves Sebes wasn’t in the house,” Monk said. “And that he killed Lincoln Clovis.”

Stottlemeyer would have liked for the five of us to visit Bob Sebes without attracting the attention of all the reporters who were staked out in front of the house. But Monk made that impossible.

Monk refused to go inside the house, which he referred to as “a hotbed of virulent
tinea pedis
,” without wearing a crime scene technician’s white jumpsuit, goggles, gloves, and booties to protect himself. So Monk borrowed a suit from the crime lab and was wearing it when we walked up to the front door.

Anna Sebes was on her way out, but changed her plans when we arrived and she saw how Monk was dressed. It conveys a very negative message when a group of somber-faced detectives show up at the door with someone outfitted for the collection of forensic evidence. And she clearly didn’t appreciate the sudden attention our arrival sparked among the press, who were yelling out questions and jostling for position outside the gate for the best shot with their cameras.

“Is that outfit really necessary?” she said to Monk. “You’re creating the impression that a crime has taken place.”

“One has,” Monk said.

“My husband is innocent,” she said. “He’s not a swindler or a killer.”

“Your husband is a plague,” Monk said. “If you were smart, you’d be wearing one of these, too.”

She reluctantly led Stottlemeyer, Disher, Ingo, Monk, and me into her home.

Bob was sitting on the couch in his den, his bare feet up on the coffee table, watching
Deal or No Deal
on a massive flat-screen TV. His den was lined with sports memorabilia and vintage movie posters, which Ingo strolled around admiring as if he was in a museum. There was a snack bar along one wall that included a popcorn machine, soft drink dispenser, and glass display case filled with candy. Whoever said crime doesn’t pay obviously had never met Bob Sebes.

“I hope you don’t eat off that table,” Monk said, holding his hand up in front of him, warding away the image of Bob’s bare, blistered, scaly feet.

Bob switched off the TV with his remote but didn’t bother to get up. “What can I do for you gentlemen today?”

“We’re here about the murder of Lincoln Clovis,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I heard about that on the morning news,” Bob said. “Someone desperately wants me to go to jail.”

Monk raised his hand. “That would be me.”

“I’m talking about whoever is killing the people who actually committed the crime that I am accused of,” Bob said. “This is all about covering up their tracks and tightening up their frame on me.”

“You killed Russell Haxby and Lincoln Clovis,” Monk said.

“Haxby was murdered up in Marin County, Clovis was down in San Mateo, and I’m stuck here under house arrest,” Bob said. “How could I have killed either one of them?”

“You weren’t here last night,” Monk said.

“I never left. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Ask him.” Bob gestured to Ingo, who was scrutinizing a framed baseball mitt, his back to us.

Stottlemeyer smacked Ingo on the shoulder to get his attention. Ingo whirled around.

“Sorry. I was just admiring your collection. Did that mitt really belong to Willie Mays?”

“Forget about the mitt,” Stottlemeyer said. “Check out his ankle bracelet.”

Ingo started toward Bob’s feet when Monk let out a cry.

“Halt!”

Ingo froze. “What?”

“Do you have a death wish?” Monk said. “You can’t get near those without protection. I’m wearing protection and I still wouldn’t touch them.”

Ingo sighed. “Actually, I can see the Triax XG7 8210 just fine from where I’m standing. It obviously hasn’t been tampered with. But I knew that before we left headquarters. I’m still not sure what we’re doing here.”

“We’re arresting a murderer,” Monk said.

“He just told you that I didn’t leave,” Bob said.

“Actually, he said your ankle bracelet wasn’t tampered with,” Monk said. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Actually, it is,” Ingo said.

“I know you weren’t here last night,” Monk said. “Because you’re here right now.”

Stottlemeyer scratched his head. “You’re not making a hell of a lot of sense, Monk.”

“I am so glad to hear you say that, Captain,” Disher said. “I thought it was just me.”

“I understand what Monk is saying,” I said.

“You do?” Stottlemeyer said.

“I do,” I said. “It’s simple. Bob Sebes couldn’t have been here last night and that monitoring unit proves it.”

“You just contradicted yourself,” Disher said.

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “Tell them, Mr. Monk.”

And then Monk did something extraordinary. He shook his head and smiled at me.

“You tell them, Natalie.”

“But it’s your moment,” I said.

“It’s our moment. You understand what I’m thinking. Do you know how long I’ve wanted someone to understand where I’m coming from? Until now, it’s only happened once in my life and I thought it would never happen for me again.”

I was afraid he’d tell me that he loved me. And he probably did, but not in the same way he’d loved Trudy. Or that I loved Mitch.

But I knew what he meant. I was also thrilled that for once things had clicked for me at the same time they did for Monk. That had never happened for me or for anybody else before, at least not since his wife, Trudy, was killed. We all were always at a loss to understand how Monk had figured things out until he told us.

“Please, Natalie,” he said. “Share with everyone what we are both thinking.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Anna said. “Nobody cares what you’re thinking.”

“I do,” Stottlemeyer said and regarded me with a strange expression on his face. I think it might have been envy.

I looked at Anna Sebes. “Did you know that the XG7 8210 on your husband’s ankle not only detects where he is but how much alcohol he drinks?”

“Why should I care?” she said, but she obviously did. And I knew why.

“Because Bob was drinking last night, and since he’s seriously allergic to alcohol, that should concern you very much. One drink and he could go into anaphylactic shock, just like he did on that cruise with you a few years ago.”

“You should be dead,” Monk said to Bob. “But since you’re not, and no paramedics came rushing in here last night to save your life, you obviously weren’t the one drinking.”

“Time out,” Disher said. “You’re saying that he somehow got the XG7 8210 off of his ankle, put it on somebody else and snuck out of the house, got past all of the cops and reporters outside, murdered Lincoln Clovis, and then snuck back in?”

“I’m saying Bob Sebes wasn’t here last night or he’d be dead,” Monk said. “I don’t know how he disabled the monitoring unit or got in and out of the house undetected.”

“He didn’t,” Ingo said, shaking his head, refusing to accept the notion. “He couldn’t have.”

“Maybe he has a secret tunnel under the house,” Disher said.

“There is no secret tunnel,” Stottlemeyer said.

“How do you know? The entrance could be hidden behind a secret panel in the wall activated by adjusting a picture, pulling a book off a shelf, or pressing just the right spot.” Disher began walking around the room, testing his theory by knocking, pulling, pressing, and adjusting things.

“We would have detected any attempt to tamper with the XG7 8210 before he even got it off his ankle,” Ingo said, still shaking his head. I thought he might start stomping his feet, too. “He could not have removed the unit and attached it to someone else. It’s impossible. So the secret tunnel is irrelevant.”

“I’d still like to find it,” Disher said.

What struck me during all of this back-and-forth was that Bob Sebes didn’t look like a man who’d just been exposed as a murderer. He was distracted, like his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Something was very, very wrong with how this was unfolding.

“It’s so pitiful, Adrian, that it’s almost funny,” Bob said. “You are so eager to arrest me for two murders that I didn’t commit that you are missing the simplest, most shameful explanation for what happened.”

“What’s that?” Monk asked.

“I was here last night and I was drinking.”

“So why aren’t you dead?” I asked.

“I wanted to be,” he said dolefully. “But Anna saved me.”

“Your wife wasn’t here,” Disher said, knocking on the wall. “She left yesterday afternoon and didn’t get back until after midnight.”

Sebes nodded. “After she left, I started thinking about all the mistakes that I’ve made, about how my ego and inattention to the business gave Haxby, Clovis, and others the opportunity to mount a massive fraud right under my nose. My life and reputation are ruined and I will lose everything. But the worst part of it all is the hell that Anna, an innocent bystander, the love of my life, is going through. I decided that the least I could do was end this ordeal for her and leave her with what little I still had that the prosecutors couldn’t take—my life insurance. If everything had worked out, I would have been long dead by the time she got home and this nightmare would have been over for me.”