Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (18 page)

“They're not anywhere near the captain's house,” Monk observed.

“Is that good or bad?” I asked, but he didn't answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mr. Monk and the Ballrooms

F
ifteen minutes later, the parade led us off the 101, around the bend of an off-ramp, down an access road, and into the oversized parking lot of the Tuscany Pines. Not one of us had ever been here before.

Our three tail vehicles idled on the access road as Colin backed the Volvo into a handicapped space by a side door. The cousins took the duffel bags out of the back, hefted them on their shoulders, and disappeared into the building.

“A restaurant?” asked A.J. Everybody had everybody else on speaker.

According to its bright signage, the Tuscany Pines was several things: restaurant, catering service, banquet facility. The section of the parking lot in front of the main doors with the faux-Roman columns was crowded with a hundred or more cars, from shiny and expensive to more than a few pickups.

On instructions from the captain, we all parked in different spots, facing out, giving ourselves quick access to various exit routes. It was reassuring to see Stottlemeyer once again in command of the situation.

We met by the captain's Buick. He had already grabbed his duty handgun from his glove box and slipped it under
the Velcro strap of his sling. “Monk, Natalie and I will go in the front. Natalie, I'm going to need you to keep your weapon locked and within reach.”

“Got it,” I said. I was going to keep my Glock .22 in my PBS tote on top of my packets of disposable wipes. Instead, I left the tote on Stottlemeyer's front seat and stuffed the Glock into the oversized pocket of my thigh-length, truffle-colored Calvin Klein belted trench coat. It looks much nicer than it sounds.

The four of us made our way to the Roman columns. “Should we call for backup?” I asked.

“We don't have a crime,” said A.J.

“But I have a bad feeling,” Monk said. “I estimated a sixty-eight percent chance—”

“Shut up, Monk.”

“Lieutenant . . .” Stottlemeyer's gaze fell to A.J.'s right leg. “You keep a position out here. We don't know what they're up to, but the Volvo is their transportation.”

“Let Monk do it,” said A.J. “He's useless in the field.”

“He's not useless in the field. Besides, he doesn't have a driver's license.”

“I do have a driver's license,” said Monk. “I just choose not to use it.”

“Why can't Natalie stay back?”

“Because Natalie has two good legs. End of discussion.”

The lobby of the Tuscany Pines gave the veneer-thin appearance of an Italian villa, with marble tiles and crystal chandeliers. In front of us were the oak doors of a closed restaurant. To the left and the right and up the polished stairs were doors and hallways leading to the event rooms.
Around the staircase, on a trio of freestanding signs, were listed the afternoon events. Pointing right: BOWERSOX
-
CASTELLO
WEDDING
.
BALLROOM
A
.
Pointing up the stairs: RODRIGUES
QUINCEAÑERA
.
BALLROOM
B
.
Pointing left: ANDREW
AND
ADAM
GREENBERG
BAR
MITZVAH
.
BALLROOM
C
.

Adrian, Leland, and I stood in the empty lobby, staring at the signs and listening to the distant sounds of music and celebration. Where the hell were the Willmott boys in this monstrosity? And why?

“A bar mitzvah?” whispered the captain, focusing on the third sign. “You think they'd actually shoot up a bar mitzvah? With kids?”

It was a frightening thought. “We know they're here with guns,” I answered. “They hate Jews and they drew a skull and crossbones on their save-the-date calendar.”

“Maybe,” said Monk.

“What do you mean, maybe?” I asked.

“According to the parents, these boys are motivated by revenge and spite. Do they even know the Greenbergs?”

“It's a Jewish name,” I said.

“I know. But this was carefully planned, whatever it is, not some random hate crime.”

“So, what now, Monk?” said the captain. “We just stand here until you figure it out?”

“Yes, that's pretty much what I do.”

“Well, we can't afford to wait.” The captain obeyed the arrow on the sign, hurrying down the hall on the left toward Ballroom C. Monk and I were right behind him. The weight of the Glock and its full clip rubbed against my hip.

As we came closer, we could hear the commotion. It was
the good kind of commotion, made up of singing and music and shouts of laughter. What a relief. And then, just as we arrived at the double wood-paneled doors, the good commotion was overshadowed by the sound of a crash. Something breaking, like glass and wood. A few screams. A few more shouts and screams. Then the music stopped.

“Captain, I'm still not sure—”

The captain used his good arm to take out his cell phone and toss it at Monk. “Call for backup and nine-one-one. Both.” He used the same good arm to take out his Beretta.

“Captain . . .”

“Now, Monk. You ready, Teeger?”

“Yes, sir.” The gun was out of my trench coat in a second and I was following the captain through the unlocked doors. So far we'd heard no shots. That was good, I thought.

The banquet room was crowded and in total confusion, with a well-dressed crowd shouting and pointing and trying to get a better view amid the chaos. We only succeeded in adding to the confusion—two strangers in civilian garb, one with an arm sling, one in a stylish trench coat, their weapons pointed down and held tight to the body, textbook-style.

I don't know how we got to the center of the action so quickly. The guns might have had something to do with it. Small shards of mirror crunched under our feet as we came closer. Someone, a woman, raised her voice, calling for a doctor. A half dozen doctors, at least, raised their hands and began to crowd forward. They stopped when they saw us and the guns. A few screamed.

In the middle of the huge room, under the broken remains of a half-hanging mirror ball, were two teenage boys
sprawled on the parquet floor. They wore matching white dress shirts and ties and could have been twins. They probably were.

“Police,” shouted the captain. “Is everyone all right?”

“We don't need the police. We need a doctor,” shouted the same woman. Again, a half dozen people, maybe more, surged their way forward. This time, they weren't deterred by the man in the sling and the woman in the trench coat. The boys on the floor were moving now. One of them even managed a weak laugh. Two banquet hall chairs, one with a broken leg, were sprawled beside them. For the first time since entering, I realized something was terribly wrong—or rather wasn't terribly wrong.

“Will someone please tell me what happened?” the captain barked.

The information came from several sources all at once, but it wasn't hard to piece together. The coming-of-age ceremony had ended and the celebration begun. The bar mitzvah boys, Adam and Andrew Greenberg, had been participating in the hora, a dance involving chairs held aloft by a throng of friends and family. The boys had been in the chairs at the time, waving with the music and laughing, and—here's where the stories differed, but only slightly—somehow in all the excitement, they and the chairs and the mirror ball, which should never have been hanging so dangerously low, had all managed to collide. It had been traumatic, of course, but nothing compared to the nightmare of a couple of neo-Nazis with handguns.

Two internists and a cardiologist were checking for blood
and broken bones, while a representative from Tuscany Pines finally arrived to deal with the damage and the interrupted party. Several lawyers in the crowd were in the process of canceling their day off and starting to take statements. We managed to escape questioning by the uncle of the twins who was demanding to see identification and get a written statement on what we'd witnessed.

“Where's Monk?” asked the captain. We had put away our weapons and were letting ourselves be pushed toward the door.

“The last thing I saw, you were telling him to call nine-one-one.”

“Shoot.” Stottlemeyer and I stumbled out into the hallway. “Something else to deal with. Monk!”

“He wasn't enthusiastic about this lead,” I said, looking around. “Adrian!”

We quickly made our way back to the lobby and there he was, glancing between the closed restaurant and the other two signs. He didn't ask any questions about our adventure, just handed the captain his phone. “I didn't call.”

“Monk!” The captain's voice held a strange combination of anger and relief. “When I tell you to call for backup, do it. It's the chain of command. What if there'd been a mass shooting? Every second counts.”

“But there wasn't.”

“There wasn't.” The captain sighed. “Thank you. You were right. I should have listened.”

“What was it?” Monk asked.

“It was a hora accident,” I told him.

“Horror?”

“No. Hora, the Jewish dance. Never mind. Where are the Willmott boys?”

“I checked with Lieutenant Thurman,” said Monk. “As far as he knows, they're still in the building.”

“But where?” asked the captain. “They're obviously not after me, not unless they're three steps ahead of us and led us here on purpose.”

“Those two?” Monk scoffed. “They're not three steps ahead of anybody. My guess is they're here for their cousin's wedding.”

“What cousin?” I asked.

Monk pointed to the freestanding sign and reminded us. “Olivia Bowersox-Willmott. That's how she introduced herself. The family's other nephew, she said, was getting married this weekend to an Italian girl whose Italian last name I'll wager is Castello.”

There it had been, right in front of us. Bowersox-Castello Wedding. Ballroom A. “I should have seen it when we walked in,” said Monk. “I don't know how I missed it.”

“You were distracted,” said Stottlemeyer. “Sorry, buddy.”

The captain took a second to check in with A.J., still working backup in the parking lot. “Stay put, that's an order,” he argued as we started down the Tuscany Pines' other wing. “We're fine. Just had a little delay.”

As we approached Ballroom A, we could hear the live music coming from behind the double doors. “Don't Stop Believin'” by Journey, which I suspect is a fairly popular wedding song, although, for pure energy, I think I'd go with the hora.

The captain stopped, undecided about pulling his
weapon this time. I was skittish, too. “What do you think, Monk?”

“You should ask them about the wedding gifts. Where are they?”

“Wedding gifts?” The captain laughed. “You think our skinheads are here to steal the happy couple's blenders?”

“As far as we know, the skinheads only have two handguns. If they were preparing to shoot up a ballroom, they would have brought more power. Plus, in my personal opinion, they're not killers. They're spiteful and sick. Seven years ago they had a chance to shoot you. They didn't.”

Stottlemeyer thought it over. Behind the doors, we could hear the band switch over to “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” “Okay, Monk. We'll do it your way.”

Our entrance into Ballroom A was much more subdued. There was no dancing with chairs, no broken mirror ball, no guns. And, more important, not a neo-Nazi in sight. There were just a hundred or so guests dawdling over drinks and wedding cake. The bride and groom were on the floor, slow-dancing photogenically while an exhausted photographer balanced on one knee, still doing his job.

I found the Bowersox-Castello crowd to be an interesting mix of old San Francisco and old-school Italian. Pacific Heights meets North Beach. Each side kept pretty much to itself. The team colors made it fairly evident, beige and tasteful pastels on one side and bolder, more vibrant hues on the other.

“No gift table,” said Monk. “Do you see a gift table?”

“They often keep them separate,” I said. “Let's try not to cause a panic.”

Since I'd previously met Ben and Olivia Willmott and had a few more people skills than my partner, I was the one enlisted to get the information. I spotted Olivia. She had crossed the border to join a pair of her new in-laws, women approximately her own age and just as concerned, in their own way, with the subtleties of makeup and hair.

“Ms. Teeger.” She remembered me almost instantly and her face went ashen. “What's wrong?” She excused herself and we stepped a few feet away.

“Nothing's wrong. We just need to speak to Colin and Marshal. You had mentioned the wedding today and I was wondering if they were here.”

“Here? God forbid. If they're not in the basement . . . It's not our responsibility.”

“It's not important,” I said, and wracked my brain for a new approach. Why don't I ever think these things through? “Mr. Monk and I brought a little present for the happy couple.”