Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (24 page)

“Lieutenant Thurman? Sir? What the hell? I mean, what the freaking hell?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mr. Monk and the Bottle

N
ot that I have to be fair to Lieutenant A.J. . . . I mean, really! But to be fair to Lieutenant A.J., this had been his sister's plan from the start.

A.J.'s and Rebecca's interrogation statements were similar on all the major points.

They'd been unaware of the existence of the bottle of Aisla Dalmore until just a few months ago. That's when they were sitting by their father's bed, amid all the extravagantly expensive equipment designed to keep him alive. Rebecca brought out a photo album from the old days. Arny Senior perked up as he looked at the pictures and told his favorite stories, including the one about the whisky and their fraternity pledge. There were several yellowing snapshots of the boys posing around the large bottle, pretending to drink, embracing it like a lover, all of them impossibly happy and young and hopeful.

The story might have ended there, if not for the obituary column in the Sunday
Chronicle
. That's where Rebecca read about the death of Harrison Wheeler in a plane crash in Nova Scotia. He was the third of the six boys to die. She'd never considered her father that old. Yet here he was, third
in line for a dusty bottle of single-malt whisky. It made her curious enough to go online and type in the words “Aisla Dalmore.”

This, I have to point out, was not the same whisky that had gone on the auction block for 1.4 million. That was a 105-
year-old Aisla T'Orten, which had been sitting undiscovered in someone's basement until 2010. But the Aisla Dalmore was in the same ballpark.

“It's hard to quote a value,” the fine-spirits expert from Sotheby's had told Rebecca when she finally got him on the phone. “That whisky isn't supposed to exist. They were aging their best single malt in the storeroom of the Inverness distillery, saving it for the company's hundredth anniversary. Then came the storm of nineteen seventy-two. A lightning bolt hit the building and the place burned to the ground. One of the great tragedies in whisky history. If someone had managed to bribe or sweet-talk them out of a bottle before the fire, it would be the only one. Are you saying you have such a bottle, ma'am?”

Rebecca had hung up and told her brother everything.

Their first instinct was to steal the Aisla Dalmore. But the Mechanics Bank on Sansome Street in the business district had both keys and strict instructions not to open the safety-deposit box unless the requirements of the ghoulish agreement had been met.

All they could do was hope their father could outlive the two other heirs, even by a day. Then his inheritance would go to them. They could pay off the mortgages and finally have lives of their own.

Rebecca claimed the poison was her doing. She had
found umbrella stands on both the judge's and the captain's porch, which was what gave her the idea. Being an ER nurse, she was familiar with heavy-metal toxins. Two middle-aged men would die of natural causes on some rainy San Francisco day. Simple.

Their statements differed about when exactly A.J. was brought into the scheme. Both of them had visited Judge Oberlin in the hospital. Either one of them could have continued to poison him with the thallium. Rebecca blamed A.J. for this and A.J. blamed Rebecca. There was plenty of blame to go around.

At the judge's funeral, A.J. had done his best to humiliate Monk and avoid the possibility of an autopsy. That seemed clear. He was also the one who had written the seven-year note, hoping that this fake, anonymous motive would derail the investigation, which it almost had.

By the time he led the captain into the alley ambush, A.J. was certainly an active participant. Being hit in the leg by your own sister must have been galling. But they were in it together, with only one man standing in their way.

A.J. was the one responsible for the car bomb; he confessed to that one. He had lured Leland out of his sickbed. And he'd had plenty of time to plant it while we were inside the Tuscany Pines. He just hadn't counted on anyone else starting the car.

From then on, things got only more desperate. Arny Senior was requiring his daughter's constant skill to stay alive. Meanwhile, it was becoming more difficult for A.J. to get some valuable alone time with the captain. Their last chance would be in the hospital room.

Between a police lieutenant and a nurse, the Thurmans knew what to do. The plastic bag would immobilize, not kill. Killing him would be left to the contents of the syringe. Succinylcholine, according to our forensics specialist, is a powerful muscle relaxant that paralyzes its victim and can mimic the signs of a heart attack within fifteen minutes.

Fourteen minutes after the injection, when the captain was breathing his last, his trusted lieutenant would unlock the door, race down the hall, and alert the hospital staff. But it would be too late.

•   •   •

Whiskey or whisky? “Do you spell it with an
e
or without?” Out of the five of us staring at the bottle, I was probably the only one concerned about the spelling.

“According to my pop, the Irish use the
e
, the Scots don't,” said Captain Stottlemeyer. He kept staring at the simple, solid bottle with the black-and-white label—no
e
in “whisky”—and the two signatures and a seal verifying it as the real deal.

It was hard not to stare at thirty ounces of brown liquid with an auction value of perhaps 1.5 million. That was only the Sotheby's estimate. It could go higher.

“How could your dad afford it?” Randy asked.

“It wasn't quite that expensive,” the captain explained, not for the first time. “But I'm sure he did some fancy talking and paid a pretty penny. I remember our trip to Scotland as a kid, how Mom and Pop fought. I thought they were arguing about the cost of the vacation. The amazing thing to me . . .” He choked up a bit and hid it with a cough.

“The amazing thing is that he cared so much about you
and your friends,” said Trudy, squeezing Leland's hand. “His best bottle by far and he never even tasted it.”

“So when is the auction?” I asked, rubbing my hands together.

Captain Arny had died two days before, drifting off the same night that his son and daughter were arrested on two counts of felony murder and various other charges. The captain called us that morning and asked us to come over and see what had been dropped off at his bungalow in an armored car from Hamish Stottlemeyer's safety-deposit box at the Mechanics Bank.

“If it happens in New York, Sharona and I can drive in to celebrate.” Randy seemed to share my auction fever, but the others looked as if we'd just suggested shooting the family dog. (Teddy, by the way, was in the backyard, happily gnawing a bone.)

“Leland made a sacred agreement,” Monk said. “Does that count for nothing in your world, Natalie?”

“You mean you're actually going to drink a priceless bottle of whisky?” I was dumbfounded. I turned to his wife. “Trudy, you can't be in favor of this.”

“Not the drinking part,” Trudy said. “But honoring the memory of his fraternity brothers? And his father? Leland and I talked it out and I agree.”

“You agree?” It was hard to find the words. “How could you agree? It's a million and a half dollars versus a massive hangover. Think what you could do with that money.”

“We don't need that kind of money.”

“Fine. Then give it to charity. You'll also be making a
whisky collector somewhere very happy. Or a museum or whoever puts up that kind of dough.”

“You have two sons,” said Randy to the captain. “You can leave the money to them. Or leave them the bottle.”

“I'd rather leave them the story,” said Leland. “How their dad kept his word to his dad and his pals. What do you think Nate Oberlin would say if I sold it? Or poor Arny? People are dead and his kids are in jail because they wanted to sell it.”

“Okay,” I argued. “Let's talk about Nate Oberlin. His daughter lost a father because of this bottle. Don't you think she deserves a say?”

“I talked with her this morning,” said the captain. “I suppose that was last night in Thailand. She agrees with Trudy and me. To her it's blood money. ‘You might as well drink a toast with it'—that's what she said.”

“Wow,” I said rather eloquently.

“What do you think is going to make the bigger impact on our lives?” said Trudy. “A new car or honoring Leland's friends? What if the whisky was worth a hundred dollars? Would you think it right for him to sell it then?”

“For a hundred bucks, no,” said Randy. “But this is a million point five.”

It had taken a little while to get my head around the idea. “Okay,” I agreed. “I guess you're right. But you have to promise to save a few drops for your newer friends. I've never had a ten-thousand-dollar sip of anything. Deal?”

“I'm sure there'll be some left over,” said the captain.

“Can we do it now?” asked Randy.

“Now?” Stottlemeyer laughed. “First you want to sell it, now you want to drink it for lunch?”

“Sorry. I'm just curious.”

“No, I think I need to take my time before opening this baby. Maybe after Arny's funeral.”

“Sorry,” said Randy again. “The only reason I mentioned it is because I'm heading back on the red-eye tonight. But you can tell me how it tastes.”

This took us all back a step, not because it was unexpected—Randy had to go back to his life, we knew—but because the moment had been so perfect, the four of us together and discussing a case, just like old times.

“You can't go back,” said Monk. “I worked long and hard to put A.J. Thurman behind bars. I would have done it even if he was innocent.”

“No, you wouldn't, Monk,” said Randy.

“That's not my point. There's a vacancy at Leland's side. The planets are aligned. You obviously want to leave New Jersey and we want you back. You never have to speak about the past few years. In fact that's the way I prefer it. Like the disruption in our little universe never even happened.”

“But it did happen,” said Randy. “And it's not all bad. I'm a police chief in a town that needs me. Well, maybe doesn't need me—or want me. But I'm still their duly appointed chief by a majority vote of the city council. As of right now. Although they could vote at any time.”

“I'd be glad to have you back,” said the captain. “I can't lie. I mean, I understand about being the chief. That's important, if it's important to you. But you're needed here, too. It won't be easy for me to trust a new lieutenant. Not after the last one.”

Stottlemeyer had a point. He had done so much for
Arnold Thurman Jr.—promoting him, defending him, entrusting him with his safety . . . and all the while it was the lieutenant who had been out to get him.

“Hell, Randy, you saved my life.”

“I did not.”

“Monk says you did.”

Monk bobbed his head vigorously. “It's true. You're the one who got in there and grabbed the syringe. You're the one who joked about the priceless whisky. I never would have made that connection.” I couldn't tell if Monk was exaggerating or not. “Never in a million years.” All right, he was exaggerating.

Randy seemed to be warming to the notion. “Well, I knew it couldn't be connected to an old case. I mean, no one wanted me dead, right? That's just illogical.”

“Absolutely,” said Monk. “The captain would be lying dead and cold on the hospital room floor before I ever thought of the whisky.”

“Adrian, please,” said Trudy. She took a deep breath and shuddered. “That's enough.”

“Well, you know what I mean. We need
him.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Mr. Monk Aligns the Planets

S
omehow, Randy had managed to survive his entire visit without renting a car. That was fine with me. It gave us a chance to spend some time together, just the two of us, as I drove him through light evening traffic to the airport.

“Are you texting Sharona?” I asked.

Randy glanced up from his phone, then rather guiltily placed it in the passenger-side cup holder. “Sorry. I guess I'm not very good company.”

“No, go ahead. I assume she's picking you up at Newark.”

“Hope so. I haven't been able to get in touch. With everything going on, I just bought my ticket this morning.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Yesterday. She had some city meeting this morning and turned off her phone. She's relieved, of course, about Leland. And she's proud of me for helping.”

“She should be proud.”

“So Monk wasn't just saying that? To make me stay?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. It gets harder and harder for her to be proud of me in Summit.” He picked up his phone again and put it back down. “There's this weird snowball effect. People look at you a certain way and somehow you wind up being that way. I try to act nonplussed about it.”

“Nonplussed?”

“You know, calm. I can't believe you don't know the word nonplussed.”

“Nonplussed actually means the opposite of calm. It means confused. Unsettled.”

“Really? Wow. It sounds like it should mean calm.”

“I know. I used to say it that way. Adrian had to correct me.”

He appreciated this. “At least you don't make me feel stupid. If I had used ‘nonplussed' in Summit, can you imagine? The English teachers alone. Oh, God, I think I did use it, in a letter to the editor last month.” He moaned and slumped into his seat.

“You really don't want to go back, do you?”

“I don't,” he finally admitted. “I told myself it was impossible as long as A.J. was around. That was easy. But now he's not around.”

“Look, Randy. I know I've been pushing you to go home and make the best of it, but if you'd really be happier . . . There's no shame. Honestly. Everyone here would love having you.”

“But that would be running away from my problems.”

“Hey.” I had to smile. “A very wise man once told me you can run away from your problems.”

“I think that was Monk.”

“It was Monk.”

“Right.” He looked down to his phone again. “But I have to go back.”

I tried thinking it through. “For Sharona?”

“There's a part of me that Sharona always admired, from back in the day when we were butting heads and working cases. I can bounce back. I can ignore criticism and keep going. It's a talent.”

“And you don't want to disappoint Sharona.”

He nodded and wriggled. “I guess that's what it boils down to.”

I've never complained before about how close the airport is in San Francisco, how it's a straight sweep down the 101, and how traffic can be fairly light. It's never like that, almost never, except when you need a little longer with someone.

I dropped Randy at the curb and defied the printed warning—NO
STANDING—by getting out and hugging him good-bye. I'm sure we said all the usual things about missing each other and staying in touch. Then he walked away.

It was getting late. But I had left Monk at the office and I wanted to swing by and make sure the place was safely closed and he found his way home. I was feeling sentimental and a little sad, as if I wanted to hold everyone and everything too close.

Monk and Teeger was still open, the lights still on. I parked in my usual spot, opened the door, and followed the squeaky sound of the clarinet.

My partner was sitting near the back of the shop, inches from the thin wall, playing the strangest of duets, his old clarinet harmonizing with the faint strums of the guitar from next door. He didn't stop when he saw me but finished out the song. Then he rapped on the wall. “Good night, hippies.”

“Good night, Adrian,” came Peter's voice.

I had to smile. “‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone?' That doesn't sound like you.”

“I brought in my clarinet to annoy them,” Monk said, looking a little embarrassed. “But we wound up knowing the same music.”

“Good for you,” I said.

He put on the mouthpiece cover and started breaking down his instrument, returning it to the old leather case. “So Randy is on his way.”

“On his way,” I confirmed. “And, for the record, I tried to talk him out of it.” I could hear a car turning into the parking lot, probably Wendy in her van coming to pick up Peter, I thought.

“The planets were aligned,” said Monk, each word a mournful moan. “It was perfect. How many more times do you think we can arrest a lieutenant for murder? I'll tell you how many. Very few.”

“Adrian.” I looked into his eyes. “We can't live in the past. A.J. is out of the way and there'll be someone new. Look, I can't promise everything will work out. But that's life. We have to be comfortable with life.”

It was shaping up to be a good speech, if I have to say so. It would have been a lot longer, too, except for the fact that Sharona Fleming had just walked through the door. She didn't even pause to say hi.

“Where is he?” she shouted as she looked around. “Where's Randy?”

“Sharona?” I didn't know where to begin. “He's been trying to get in touch with you.”

“I've been on a plane.”

“Obviously,” said Monk. “You should have called.”

“As soon as I got out of that damn meeting, I went straight to the airport. I didn't know what else to do. I was so mad.”

“Why didn't you call?”

“Because that would have freaked Randy out. He would have known something was wrong by the tone of my voice.”

Her voice did have quite a tone to it, anxious and angry and ready to kill. “So what is wrong?” I had to ask.

“They fired him. The Summit city council fired Randy. After all he's done for them. Can you believe that?”

“Poor Randy,” I said.

“I hate that town.” Sharona took a breath, straightened her leopard-print top, and fluffed back her big, blond hair. “Hello, Natalie. Adrian. Sorry to be such a mess. Where's Randy?”

“The planets are aligned,” said Monk, his eyes raised to the ceiling.

“What the hell is he talking about?”

“Nothing. But Randy isn't here. He's at the airport.” I reached for my phone. “Don't worry. There's still an hour before the flight. Wouldn't that be annoying, crossing paths like that? Flying all the way here and then missing each other?”

“You're telling me?” I don't know who had dialed Randy's number first, Sharona or me. But one of us got through.

“Thank God for cell phones, huh?” I had to laugh. “I don't know what we would do—”

“Hold on.” Sharona held up a red-lacquered fingernail and turned to face the open door. “Is that Randy's ringtone?”

It was Randy's ringtone.

And it was coming from the front passenger cup holder in my car.