Mr. Monk Helps Himself (11 page)

I didn’t turn off Miranda’s voice, but checked the clock on the mantel: seven twenty. Right on time. Monk had been calling since six ten that evening, every ten minutes on the dot. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t answering and he knew I wasn’t answering. He would keep calling until his bedtime at exactly eleven p.m.

All the way home, through the afternoon traffic, I mulled over my talk with Amy Devlin. She had been right, of course, and Captain Stottlemeyer had been right the other day at the clown’s house. Monk and I were partners. And it was my job, now more than ever, to figure out how to get things done.

As much as it hurt my ego to think Monk could do without me on the detection end, it was true. My half of the partnership was going to have to be organizational: to keep him in line, to keep his phobias from interfering, and to make our clients happy.

Of course our biggest client was the SFPD. No more excuses, I told myself. I had to find a way to make each case work, even if it involved a germ-infested spider zoo owned by an aardvark who liked to dress as a clown.

My first step in this personal transformation had been to put on a cup of Ginger Kiss organic tea and break out my favorite Miranda CD—number three,
Changing Your Life Moment to Moment
.

By nine forty-nine, I had savored a nuked portion of leftover Chinese, sipped two more cups of tea, and listened to two more CDs. I didn’t care what anyone was going to say about Miranda Bigley. She helped me cope.

And then I was ready. At nine fifty, my cell phone rang. I waited a few seconds, then picked up. “Hello, Adrian.”

I don’t know what shocked him more: the fact that I finally picked up or the fact that I called him by his first name.

“Um,” he said. I was enjoying his confusion. “I must have the wrong number.”

“You don’t have the wrong number, Adrian. This is Natalie.”

“Natalie who?”

“Natalie Teeger, your partner.”

“This must be some mistake. First, the Natalie Teeger I know isn’t answering her phone. And second, she always calls me Mr. Monk. Always.”

“Welcome to the new world, Mr. . . . Adrian.” This was going to take some getting used to, but I was determined to make it work.

“Why are you changing? I hate change.”

“Because I need change.”

“You can call me Mr. Adrian if you want. That’s a little better.”

“No, that makes you sound like a nineteen fifties hairdresser. From now on, it’s Adrian and Natalie. Unless you want to call me Ms. Teeger. We can be Mr. Monk and Ms. Teeger.”

“I’m not calling you Ms. Teeger. You’re Natalie. It’s a tradition.”

“Then you’re going to be Adrian. We’ve got to be equal partners. The work we do is different but equal. Do you understand, Adrian?”

There was a long pause on the other end. “Can you put Natalie on, please?”

It went on like that for another eighteen minutes, which was good. I’d been expecting a lot longer.

“Good,” I said at long last. “Now that we have that settled, let’s talk about the clown case.”

•   •   •

The next morning was a little hectic. It started with me showing up at Stottlemeyer’s office and briefing the team—the captain and the lieutenant and two patrolmen who had been assigned—on the new ground rules. They were excited to have Monk back on the case and readily agreed to my conditions.

For the duration of the case, certain words couldn’t be used in Monk’s presence. The victim was Mr. Smith, not the clown. His profession was to be referred to simply as his job or profession. What he wore was to be called a uniform, not a costume. There were several other rules, but you get the picture.

I was even thinking of instituting a clown jar—like a swear jar, but where people would have to throw in a quarter every time they said the C word. But having something sitting around labeled a “clown jar” seemed to defeat the whole purpose.

We made similar adjustments on the bulletin board and dry-erase board. The most time-consuming change was with the files. Everything that Monk might read about the case had to be redacted with black markers to remove any reference to the circus world.

“Is this really necessary?” Devlin protested.

“It is if you want Monk,” I said. “I know he’s obligated to work with you, but you have to meet us halfway. I was up until midnight convincing him. That’s an hour after his official bedtime. And this is as good as it got. Monk is going to try to go to his happy place and forget that the victim was clown oriented, or whatever you call it. And we have to help.”

Captain Stottlemeyer understood. In fact, he was impressed. “You’re really taking control. If this new attitude works . . . our lives are going to be a lot easier.”

“That’s our goal,” I said. “Welcome to the firm of Monk and Teeger. Now, if you’ll give me twenty minutes, I have to go pick up Adrian.”

“Who?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Adrian,” I said again.

“Adrian? Really? Is that allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed,” said Devlin. She didn’t quite beam with pride. It was more of a smirk. “About time, too. Good for you.”

“Sharona calls him Adrian,” I pointed out. “So do his mailman and his favorite grocery bagger.”

“I know that,” said the captain. “Is Monk okay with this?”

“He’s going to have to be,” said Devlin.

“No, he’s not. Monk is not okay with a whole host of things. That’s what makes him Monk.”

I tried to explain. “When we first met, I called him Mr. Monk out of respect. Then he became my boss and it seemed right. But now we’re friends and business partners. This will help everyone remember.”

What I didn’t say was that this would help me most of all. From now on, every time I said “Adrian,” I would be reminding myself. And that would just make me work harder and take more responsibility.

It was like a final gift that Miranda Bigley had given me: the capacity to make one little change that would help lead to bigger changes and the woman I still needed to be. “Thank you,” I said mentally, then walked out of the captain’s office to go pick up my partner.

This time it was a perfect exit.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mr. Monk Is On Board

S
o . . . am I going to continue writing about Monk, or start writing about someone named Adrian?

I’ve given this a little thought (not a lot; life is too hectic). I think I’ll stick with Monk. I’ve been writing about Monk for years and it would feel kind of odd to change. But don’t let this get back to him. It’ll just start the argument all over.

When Monk walked into the captain’s office that morning, he immediately got to work. The patrolmen who had conducted the interviews read their statements aloud, leaving Monk to close his eyes and just listen. I knew what he was doing, trying to convince his inner child that the victim had arrived at these homes, changed into a plumber’s uniform, not a clown suit, and spent the next two hours talking to six-year-olds about kitchen drains and S curve shower pipes.

After hearing the five statements, Monk glanced through the files, then spent half an hour staring at the bulletin board and the dry-erase board and the map with the color-coded pins. He was focused and making a real effort. I was proud of him.

“Theories?” he asked, finally looking around and facing the rest of us.

“That’s why you’re here, Monk,” said the captain.

“I have a favorite,” Lieutenant Devlin said, almost meekly. She ran a hand through her spiky hair and approached the map. “Dr. and Mrs. Weintraub on Nob Hill. They fit all the parameters. We need to concentrate on them.”

“You’re wrong,” said Monk flatly. “But go on.”

She was taken aback. “Why should I go on if you think I’m wrong?”

“Because this is the new me, cooperative and professional and not even aware that the victim we’re wasting so much time and resources on was a sickening, disgusting clo—”

“Adrian!” I interrupted. My calling him that was still so new that I found it could shock him back into focus. “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

Amy Devlin cleared her throat, swallowed her pride, and started again. “Steven Weintraub is an anesthesiologist with intimate knowledge of poisons and how they affect the system. His wife, Dina, is a serious gardener.” She pointed to a photo pinned to the bulletin board. It was a narrow marble mansion, one of the last of its kind in Nob Hill. “An examination of the side garden, conducted without permission but from a public leeway, reveals the presence of foxglove.”

She pointed to a photo of a patch of stalky purple plants. I remembered them fondly from my childhood in Monterey. My Scottish grandmother had called them fairy fingers and shown us how to put the little flowers over our fingertips, like the fingers of a glove, which I suppose is how the plant got its name. We never dreamed they were poisonous.

“The berries and roots contain atropine. If you boil them down and concentrate it, you’ll get a poison strong enough to kill topically, like the murder weapon that killed Mr. Smith. Dr. Weintraub would have the expertise to do this.

“The Weintraub house is also just a block from the Polk Street post office, where the tainted money was sent from. And”—she ticked off the final detail on her list—“the Weintraubs let Smith change into his ‘uniform’ in the doctor’s home office. According to Dina Weintraub, he took a long time in there with the door closed. Apparently he had a problem with a very long shoelace, which took him a while to fix.”

I glanced at Monk but he didn’t react to the big clown shoe reference. Good.

“Anyway,” Devlin went on, “I think this puts them at the top of our list.”

Stottlemeyer nodded, acknowledging her competent police work, then turned to Monk. “Obviously you disagree.”

Monk rolled his shoulders and nodded. “The killer would never use his local post office. That’s just dumb.

“Point two: Someone’s home office is not the most realistic place to run across compromising information, even though it may seem so. Smith would need their passwords or have some idea what he was looking for. It’s hard to fathom them leaving blackmail-worthy information in plain sight, especially since Dr. Weintraub was at the event and he’s not a sloppy person.” Monk pointed to a close-up front view of the house. “See? That window looks into the doctor’s office. Everything’s in place. Even the two pencils on the blotter are perfectly positioned and exactly the same length.”

Stottlemeyer pressed his nose up to the photo in question. “How can you even see . . . ? Oh, yeah, I see it now. You’re right.”

“What about the foxglove?” Devlin asked, refusing to give up. “That’s pretty incriminating.”

“The house only has that one small garden. If the doctor distilled poison from foxglove, why are there still so many of them?”

“He’s not saying you’re wrong,” I told Devlin.

“You’re wrong,” Monk told her.

“Adrian just has a different idea. Don’t you, Adrian? Adrian?”

Monk choked a little and whatever snide rejoinder he was aiming at the lieutenant died in his throat. This “Adrian” thing was magic. I should have thought of it years ago.

“Different idea,” he moaned, and walked to the other side of the bulletin board, as far away from me as possible. “I would focus your resources on another family, the Harrimans.”

According to the report we’d just heard, John and Alicia Harriman were both stockbrokers, although Alicia worked internationally and was away from home half the time. They had an eight-year-old son, a six-year-old daughter, and lived on a spacious lot on Sacramento Street in the toniest section of Pacific Heights.

“First, the date is perfect,” Monk explained. “Smith opened his post office box four days after the Harrimans’ event, giving him just enough time to figure out his blackmail plan.

“Second, the Harrimans also have a garden.” He crossed to a photo featuring a front garden sloping up to an expansive Victorian porch. He pointed at the photo on the bulletin board. “It’s not quite symmetrical.”

For Monk this was damning in and of itself, but almost never did it prove the gardener was a killer.

“You can see it’s almost symmetrical—the azaleas on both sides, the roses. Even the Japanese maples are evenly spaced and the same height. Very civilized. But look at the foxgloves.” He pointed to the familiar stalks, these a little more pink than purple. “There are twice as many on this side than on the other. Someone removed some foxglove.”

Stottlemeyer examined the photo. “It would be interesting to see if you’re right.” He turned to the officers. “Check out Google Earth Street View. That’s the easiest way.”

“Got it,” said Officer Garcia, and made a note.

“But I think our biggest tip is the garage,” said Monk.

“The garage?” Devlin picked up the Harriman folder and took a look. “Smith changed into his ‘uniform’ in their garage. Is that what you mean?”

Monk lifted the corner of his mouth. “I love garages. I mean, personally I hate them. All the filth and disorder and oil stains on the cement. But people are weird about them. They store all sorts of stuff there—things they don’t want in the house and then never get rid of. If killers were smart, they would never buy a house with a garage. It’s like a ticking time bomb.”