Mr. Monk in Trouble (13 page)

“Without spilling anything?” Monk said.

“What makes you think they didn’t spill some of it?”

“Because nothing was ever found,” Monk said.

Adams waved off the remark. “So they say. Let me tell you something. The town was dying in sixty-two. There were a lot of people searching for the loot, most of ’em dirt poor. If anybody found cash, I guarantee you that they shoved it in their pockets and spent it and nobody was the wiser. If they found any gold coins, they kept them and didn’t say a word about it.”

“But you’d think one of the coins would have turned up by now,” I said.

“I’m sure they have,” he said.

“And nobody recognized them?”

“Because they weren’t coins anymore. They were rings, necklaces, or nuggets,” Adams said. “Gold is almost indestructible and yet it’s easy to pound into something else without losing any of its rarity, allure, or value. Why do you think people want it so damn bad?”

“Because they’re crazy,” Monk said, practically yelling.

“There’s all kinds of crazy, mister,” Adams yelled right back, his face so close to the glass that his nose was nearly touching it. “You’ve got yours and I’ve got mine.”

And with that, Adams took a pair of rubber gloves out of his pocket and trudged up the hill to his mine.

CHAPTER TEN

Mr. Monk and the Permanent Record

T
he instant we hit the two-lane highway my cell phone rang, and when I saw that the caller ID read “Stottlemeyer,” I pulled over to the shoulder to answer it.

“Hello, Captain.”

“How’s the investigation going?” he asked.

“It’s progressing,” I said.

“What’s that mean?”

I glanced at Monk, who was looking at me. I was pretty sure that the volume on my phone was high enough that he could hear what Stottlemeyer was saying to me.

“It means Mr. Monk hasn’t caught the murderer yet,” I said. “But he will.”

Monk nodded approvingly.

“Before or after he solves a forty-seven-year-old train robbery?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“You’ve been talking to Chief Kelton,” I replied.

“I didn’t have to. I tracked down Jake Slocum for you and discovered that he spent thirty years in San Quentin and I found out why,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I know Monk.”

“Then you know there’s nothing you can do about it,” I said.

“You could encourage him to prioritize.”

“I don’t have that kind of influence,” I said. “I’m a tornado of filth.”

“That again?” Monk said. “It’s a common expression. You’re obsessing over nothing.”

I nearly dropped the phone in disbelief. “
You’re
telling
me
not to obsess about something?”

“You’ll feel much better if you don’t fixate on things.”

“You fixate all the time,” I said.

“Only on important things,” he said. “I don’t sweat the small stuff.”

“You don’t sweat at all,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said. “Maybe if you could learn not to obsess over every little thing, you wouldn’t sweat, either. Which, I might add, many of us would appreciate.”

“
Many
of us?” I said. “You mean you.”

“Many times over,” he said.

“Is this your subtle way of telling me that I stink?”

Monk rolled his shoulders. “I’m sure in this instance it’s the car and not you.”

“
This
instance?”

“Though being in a car for long periods of time means that we are in pretty close quarters and you do get moist.”

“Moist?”

“Are you going deaf?” Monk asked. “You keep repeating everything I’m saying.”

I could hear Stottlemeyer laughing. I brought the phone back to my ear.

“What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing, I was just clearing my throat,” Stottlemeyer said. “Slocum is living in the Cypress Active Senior Suites in Angel’s Camp, which is one of those Gold Rush towns north of Trouble. Maybe you should roll down the window on the way.”

I hung up on him.

“That was rude,” Monk said.

“Says the man who called me a stinking tornado of filth.”

“With affection and deep respect,” Monk said.

“It’s taken me a few years, but I am beginning to understand why Sharona was so surly,” I said, referring to his former nurse and assistant.

“Sharona obsessed over nothing, too,” Monk said.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure there were no cars coming and I floored it, peeling rubber as I sped onto the highway.

I knew that leaving a stain on the road would haunt Monk forever.

He looked back. “Wait, we left a mark.”

“So?”

“We have to go back and clean it off,” Monk said.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” I said, smiling to myself.

It was a pyrrhic victory.

He complained about that tread mark for the next thirty minutes, right up until I pulled in front of the Cypress Active Senior Suites, which resembled a budget hotel for business travelers.

Monk took out his notebook and pen, glanced at something on the instrument panel, and made a notation in his pad.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Writing down the miles on the odometer so we can back-track to the exact spot where you scarred the landscape and your immortal soul.”

“I didn’t scar anything.”

“You left a mark on the highway that might never fade,” Monk said. “If we can’t clean it up ourselves, we might need to get a crew to sandblast it off. And if that doesn’t work, I suppose we’ll have to demolish that section of highway and lay fresh asphalt.”

“The highway is used by thousands of cars. You are fixating on a streak of rubber among a countless number of streaks, stains, cracks, and imperfections on the road.”

“I am trying to clean up a mess and save you from a mistake that will haunt you for the rest of your life,” Monk said. “You vandalized a vital part of our national transportation infrastructure. That kind of offense stays in your permanent record.”

“I don’t have a permanent record,” I said.

“Yes, you do,” he said.

“Who is keeping it?” I looked at him and saw the answer in the smug expression on his face. “I withdraw the question. I hope you contacted my kindergarten teacher, who made the initial entries, so you’ll have the complete document.”

“I did,” he said.

“You
did
?”

“YES, I DID,” he said loudly into my right ear. “I can’t believe that you ate Play-doh and plucked holes in your class-mate’s Nerf ball. Were you raised by cavemen?”

“I can’t believe that you hunted down my kindergarten teacher, and that she actually kept a record, and that she gave it to you. It’s a violation of my privacy. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about entrusting my safety and well-being to a barmaid who’d just murdered a man in her home,” Monk said. “You’ll have to forgive me for wanting to know a little bit about you first.”

“He was an intruder who attacked me,” I said. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I was defending myself. You know that. You were the one who proved it.”

“Even so, I felt I needed to do a thorough background check.”

“All the way back to kindergarten?”

“I would have gone further, but your preschool teacher moved to South America and the doctor who delivered you had passed away.”

I got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and walked a short distance away. There was only so much of Monk that any rational person could take, even someone as inured to it as I was.

With my back to the car, I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and decided to pretend that the conversations we’d had over the past hour or so had never happened.

It didn’t matter if I was in the right or not—sometimes I just had to give up the fight for my own mental and physical health. And before I did or said something that would get me fired.

This was one of those times.

I took another deep breath, turned around, and saw that Monk was now standing in front of the building, watching me.

I walked back and joined Monk in front of the lobby. Without saying a word, I opened the door and we went inside.

The first thing I noticed was the long line of identical walkers, each with a ribbon, flag, stuffed animal, or some kind of marker on them so that they’d stand out individually.

The walkers were parked like cars in front of the dining room to our left. The dining room reminded me of a sit-down restaurant in a mall, complete with a cottage-style street-front facade, a shingled roof section with faux dormers, and exterior window treatments looking out onto the lobby. There were about two dozen old folks sitting at large, round tables, eating fried chicken or Jell-O squares topped with swirls of whipped cream.

To our right was a check-in desk, where the bubbly young receptionist, with the smile of a stewardess-in-training, asked us who we were there to see. I told her. She said that Jake Slocum lived in suite 210 but that we could find him in the garden, which was straight ahead, across the great room and out the French doors.

I thanked her and we crossed the great room, which had a grand piano, a coffee bar, and a massive hearth made of imitation, stacked stone veneers. The flames of a gas fire hissed and flickered between cords of fake wood.

Several old folks sat around in the plush couches and easy chairs, reading books and magazines, napping with their heads slumped on their chests, or chatting amongst themselves.

The French doors opened up to a fenced-in concrete patio with some chaise lounges arranged around a small, rock-rimmed goldfish pond with a clay swan in the center that was covered with bird poop.

It wasn’t hard to spot Jake Slocum. He was the only person out there, sitting in a wheelchair and smoking a cigarette. His neatly pressed shirt and corduroy pants were oversized and baggy on his thin frame, a style that was popular with the young hip-hop crowd but that made old geezers look sickly. I could see the bones of his hands and the wormlike veins under his almost translucent, age-spotted skin. He had sunken cheeks and alert eyes set in deep sockets that were like furtive creatures peering out from their dark burrows.

“Jake Slocum?” Monk asked.

“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it,” Slocum said, his voice raspy. “And even if I did, I couldn’t afford it.”

“We’re not here to sell you anything,” Monk said.

“I don’t need Jesus, Muhammad, the Buddha, L. Ron Hubbard, or Joel Osteen either,” he said.

“My name is Adrian Monk. I’m a detective, and this is my assistant, Natalie Teeger. We’re investigating the robbery of the Golden Rail Express and a murder that occurred a few days ago at the museum where the train is now on display.”

Slocum took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke in Monk’s direction. Monk covered his nose and mouth with his hand and ran back inside the building.

“It’s just cigarette smoke,” Slocum said to me. “It’s not gonna kill you.”

“Actually, it will,” I said.

“Not instantly,” he said.

“Mr. Monk is sensitive to smoke,” I said. “He’s sensitive to just about everything.”

Monk stood at the French doors, watching us through the glass.

“You aren’t?” Slocum asked.

“He pays me not to be,” I said. “Do you know what happened to the gold?”

“Is that what you’re after?”

I shook my head. “Mr. Monk is not interested in the gold. All he wants to do is solve the mystery of how the robbery was committed. You can help him do that.”

“Why should I?”

“You spent thirty years in prison for your part in the crime. During those long, painful years, you must have wondered a thousand times where the gold was and if there was somebody out there living large on it while you rotted away. You’re probably still wondering about it now. Wouldn’t you finally like to know the answer?” I gestured to Monk. “He will find it.”

“Others have tried,” he said.

“None of them was Adrian Monk. He’s the best detective on earth,” I said. “I’ll be blunt, Mr. Slocum. You’re old and you don’t look well. He may be your last chance to ever know what really happened.”

Slocum thought about it for a long moment, then snubbed out his cigarette on the tire of his wheelchair.

“Go ask your boss if he’d like to hear a good story,” he said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mr. Monk Hears a Story

T
he way Jake Slocum told it, he and George Gilman were itinerant farm workers who supplemented their meager seasonal and sporadic legitimate income with petty thefts, break-ins, and muggings.

The two men were sitting in a bar in Placerville one night, nearly broke and contemplating their next felonious move, when Ralph DeRosso came in, played a little pool, and had a few drinks. Slocum glimpsed a lot of cash in DeRosso’s wallet and saw their salvation. When DeRosso left the bar drunk a couple of hours later, Slocum and Gilman followed him outside.

DeRosso staggered into a dark alley to take a piss. Slocum and Gilman crept up behind him and were about to strike when DeRosso suddenly spun around, stone sober and holding a small gun.

But then DeRosso did something amazing. He took out his wallet and tossed it to Slocum.

“This is what you came out here to take from me, isn’t it?” DeRosso said. “Well, you can have it. I want you to take the cash and have a good look at the name and address on the driver’s license. I want you to know who I am and where I live. You’ll also see a card identifying me as a conductor on the Golden Rail Express.”

He also asked them to look at the pictures of his wife and daughter, whom he identified by name.

Slocum was sure that DeRosso was dangerously insane and this was some crazy prelude to their execution.

But DeRosso surprised them again.

“I’ve been looking for two enterprising, young adventurers like yourselves to help me pull off a robbery that will become legend.” DeRosso stuck the gun back in his coat pocket. “If you’re interested, buy me a cup of coffee and a slice of pie and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They did.

DeRosso told them about the final trip of the Golden Rail Express and the high-stakes poker game for a pot of cash and gold that would commemorate it.

He wanted their help to rob the gambling car on that final ride. Their part in the scheme would be simple and relatively straightforward, requiring only the skills that they’d acquired through their previous criminal experiences.

But there was a big catch. They would only know their part in the plan. They wouldn’t know anything else and couldn’t leave the train with any of the loot, not even a single gold coin.

That scenario didn’t make a lot of sense to Slocum or to Gilman. How were they supposed to get paid?

DeRosso explained that he would meet up with them again in six months, once the heat had died down, and give them their share of the loot.

Slocum and Gilman thought it was a joke.

What would stop DeRosso and his unknown cronies from running off with everything and leaving the two of them with nothing?

The guarantee, DeRosso said to them, is me and my family. That was why he showed them his driver’s license, conductor’s card, and the photos of his wife and daughter. He wanted Slocum and Gilman to know exactly who he was and where he lived.

He was putting his own safety, and that of his family, entirely in their hands. Slocum and Gilman could follow them, betray them to the police, or kill them at any time. Why would DeRosso take that risk if he intended to double-cross the two men?

It was a convincing argument and it took some of the edge off of their reservations about his proposal. Besides, it wasn’t as if they had a lot of other opportunities being offered to them and they figured that it beat mugging drunks in alleys. Slocum and Gilman were in.

DeRosso drew a sketch of the train on a napkin. The engine was in front, followed by the coal car, a freight car, the gambling car, the dining car, two passenger cars, and the caboose. There would be a party going on in the passenger and dining cars, but the gambling car was restricted to the invited players and VIP guests.

The important thing was that people would be out of their seats, moving freely between the passenger and dining cars, partying. No one would notice if Slocum and Gilman were absent for three minutes.

The lights in the train would flicker out for a second or two every now and then from the start of the journey and throughout the run. It would happen often enough, and for such a short duration, that the passengers would take it in stride.

The entire robbery was on a strict schedule, timed to the second. Slocum and Gilman had to be at the door between the dining car and the gambling car at the precise time of the prearranged blackout that would cover their exit.

Slocum and Gilman would meet outside the passenger car on the tiny platform separating them from the rear of the gambling car. They would cover their faces with ski masks, pull out their guns, and burst into the gambling car, quickly overpowering the surprised security guard inside the door. At the same instant, another robber would enter from the front of the gambling car, carrying burlap sacks.

During the next two minutes, the cash and gold would be stuffed into burlap sacks. Slocum and Gilman would then cover the other robber while he escaped with the loot out the same door that he came in.

The gamblers would be told that the robbers were staying outside the doors and would kill anyone who attempted to stop the train or alert the conductor before they reached Trouble.

Slocum and Gilman would leave the car, toss their masks and guns off the train and, during another prearranged, momentary blackout, slip back into the dining car and rejoin the party.

Simple.

But things didn’t go quite as planned.

Instead of overpowering the guard, Gilman shot him in the chest. Gilman thought it was easier that way and removed any chance that the guard might do something heroic.

And somehow DeRosso got killed falling, or jumping, off the train.

“Even so, we never would have been caught if we weren’t blinded by the sparkle,” Slocum said, concluding his story.

“What sparkle?” Monk asked. By this time, we were both sitting in chairs facing Slocum, our backs to the pond.

“The damn gold,” Slocum said. “We couldn’t resist taking just one of those cursed coins even though DeRosso warned us not to. We were greedy, stupid fools.”

“Most robbers are,” Monk said. “You told the police everything that you’ve told us?”

“I didn’t tell them anything. George Gilman did. I’m not a rat. I haven’t spoken about the robbery to anyone until today.”

“Why did Gilman talk?”

Slocum shrugged. “He probably would have kept his mouth shut if DeRosso hadn’t gotten killed. But with DeRosso dead, George probably figured we’d never get our share. We didn’t know who the other robbers were, so they had no reason to cut us in.”

“Except honor among thieves,” I said.

“There’s none between honest people,” he said. “What makes you think there would be any among the crooks? But I’ll admit that for a while after I got out I hoped that one day I’d find a box of money on my doorstep from an anonymous, thankful stranger.”

“So what did you do for a living after your release from prison?” My question had nothing to do with the investigation but I was curious.

“I was a custodian at the Arco Arena in Sacramento,” he said. “Then I retired and became an inmate again.”

“This doesn’t look like prison to me,” Monk said.

“You don’t live here,” he said.

I regarded Monk, who looked puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

“The whole story. The criminal plot doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s the truth. I’ve got no reason to lie to you now,” Slocum said. “But I’m not surprised by your reaction. It’s the same one that the police had. They didn’t believe a word George told them.”

I could see why. It was an outlandish tale and it wasn’t even corroborated by Slocum at the time. On top of that, Ralph DeRosso was a respected, well-liked family man who’d dedicated his life to the Golden Rail Express. George Gilman was just some desperate, murdering hoodlum with a tall tale trying to avoid the electric chair.

“If what you say is true,” Monk said, “there’s a vital part of the plot that’s missing.”

“What happened to the loot,” Slocum said.

Monk shook his head. “The disappearance of the gold is what happened afterwards. We still don’t understand the robbery itself.”

“I just told you what happened,” Slocum said.

“What you did was make clear how much we don’t know. Why did DeRosso want to rob the train? Why did he need you two? Why was he willing to put himself and his family at risk by revealing so many details about his life to you? Why did DeRosso want to wait so long before paying you off? Who was the other masked robber?”

“It was DeRosso,” I said, turning to Slocum. “Wasn’t it?”

“I always figured it was, but he was wearing a mask and didn’t say a word,” Slocum said. “We did all the talking. I suppose the robber could have been somebody else. Or maybe DeRosso didn’t want to take a chance that the fat cats would recognize his voice.”

“Whether it was DeRosso or not, the robber entered the gambling car from the front door,” Monk said. “Does that mean he was hiding in the freight car until the robbery? If it was DeRosso, how did he get there? Why were the cash and gold placed in burlap bags instead of something sturdier? Where did the robber go with the bags of gold? Did DeRosso jump from the train or was he pushed? If we can answer those questions, the fate of the gold will become obvious.”

While we were pondering those questions, someone stepped out of the building and onto the patio behind us.

“Found the gold yet?” the newcomer asked.

We turned and saw Chief Kelton approaching. He was wearing his gun in a holster on his belt. His badge was clipped to his belt, too.

“It’s in the clay swan,” I said, gesturing to the pond. “We were just about to crack it open and close the case.”

“Glad I could be here to see it,” he said.

“What
are
you doing here?” Monk asked.

“There’s been a break in the murder investigation and I thought you might want to be a part of it,” he said and then leaned forward to offer his hand to Slocum. “I’m Harley Kelton, the police chief down in Trouble.”

They shook hands, though Slocum didn’t look too pleased to be doing it.

“How did you find us?” I asked, getting up from my seat.

“I’m the chief of police,” he said.

Monk got up. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Slocum. I appreciate it.”

“Do you really think you can figure it all out?”

“I always do,” Monk said.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Monk nodded. “It wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t. I complete things.”

We walked back inside with Kelton, who filled us in as we crossed the great room and the lobby.

“There was an enforcer who collected protection money for the mob from Tenderloin businesses. If people didn’t pay, he’d hurt them bad and then firebomb their business. Manny caught him beating an adult bookstore owner over the head with a lead pipe. The enforcer went to jail, but before he was sent up, he put his prized possession into storage.”

“A 1964 Thunderbird,” I said.

“You ought to be chief of police,” Kelton said. “His name is Gator Dunsen. He was released eight months ago as part of a statewide program to alleviate prison overcrowding.”

The state prisons were so stuffed with felons that a federal court recently ruled that imprisonment in California constituted cruel and unusual punishment. The court ordered the state to improve conditions immediately or face severe fines and criminal prosecution of prison administrators. Since the state had no money to build new prisons, and the administrators didn’t want to become residents of their own jails, they had no choice but to start letting crooks out early.

“Maybe you should just stop arresting people,” I said.

“I’ve made a few arrests since I got to Trouble, but I haven’t had a chance to send anyone on to the state prison population yet.” Kelton looked at Monk. “You’ve probably filled a whole prison on your own. Maybe you ought to take a sabbatical for a while.”

“Not today,” Monk said.

“In that case, you two can follow me,” Kelton said. “Gator is living at his mom’s old place in Jackson. We’re halfway there already.”