Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (14 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mr. Monk and the Empty Convertible

S
aturday night, after I’d spoken to Captain Stottlemeyer, he went out to the twenty-four-hour car wash on Harrison and had his boat of a Buick detailed. It seemed like a lot of trouble to me. But to the captain, it beat the prospect of an early-morning lecture on vehicular germs and then wasting half an hour while Monk did his cleaning magic on the front passenger seat.

By eight thirty a.m., Monk and the captain were on the road to Millbrae. By a few minutes after nine, they had arrived by the side of the vacant lot, shaking hands with a highway patrol officer and a deputy sheriff from the county. Monk had brought his own wipes for the handshakes. He’s not helpless.

“I was raised in Millbrae,” said the deputy sheriff, looking around the suburban landscape. His name was Clayton Jones. “Half a mile from here. Worked for the Millbrae PD until the city in its wisdom eliminated it last year.” Stottlemeyer would describe him as a mid-thirties career cop with a sandy crew cut, who resented losing whatever seniority he’d had within the force. “It’s all about saving money, isn’t it? Public safety be damned.”

“You realize that Pickler didn’t shoot Mr. Rivera,” said Monk.

“I know the DA released him,” said Jones.

“Which means Mr. Rivera’s murder is still unsolved.” By the way, this is kind of an old-fashioned tradition, to refer to a murder victim as
Mr
. or
Mrs
. or
Ms
. Even for a drug dealer. It just seems respectful.

“That’s what the evidence says. Of course, if this town still had a police force . . .”

“Got it,” Stottlemeyer interrupted. He was not fond of Clayton Jones’ attitude. “Did you know the Picklers? Was there anything about them that would help us understand? Drug use or behavioral problems?”

“I actually went to school with Henry. Quiet kid. Real straight arrow, but with a lot of pent-up emotions, if you ask me. That’s why a town needs a police department, to keep track of the weirdos.”

“What about the parents?” asked the captain. “Are they still alive?”

Clayton Jones shrugged. “I don’t recall their funerals. Maybe they’re living in a home somewhere. The Picklers kept to themselves, if you know what I mean.”

“Was Henry always so clean and neat and organized?” asked Monk.

“I guess. Is that important?”

“Very important. Oh, you mean important to the case? No.”

“The whole family was weird,” Jones continued. “Look at their house. They had money but they never changed anything. Not in forty years. They even bought the lot behind them, just so the view wouldn’t change. In today’s market they could sell it for a ton.”

“How did they make their money?” asked Stottlemeyer.

“It was always family dough. Trust funds. But no one really knew them. I was surprised when Henry found a wife. Of course, she didn’t stay very long, did she?”

Monk bristled. “There’s nothing weird about having a woman leave you in the lurch. Happens all the time.”

“But there is something weird about dragging a corpse in the middle of the night.” This was the fourth man in the group speaking up. Highway patrolman Tim Hooper had been one of the officers to come across Henry and arrest him. Like Jones, he had graciously agreed to give up his Sunday morning. He kept looking at his watch, anxious to get back to Redwood City in time for church with his family.

Hooper didn’t have much to add to the mix. He and his partner had caught Henry by accident. Literally by accident. They had been doing speed control on the 280 and were trying to cut across on surface roads to the 101 where a two-car accident had been reported. Somehow Hooper took a wrong turn, what he thought would be a shortcut past a construction delay. It was his partner, keeping his eyes peeled for a street sign, who first noticed the movement in the shrubs of the vacant lot.

“Was Pickler dragging the body into the lot or out of it?” asked Monk.

Hooper scratched his head. “Hard to say. He saw us almost as soon as we saw him and tried to duck into the bushes. As for the lot, it was trampled both ways, in and out. We gave him plenty of chance to explain himself. But he just froze. Petrified. We were petrified, too. The body was still warm, with a big hole in the back of the head.”

“And no gun?” the captain asked. “He couldn’t have thrown it away or hidden it?”

“We were all over that lot,” the patrolman attested. “Short of digging for oil, there’s nowhere he could have got rid of it.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Jones. “But if this town had a police department . . .”

“What the hell does that have to do with it?” demanded Stottlemeyer. He was tired of hearing Jones blame everything on cutbacks. Everyone had to deal with cutbacks.

Deputy Jones calmed down a notch and tried to explain—cops knowing the local beat, community trust, outreach to the neighbors. “In the old days, we could have solved this without some outside homicide cops.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” growled the captain.

During this whole last part, Monk stopped paying attention. His eyes wandered across the lot to the rear of the Pickler family home. “Why isn’t the car in the garage?” he asked.

Stottlemeyer paused. He has this sixth sense about when to really listen to Monk. “What do you mean, buddy?”

“We can’t really see the driveway from here. But I can see the edge of a chrome bumper. The glint caught my eye.”

“Who has chrome bumpers these days?” asked Jones.

“Shut up,” advised the captain. “Go on, Monk.”

“Strikes me as odd. Pickler wouldn’t park in the driveway. And I don’t think he would let guests do it. He wouldn’t like to be blocked in like that.”

“Let’s check it out,” said Stottlemeyer.

A minute later they had blocked the entire street in front of the house with two civilian cars and one cruiser from the sheriff’s office. The first thing Monk noticed was the open
door to the double-bay garage. The first thing the captain noticed was the convertible—sleek, low, and black, with the top down.

“A real classic,” said the captain admiringly. “A 1973 Jaguar XKE. When I was a kid, I was in love with these more than with girls. From what I hear of the Picklers, I’ll bet it’s all original. One owner.”

“It’s his,” Monk confirmed. “But with the top down like this and the forecast of rain and the garage door open . . . Oh, and the keys in the ignition.”

Monk knelt on the manicured gravel that was no longer manicured. “This is his usual path in and out.” Then he pointed to the depression leading to and from the tires. “Almost perfectly lined up every time. But look at this other stuff.” There were tire marks in front of the other bay, different marks, and little mounds of gravel pushed in every direction. “One car. Large. From the footprints, I’d say a sedan rather than a coupe.”

“Cut to the chase, Monk.”

“Sorry, Captain. You can ring Pickler’s doorbell to make sure. But I’m saying abducted.”

Deputy Sheriff Jones’ eyes went wide. “Abducted? No.”

Monk shrugged. “You can say kidnapped if you prefer. Snatched. Carried off. Taken against his will. Carted away.”

Stottlemeyer was already halfway through the open garage, making his way to the connecting door leading into the house. “Stay there,” he shouted back to everyone.

“You’re going to trigger the alarm,” said Monk. “I’m just warning you.”

* * *

Stottlemeyer made the trip back in less than twenty minutes.

When he pulled up in front of Albert’s Barbershop, two black-and-whites were already in front, with a third positioned across the back alley. The yellow and red lights were flashing on all three. No sirens. The captain was trying to give the Lucarellis fair warning but not to spook them. He wanted Sal to have time to figure out his options and calm down his troops. The old gangster was reasonable that way.

No one stopped the captain and Monk as they walked into the shop. Albert himself had even swept away the trimmings in anticipation, leaving a neat little trail to the door in the back. Stottlemeyer knocked out of respect and was about to turn the knob when it turned from inside.

The captain stood in the doorway, facing a slight, pale man he’d never seen before. Although he had a pretty good idea. “Henry Pickler?”

Pickler nodded, and stepped aside to let them enter. For a neat and obsessive man, he was not looking his best. His shirt collar was crooked, both his shoes were scuffed, and his black Windbreaker had a tear in the left pocket. He didn’t say a word, but the captain assumed Pickler was glad to see them.

“Adrian, Adrian. I should have known.” Sal Lucarelli was in his usual spot by the rolltop desk—rolled down, of course. He was smiling, which is not always good. “Please don’t tell me you tracked down our friend Henry without visiting his house and doing your thing. Because that would really upset me.”

“I visited his house,” Monk admitted. “I could tell he left against his will. That information presented me with two possibilities—you or Carlos Menendez. I ruled out Mr.
Menendez since he already knows who killed his employee, and it wasn’t Henry.” Monk turned to Pickler. “By the way, we put the top up on your car and left it in the garage. We didn’t have time to stay and use those dust wipes of yours on the interior.”

“Actually, Monk wanted to stay,” said the captain with half a smile.

“Thank you,” said Pickler. “So you didn’t wipe down the interior? I always wipe down the interior.”

“Sorry,” said Monk.

“We thought it might be more important to come and save your life,” the captain suggested.

“What are you talking about?” Sal chuckled. “Our buddy Henry doesn’t need saving. Henry knows I don’t get out much anymore, what with my gout. He agreed to come of his own free will, didn’t you?”

Pickler eyed the tear in his Windbreaker. “Yes.”

“And he’ll be leaving of his own free will.”

“So why did you come to visit?” the captain asked, then raised a hand. “I want an answer from Henry, not you.”

“Tell him, Henry,” said Sal. “Go ahead.”

“I came to talk about what happened that night.” Henry was measuring his words. “Mr. Lucarelli wanted to know—”

Sal cut him off. “I was curious about his involvement with this Rivera guy. Henry was gracious enough to enlighten me. And believe me, it was quite an enlightenment. I was impressed.”

Stottlemeyer threw Henry one of his patented stares. “So you tell a mobster, but you won’t tell your lawyer or the police?”

“I can be very persuasive,” said Sal.

Stottlemeyer took Pickler by the shoulders. He couldn’t help noticing a painful little wince. “Did he hurt you? You can tell us, that’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen. This whole building is surrounded.”

“They didn’t hurt me,” said Pickler.

“You can take Henry away and question him,” said Sal. “Be my guest. It’s not going to be in his best interest to talk.”

“Did they threaten you?” asked the captain.

“Did they threaten your wife?” asked Monk.

Sal and his goons seemed to find the whole thing amusing, especially Fat Tony who was actually laughing. “How I wish I could share the details,” said Sal. “But Henry made me promise. And I don’t want to cross Henry.”

At this point everyone in the room laughed—except Stottlemeyer, Monk, and Pickler, who was looking scared to death.

“I don’t appreciate being on the outside of your inside joke,” said Stottlemeyer.

“That actually happens to me all the time,” said Monk. “It’s annoying, yes, but you get used to it.”

“We are not getting used to it, Monk.” Then the captain strode across the room to the air hockey table and stuck his finger an inch from Fat Tony’s bony chest. “We know you shot him, Tony. I don’t know how you got Pickler involved in your dirty work. But we’re getting to the bottom of this. And you’re going to jail.”

Tony tossed the nub of his carrot onto the hockey table. It was small and light enough so that the air pressure made it vibrate. “This ain’t your case, Captain. Not unless you’re the
sheriff. Are you a sheriff now?” Then he went into his John Wayne impression. “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us, Pilgrim.” This also got a laugh, which didn’t make the captain any happier.

“Esteban Rivera was last seen being forced into a vehicle ten blocks from here. Your vehicle. That’s kidnapping on my turf. And it gives me all the authority I need.”

“My vehicle? Really? Because, from what I hear, the vehicle couldn’t be identified.” Tony watched the carrot bob. “Which is a shame, since I’m sure it would prove I had nothing to do with any such crime.”

At this point, according to what the captain told me in his blow-by-blow, there wasn’t much left to say, although I’m sure he delivered a few more growls and pithy attempts to save face. When they walked out a minute later—Monk first, followed by Pickler, followed by the captain—no one tried to stop them.

“We’ll give you protection,” the captain said as soon as they hit the fresh air and the patrol cars.

“Protection?” Pickler laughed in one of those irritating, unfunny ways. “You can’t possibly give me protection.”

“We can,” said the captain. “Tell us what you saw from your kitchen window and all of this can go away.”