Mr. Monk on the Couch (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Y
ou’re not making any sense,” Stottlemeyer said. “What possible motive would a crime scene cleaner have for killing Hewson?”

“A fortune in diamonds,” Monk said.

“You’ve lost me,” Stottlemeyer said.

“If you take a look in the telescope again, you’ll see that Jerry and his crew tore up Costa’s bedroom floor and replaced it.”

“Of course they did,” I said. “It was soaked with blood.”

“But they also replastered and repainted the bedroom walls,” Monk said. “And there was no blood on them. So why do you think they did that?”

I peered into the telescope. Monk was right. The walls appeared to be freshly painted. I stepped aside and let Stottlemeyer have his turn. He bent down, closed one eye, and looked through the viewfinder.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Jerry overheard us talking about something valuable being hidden in the couch. He assumed Costa found the valuables and hid them somewhere in the house,” Monk said. “Cleaning up the crime scene gave Jerry free rein to tear the place apart.”

“That’s why Jerry wouldn’t let you stay to help clean,” I said. “He’d already decided what he was going to do.”

“Meaning he’d ransacked a dead person’s home for valuables before,” Stottlemeyer said, straightening up. “Or the decision wouldn’t have come so quickly and easily for him.”

Monk nodded somberly. “Here’s what happened: Stuart Hewson saw all the police activity at Costa’s place and was naturally curious. He kept the scene under constant watch and he saw Jerry find the diamonds.”

“How did Jerry know what Hewson saw or didn’t see?” Stottlemeyer asked. “We’re a couple of blocks away. There’s no way Jerry could have known he was being watched.”

“That was Hewson’s fatal mistake. He called Jerry and demanded a piece of the action,” Monk said. “So Jerry had to silence him.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Jerry wasn’t alone. He had his whole crew with him. I don’t see how he could have done any of this without them knowing about it.”

“You’re right,” Monk said. “They were in on it, too.”

“That’s pure speculation,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I wish it was,” Monk said. “But Stuart Hewson’s body proves it.”

“I don’t see how,” Stottlemeyer said.

“That’s why he was shot four times,” Monk said. “Each member of the crew took a shot so they would all be equally culpable.”

“That’s not proof, Monk, that’s guesswork.”

“My guesses are as good as fact,” Monk said without the slightest trace of modesty. In this case, though, his words carried a palpable sadness.

Jerry’s fall from grace undoubtedly represented a deep and painful betrayal for Monk. I wasn’t too happy about it, either, or what it said about my taste in men.

But the realization that Corinne, the clean and dependable med student, had participated in a theft and a murder had to rub salt and cayenne pepper in the wound.

Stottlemeyer sighed and paced back and forth across the living room. “It could just as easily have been Rico Ramirez who did this. I could make a convincing argument.”

“But it wasn’t him,” Monk said.

“We don’t know that,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I do,” Monk said.

“You’re missing my point.”

“Because you haven’t made one,” Monk said.

“There’s just as much evidence pointing to Rico Ramirez as there is pointing to Jerry Yermo,” Stottlemeyer said. “Which is to say, there is no evidence at all.”

“I just gave you the evidence,” Monk said.

“You gave me a theory, but nothing that would stand up in court,” Stottlemeyer said. “I couldn’t even justify an arrest warrant based on what you’ve given me.”

“You know I’m right,” Monk said.

“What I know and what I can prove are two entirely different things,” Stottlemeyer said. “There’s no physical evidence and there won’t be. Cleaning up this stuff is what Jerry does best. He left nothing incriminating behind.”

“Except the lingering scent of his cleansers and solvents,” I said.

“Yeah, that’ll convince a jury,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It convinced me,” Monk said.

“Anybody could have used the same chemicals to clean this place,” Stottlemeyer said. “Jerry is not the only crime scene cleaner out there. And those chemicals are widely available. Hospitals use ’em, too.”

“What about Hewson’s view? You saw it for yourself,” Monk said. “He can see right into Costa’s house.”

“And a hundred different other homes, too. Or maybe he used his telescope to study the stars and wasn’t a Peeping Tom at all.”

“Why else would the killer move the telescope?” Monk asked.

“Maybe the killer didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe Hewson put it in the closet. Face it, we’ve got nothing.”

“You know Mr. Monk is right,” I said. “So the maybes don’t matter. The question is what are we going to do now?”

Stottlemeyer paced some more and tugged absentmindedly on the corner of his mustache.

“If Jerry has done this before, he must have a network in place to fence the goods that he plunders. The diamonds aren’t worth anything in his pocket. He’ll have to take ’em to the street, and that’s when he’ll be vulnerable. He’s in the same bind that Rico’s in.”

“But Rico doesn’t have the diamonds,” Monk said.

“We have to assume they both do and take it from there,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Why?” Monk asked.

“Because you could be wrong, Monk, and the diamondfencing angle is all we have right now on either one of these killers.”

“So, in effect, you’re waiting for one or both of them to make a mistake,” Monk said.

“You got any better ideas?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Yes,” Monk said. “Natalie can go on a date.”

 

Monk had me take him to a hardware store to get a fresh set of masks, gloves, and goggles before going back to my house to finish cleaning my bathroom.

I wasn’t surprised that he was intent on finishing the task. For one thing, he couldn’t leave the job incomplete; it would have nagged at him. But that wasn’t the big reason. He found comfort in cleaning—it was how he put himself and the world back in balance.

So I didn’t argue. I took him to the hardware store and then back home.

I let him scrub for a while in peace before I joined him in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub while he cleaned the tiles.

“What is the world coming to, Natalie?”

“You’ve been deceived before, Mr. Monk.”

“But if you can’t trust a crime scene cleaner, who can you trust?”

“There are bad people in every profession,” I said.

“But crime scene cleaning is a calling,” Monk said. “Jerry took an oath.”

“I wasn’t aware that crime scene cleaners had to take an oath.”

“He had a professional obligation to leave every place he went clean and disinfected. He violated that. And what about Corinne Witt? She’s a medical student. Not only did she break her oath as a crime scene cleaner, but the Hippocratic oath as well.”

“Not to mention a couple of commandments. But is that really why you’re so disappointed?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I think there’s more to it than that.”

He intensified his scrubbing. “I admired Jerry and the principles he stood for. He was out there on the front lines of the war against dirt, decay, and disarray, confronting the worst filth there is head-on, with unrelenting dedication. He cleaned with a depth I can only aspire to.”

“I thought he was a nice guy,” I said. “Understanding, funny, considerate.”

“It wasn’t just him, it was his whole crew. Corinne, Gene, and William. They were people who shared the same core beliefs as me, who put those beliefs into action, who appreciated the beauty and balance of cleanliness and order. They let me be a part of that. I didn’t feel alone anymore.”

“You aren’t alone,” I said. “You have me.”

“I’m talking about people who live by the same principles that I do. You live like an animal.”

“Okay, what about Ambrose?”

“He’s shacking up with an ex-convict biker chick,” Monk said. “Before you know it, he’ll be drinking water from the tap. I’ve lost him.”

“No, you haven’t, Mr. Monk.”

“I’m so alone,” he said.

“Stop whining. If anything, what Jerry has done should make you appreciate the people you already have in your life.”

“No one I know cleans as thoroughly as he does.”

“Look at the conclusions you jumped to about Stuart Hewson’s character just because you thought he kept a clean house. There are more important measures of character than how clean someone is, or whether someone lives their life exactly the way you want them to. Ambrose, Captain Stottlemeyer, Randy, Sharona, Julie, Molly, and I may not always meet your expectations, or your high standards, but we are always there for you.”

“We don’t clean together,” Monk said.

“I’m letting you clean my bathroom, aren’t I?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Monk said. “Not like it was with Jerry, Corinne, Gene, and William. I had a posse. I’ve always wanted a posse.”

“I know, Mr. Monk.”

“I was betrayed,” Monk said.

“So was I,” I said. “I suppose that gives us one more thing we can share.”

“The pain,” he said.

I nodded. “Sometimes I think that binds people together more than the good times do.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Monk said. “I have so few good times.”

“Yes, but it’s your positive attitude that carries you through.”

Monk glanced at his watch. “What time are you meeting Jerry?”

“We were supposed to get together at six, but given what we’ve learned today, you can’t really expect me to keep my date with him tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a killer. I have a strict rule: I don’t eat with murderers.”

“You have rules?”

“Of course I do,” I said.

“How come you’ve never given me a copy of them?”

“They aren’t written down.”

“Then how do you expect others to follow them?”

“I don’t,” I said. “I am the only one who has to, so I keep them to myself.”

“So who is there to catch you if you break a rule?”

“I am,” I said.

“That sounds like a flawed system to me,” Monk said. “There are no checks and balances.”

“There’s my conscience,” I said.

Monk waved that off. “I have no faith in that.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Give me some more of your rules.”

“Never date a man who has more hair on his shoulders than I have on my head. Don’t wear tops that show my bra straps. Never eat a Jell-O mold that has fruit or anything else floating in the center. Don’t trust anyone named Scooter or Skip. Don’t go grocery shopping on an empty stomach.”

“You call those rules?”

“What would you call them?”

“Inadequate. It’s a wonder you’re still alive,” Monk said. “You should keep your date with Jerry.”

“And you think going on dinner dates with murderers is good for my survival?”

“You want to be a detective, don’t you? This is your chance to play cat and mouse.”

“I don’t know how to play cat and mouse,” I said. “And I’m not entirely sure who would be the cat and who would be the mouse in this situation.”

“You heard the captain. The only way this investigation is going to move forward is if Jerry makes a mistake. Right now, he is feeling secure. You need to shake him up.”

“It may not be safe,” I said.

“He’s not going to hurt you, especially if you stay in crowded, public places,” Monk said. “Besides, I’ll be watching you.”

“You will?”

“You won’t even know that I’m there,” Monk said. “I will become one with the night.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

W
henever I see the Ferry Building, I always remember that scene in the movie
It Came from Beneath the Sea
when a giant octopus, enraged by atomic bomb blasts at sea, swims into San Francisco Bay and begins attacking architectural landmarks, as monsters of all kinds love to do.

First the octopus goes for the Golden Gate Bridge, then sets his sights on the iconic, and very phallic, 245-foot clock tower in the center of the long, broad Ferry Building. He wraps one of his tentacles around it, snaps it in half, then goes off looking for Coit Tower, or Ghirardelli Square, or some other historic landmark to destroy.

Before the bridges were built, most people traveled to and from the city through the Ferry Building’s terminal, except for those few who made the trek up the peninsula. But after the bridges, there wasn’t much use for those ferries anymore, and the building eventually fell into disrepair and disuse. It was renovated in 2003, the grand nave restored and transformed into an upscale marketplace lined with gourmet takeout. It was usually packed with tourists and long lines, which sort of killed the whole point of running in for a quick bite.

But I was thankful for the crowds that night. If Jerry Yermo wanted to kill me, he’d have to do it in front of thousands of witnesses, not to mention Adrian Monk.

Jerry was waiting outside the main entrance, a big smile on his face. He didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer, but cold-blooded killers seldom look the part. A bitter wind was blowing off the bay, and the chill went through my skin and into the marrow of my bones.

Or maybe it wasn’t the wind. Maybe it was Jerry.

For a moment, I wished that octopus would attack, grab Jerry with his mighty tentacle, and drag him into the depths. The sentiment must have shown on my face, because his smile faltered at the edges.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

I didn’t have a script, or a plan, or a clue. I was going entirely with my gut, which was cramping, and that didn’t give me much direction. I gathered my coat tight around myself and shivered.

“I just need a coffee,” I said. “It’s been a long day and I could use the jolt.”

He led me to the overpriced coffee place and got us both piping hot tall ones, and we started walking south on the Embarcadero, in the general direction of Cupid’s Span, a big sculpture of a bow and arrow stuck in the grass of Rincon Park.

The coffee helped. I don’t know whether it was the caffeine or the simple, creature comfort of having something hot in my cold hands.

“What’s your day been like?” he asked.

“The usual. Another day, another corpse.”

I glanced across the street and saw Monk in a dark overcoat, the collar pulled up, tapping parking meters as he kept pace with us. He missed one, doubled back, and then hurried to keep up.

“It’s what keeps us in business. Sad to say, but someone has to do the dirty work.”

“Actually, this murder was surprisingly clean,” I said.

“Strangulation? Poison? Suffocation?”

“Four gunshots to the upper body.”

“That doesn’t sound very clean,” Jerry said. “You can’t shoot someone four times and not leave a lot of blood.”

“Oh, there was blood. But other than that, the killer wiped the place down. He didn’t leave a trace behind.”

“That’s what you get with all those CSI shows on TV nowadays,” Jerry said. “All the criminals are forensics experts.”

“I mean really, seriously clean. He used the same specialized solvents and cleansers that you would.”

“That is odd,” Jerry said. “Who was the victim?”

“A BART engineer named Stuart Hewson. He lived up on Rayburn and Liberty.”

“Isn’t that over by your house?”

“And Mark Costa’s, too,” I said. “In fact, you can see Costa’s house from Hewson’s living room window.”

“That’s a killer view,” he said.

“It certainly is.”

I glanced across the street. Monk had fallen behind. He was helping someone parallel park their car. He had his tape measure out. Adrian Monk: one with the night.

I stopped and turned my back to the street, as if to admire the view of the Bay Bridge and the East Bay. What I really wanted to do was keep Jerry from seeing Monk.

“This one isn’t bad, either,” I said.

“I agree,” he said, giving me a not-too-subtle once-over. A day before, his look might have flattered me. But at that moment, knowing what I did about Jerry, it gave me the creeps. It was like he was a mortician sizing me up for a casket.

“Hewson had a telescope and liked to spy on people,” I said. “He saw a burglary being committed, and that got him killed.”

“Sounds like a variation on Alfred Hitchcock’s
Rear Window
.”

“Except in that story, the witness survived and was trying to do the right thing. Hewson contacted the burglar and tried to cut himself in on the deal.”

“Then it’s hard to feel much sympathy for him. From the way you’ve described the situation, if he’d done the right thing and called the police, he’d still be alive.”

“So he deserved to die and the murderer should walk?”

“I’m just saying that maybe nobody would have died if Hewson hadn’t escalated the situation. It was a victimless crime until then. Sounds to me like he brought it on himself and forced the burglar to do something he wouldn’t have done otherwise.”

“There was an alternative,” I said. “The burglar could have paid Hewson off instead of killing him.”

“That’s easy for us to say now, looking at it from the outside, but I’m sure when you’re in the moment, weighing all the options and possible long-term problems, you would go with the option that offers the quickest, most definitive, resolution.”

“Murder is certainly definitive.”

“Do you have any leads on the killer?” Jerry took a sip of his coffee and looked across the bay, trying a little too hard to be casual with his question.

“We have more than that,” I said. “We know who it is.”

“So he’s been arrested.”

“Not yet,” I said. “But very soon.”

He looked at me and smiled. “What’s holding them up?”

“A few procedural details,” I said, smiling right back at him. This cat-and-mouse stuff was fun. But he was far too relaxed and confident. I wanted to see him sweat and it suddenly occurred to me how to make that happen. “But the clock is ticking. We aren’t the only ones going after this guy.”

“Other law enforcement agencies are getting into the act, too?”

“Oh no,” I said. “The case isn’t that big of a deal.”

“Then who else is there?”

“You know those other killings, the really bloody ones you’ve been cleaning up over the last couple of days?”

“It would be hard to forget them,” he said. “It’s how we met.”

“Rico Ramirez, the guy who butchered those people, is hunting for Hewson’s murderer, too.”

“What’s the connection?” Jerry said.

“Whoever killed Hewson took something that belongs to Rico,” I said. “And Rico wants it back. He won’t ask for it nicely.”

“I don’t see how Rico is going to tie that engineer’s murder to his missing item.”

“We’re talking about diamonds, the ones that were hidden in Costa’s couch.”

“This is getting very complicated.”

“It’s actually very simple,” I said. “Whoever has the diamonds now is living on borrowed time. He’s going down. The only question is who will get to him first—the police or Rico Ramirez. In one scenario he lives, and in the other he dies a really horrible death.”

“Maybe the killer will cleverly elude them both.”

“We don’t think the killer is that smart. If he was, we wouldn’t be onto him so quickly, would we?”

“But you haven’t been able to arrest him,” Jerry said. “That tells me that there’s a big gulf between what you think you know and what you can prove.”

“That might be true,” I said. “But that legal distinction isn’t going to mean anything to Rico Ramirez. You’ve seen what the man can do with a knife.”

Jerry took a big sip of his coffee and tipped his head toward the street behind us.

“Would your chaperone like to join us for dinner?”

I turned and saw Monk measuring the space between two parked cars with his tape measure, while a woman, presumably one of the drivers, stood behind him, gesturing angrily at the sidewalk. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I got the impression she wanted him to get the hell away from her and her car.

I faced Jerry. “I’ve lost my appetite tonight. I’m going to pass on dinner.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “I was really looking forward to seeing you again.”

“You will,” I said. “You can count on it.”

“I thought you said you’d be one with the night,” I said as Monk and I walked back to my car. I’d just finished telling him all about my conversation with Jerry.

“I was,” he said. “I blended right in.”

“You were double-checking the gap between parked cars with a tape measure.”

“Just like any other parallel parker in the city would do.”

“People don’t use tape measures when they parallel park,” I said.

“You mean that you don’t.”

“I mean that nobody does. You stood out.”

“Only because you knew I was there,” Monk said. “You were hyperaware of me.”

“Jerry saw you, too.”

“Only because he knew that you knew that he was the guy and that I would never let you meet him unprotected,” Monk said. “Plus you probably blew my cover by looking at me all the time. Do you think you rattled him?”

I shrugged. “Who knows? The whole thing about Rico Ramirez was pure improvisation on my part. He probably saw right through it.”

“I don’t see why he would,” Monk said. “It’s a credible threat.”

“I’m not sure that Jerry thought so.”

“So we’ll try someone else,” Monk said.