Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant Page 8

  “There are three possibilities.” He released one hand from the strap of his seat belt and raised an index finger. “One, she needed your professional attention distracted while she did something nefarious. This doesn’t make the most sense. If she needed to distract someone smart and important, it would have been me.”

  “Distracting you can be done with a crooked sign in a window.”

  “There’s a crooked sign?”

  “Proves my point. What’s the second possibility?”

  He raised a second finger. “She needed some information about Timothy O’Brien but needed to do it secretly. That recording you made between O’Brien and his coworker …”

  “It seemed pretty innocent. You’ll listen to it, of course. But anyone could have sat in the booth behind them and heard the same conversation.”

  “Maybe.” Finger number three. “Or maybe she needed you out of the way for a few hours—while you were surveilling O’Brien’s house.”

  “But you were at the office during those hours. I assume you locked up tight and put on the alarm?”

  “I did. There’s also possibility three-A.” He raised his pinkie, then bent it at the joint. “She needed to be alone in our office, and she did it by using the excuse of listening to the tape privately. How long was she in there?”

  I thought back to that afternoon when I’d left her and went off to buy some pricey teas, an expense that just added more insult to injury. “Half an hour,” I said. “She wanted to be alone, so I left her alone.”

  “Well, that’s it. Ms. Unknown Puskedra O’Brien did something in our office. I told you offices were bad. All the rest—her story, the case, your stalking of a homosexual lawyer—was just window dressing. Speaking of window dressing …”

  “Our signs are straight, Adrian. Don’t worry.”

  As I pulled into my parking space, Monk had already taken a mini level out of his jacket. I don’t know who else in the world would need a level small enough to fit into a pocket, but apparently there’s a market for this. Five minutes later, satisfied that all our signage was still perfect, he joined me inside.

  “I think the whole mini-mall is off by an inch or so, but the signs are straight. There’s only so much one man can do.”

  Nine times out of ten, Monk’s attention to detail drives me crazy. But this was time number ten. I swept my arm over the office. “Okay, Adrian. Focus. What did Ms. Unknown O’Brien do in here?”

  My OCD-gifted partner began his routine, framing the scene, dropping his hands to open a drawer, then lifting them again, then closing the drawer. Three times he took tweezers from his pocket and stored things in baggies, also from his pocket. When he finished, we met in the center of the space, between the desks.

  “I couldn’t find any bugs or electronic devices,” he reported. “But I’d have someone sweep the place to make sure. I don’t mean physically. I can sweep physically.”

  “Julie and some college friend are coming over,” I said. “He’s an electronics security expert.”

  “Good. You should have him check your computer. Also mine in the closet. After she left, did your computer seem different? The height or direction of the chair? The angle of the screen? The position of the mouse?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good.” He held up a baggie. “I found a blond hair that’s not yours. It’s a little thicker, wavier, no split end. The color’s a little brighter.”

  “Yes, Adrian. That’s from her.”

  “We could do a DNA test, but since there’s nothing to compare it to, it’s pretty useless.” He held up the second baggie with something barely visible in it. “Also the cut end of a fingernail. Even though it has your shade of polish on it, I know it’s not yours, since I strictly forbid anyone in this office from cutting fingernails except over a wastebasket on top of a double-ply tarp.”

  “That’s mine,” I said, and took the baggie.

  “I know. I’m just making a point. Speaking of wastebaskets, I found this in yours.” In the third baggie was a slip of paper. “I’m no geologist, but from the layers of trash and the depth, I estimate it’s from that same day, early afternoon. It doesn’t match the notepad on your desk, so she brought it with her.”

  I took the baggie and held it up to the light. There were eighteen rows of numbers or letters. The first row said “0-0,” the second row “1-2,” the third row “A-B,” the fourth “P-W,” the fifth “1-A,” the sixth “A-1.” I forget the others, but they all seemed like gibberish. All were written in pen and all were crossed out in the same kind of ink.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Is it some kind of code or secret writing?”

  “I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “But it can’t be too important if she left it in your wastebasket.” Monk took back the baggie and slipped it into his jacket. “At least we have something.”

  “And that’s it?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “You did your whole Monk thing and came up with one piece of paper?”

  “Natalie, it’s been days. If I’d been in the loop from the beginning, this woman wouldn’t have done whatever she did. Probably. I’m not a magician. You can’t hide things from me, then expect me to solve it all instantly.”

  “You’re right.” He was totally right. “I’m sorry, Adrian.”

  He shrugged, accepting my apology. “There are times when you’re right and I’m wrong. There are killers who would still be free if you weren’t part of team Monk. But on the whole, I think we’d be better off if you just read the rule book and obeyed the rules.”

  “What rule book?”

  “The one I’m going to write this evening. We definitely need a rule book. And the first rule, no divorce cases.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Do you need a ride home?”

  “I’ll walk. You need to stay for Julie and her friend. Besides, it’s not raining for once and I need the exercise.”

  “If it does rain, be sure to check your umbrella.”

  “I always do,” he said, and was out the door.

  Julie and Trevor arrived a short time later. I hadn’t told them the whole embarrassing story, merely that our offices might be electronically compromised. Trevor—a tall boy, impossibly young and thin, with some remnants of acne on his chin—took some mysterious black boxes out of his backpack and began with my desktop computer. He didn’t ask questions, but treated it as he would any school project. Julie, on the other hand … “How did your office get compromised?”

  “Might be compromised. It’s a long story,” I said, even though it wasn’t.

  “I’ll bet if I was your intern, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Julie has gotten it into her head that after she obtains her degree from Berkeley this spring, she should throw it all away by becoming an unpaid intern at the flourishing firm of Monk and Teeger. This is instead of going to law school, which used to be my daughter’s dream. So far, I’ve managed to say no and make it stick. “No,” I said again, for good measure.

  “Does this have anything to do with the poison attack on the captain?” Julie and the captain were good friends, dating back to when they met. She’d been eleven and involved in her first murder case.

  “No,” I repeated. “It’s a different case.”

  “Two cases? Mom, you need an intern—that’s all I have to say.”

  “I wish, but I’m sure you’re going to say more.”

  Trevor poked his head up over my monitor. “Your Wi-Fi is password protected. That’s good. How about your computer?”

  “Also password protected and I change it every week.”

  “Hm, you should really change passwords every day.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  He shrugged in the same way parents shrug at their clueless kids. “Any other devices in the office?”

  “There’s an identical computer in the closet, but I’m not sure it’s ever been turned on.”

  “Your phone?”

  “I keep i
t with me.”

  It didn’t take Trevor long to sweep through my system, or whatever the process is called. Meanwhile, Julie and I unwrapped Monk’s computer from the closet and set it up. “It’s never even been initiated,” announced Trevor after a few clicks. And we wrapped it back up.

  Using another mysterious black box, Trevor toured the office slowly, listening on a headset for something. “All clear, Mrs. T.,” he finally reported. “You’re good to go.”

  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. “So you’re saying there are no bugs, no cameras, nothing funny on our computers. Nothing missing or added to the office.”

  “I don’t know about the missing or added part,” he said.

  “Mom, what’s up?”

  “Nothing, sweetie. Nothing Adrian and I can’t handle.” I clasped my hands and put on a happy face. “Thank you so much, Trevor. I owe you and Julie a fancy dinner somewhere.”

  “Sweet,” said Trevor.

  “Mom,” said Julie in a tone that suggested having dinner with Trevor would not count as a reward.

  A minute later, I watched from the doorway as the thin young man opened the car door for Julie. Then I waved them on their way, all smiles until they disappeared.

  Who the hell was Sue Puskedra? I had to ask myself. If I knew who she was, I’d have a fighting chance of figuring out her game. If I knew her game, I’d have a chance of figuring out who she was. As it was, I knew nothing except that I had trusted her.

  That was the most galling part, I guess. She had made me care. I had listened to her dilemma, felt a real connection, and sat in my Subaru for hours waiting for a man to walk up to a mansion in Pacific Heights and kiss another man. I’d even fretted over how to break the news to her that her husband was gay.

  I’d been had. And I did not like the feeling.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mr. Monk and the Old Lieutenant

  Police Chief Disher dragged in his suitcase and dropped a carry-on duffel bag off his shoulder. He looked just as boyish as he had the first time I’d met him standing over a corpse in my living room all those years ago. Even though Monk had been the one to insist that Randy work with us in San Francisco, of course Randy was staying at my house.

  Randy glanced around the Julie shrine and smiled. “Jonas Brothers,” he said, pointing to an old poster taped above the bed. “How did you know I was a fan?”

  “Who isn’t a Jonas Brothers fan?” I said, and left it at that.

  “You’re making me feel very welcome. But I just have to warn you, this is temporary.”

  “Of course it’s temporary,” I said. “I’m not about to have a roommate.”

  “I mean, I’m not taking back my old job. I could tell from the way Monk was talking on the phone …”

  “Adrian isn’t the most subtle person.”

  “I know I complain about being chief, but I’m going to make it work, Natalie.”

  “Your life is out there now,” I agreed. “You have a house. And Sharona … Oh, how is her cold? I forgot to ask.”

  “Her cold is doing great. But my baby girl is cranky times ten. It’s good to be away.”

  “Well, at least her family is nearby. And all her friends in Summit.”

  “Oh, Sharona hates Summit. She’s constantly talking about moving back here. And the house is a rental.”

  “This is only temporary,” I reminded him.

  “Absolutely. As soon as we solve the captain’s case … Look at this.” He unzipped his duffel. “I keep a journal, ever since I started on the force. I brought the one from two thousand eight. It’s got both cases fully outlined. I think it’ll be a great help.” He pulled out a thick blankbook with “2008” handwritten on the cover and doodles of what looked like dinosaurs surrounding the numbers.

  “Great,” I said, and handed him the armload of fresh towels I’d been holding. “I’ll let you get settled.”

  Randy and I had an early lunch of PB&J sandwiches in my—make that our—kitchen and we caught each other up on all the gossip. I knew many of the players in Summit politics, having worked there for a short time as a police officer. It was hard to believe they were still giving him such a hard time about arresting the mayor, although if they ever caught a glimpse at his journals, it wouldn’t help his credibility.

  We picked up my partner on Pine Street in front of his building. “Good to see you, Lieutenant,” said Monk as they automatically changed seats. Monk will only ride shotgun, which Randy knew, of course. It was just like old times.

  “Police chief,” Randy corrected him. Okay, not quite like old times.

  I was glad not to see Trudy at the captain’s bedside. She had been on duty almost nonstop and was taking the afternoon off to go home, treat herself to a shower, and take the other male in her life on a long walk to the park.

  I was not glad to see A.J. The bulky lieutenant had a folder full of papers strewn over the bed and together, with the captain raised to a sitting position, they were reviewing something or other. I didn’t ask.

  “My God, Randy.” Stottlemeyer nearly jumped to his feet. With everything that had been happening, neither Monk nor I had thought to inform him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I came to help track down your killer.” Randy stammered, “No, I didn’t mean that. I mean your would-be killer. Not that I wouldn’t come back to track your real killer. I’d do that in a heartbeat. Next time.”

  “Good old Randy.” The captain laughed and this time did get out of bed, hugging his old partner to the front of his hospital gown. There were no wires connecting Leland to a heart monitor and he no longer looked like he needed one. “Police Chief Disher, I’d like you to meet my partner, Lieutenant A.J. Thurman.”

  The two men shook hands and I couldn’t help noticing the difference—Randy’s sweet, open expression going face-to-face with the lieutenant’s pinched and suspicious one. “Good to meet you, Chief. I joined the force the year after you left. But I’ve certainly heard enough stories about Randy Disher.” There was a hint of ridicule in his tone that I’m not sure Randy caught.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes, buddy.” Stottlemeyer eased himself back down. “But what makes you think you can help?”

  This is where Monk took over, explaining his theory that the killer must have been referring to one of the two cases that happened during our extended European jaunt. “I worked on all the other cases involving the captain and Judge Oberlin. And since no one is sending any death threats my way …”

  “Hey, what about me?” said Randy. He looked genuinely hurt.

  “What about you?” asked the captain.

  “What about my death threats? I know I wasn’t the officer in charge. But all the same, you’d think they’d want to kill me, too.”

  “Maybe they do,” said Stottlemeyer. “They just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No. You’re all the way out in New Jersey. I’m sure you’ll be next on their list. Just wait your turn.”

  Randy looked reassured. “Well, I hope not, honestly. Because that would mean you’d be dead. Hey, you want to look through my journal?” And he held up the volume from 2008.

  “Sure,” said Stottlemeyer, and brushed aside a section of A.J.’s papers. “I’ve missed those journals. That was the year of the dinosaur, I see.”

  For the next few minutes they huddled over the handwritten pages: Monk, Randy, and the captain sitting on his bed. Randy had already shown me the entries over our PB&J lunch. So I took advantage of the break to stand back and focus on Lieutenant Thurman, pressed into a corner of the room, arms crossed. The man did not look happy.

  “I’m not sure this guy’s a suspect. He’s in prison,” said Stottlemeyer. “Or should be. It was second-degree murder.”

  “He’s in San Quentin,” Monk acknowledged. “But he could have friends on the outside. And let’s face it, being in prison’s a pretty good alibi.”

  “I
remember him,” said Randy. “Kept going on about how a jury couldn’t convict him without a murder weapon.”

  “But they did,” said the captain. “And he wasn’t too pleased about it.”

  “It’s worth checking out,” said Monk. His gaze turned serious. “What’s this fingerprint in the margin?”

  Randy took a look at the red smudge at the top of the page. “Raspberry jam from lunch with Natalie. Sorry.”

  By late that afternoon, the four of us had made our way over the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County, taking the 101 to the Richmond Bridge exit. Instead of going over this second bridge, we turned onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, toward a scenic spit of land overlooking the San Francisco Bay, just east of the little town of San Quentin.

  It had taken an hour or two to get the captain checked out. The doctor’s okay was the easy part. It was Trudy Stottlemeyer’s okay that was problematic. I finally was handed the phone and assured her that Monk, Randy, and I would be taking good care of him and would drop him off at home as soon as we did one little errand. I didn’t mention the errand included a trip into the depths of the California state penal system.

  Lieutenant Thurman had been almost as hard to placate, but not out of concern for the captain’s health. “A.J., there are four of us,” explained Stottlemeyer. “That should be enough to interview one inmate. Your resources can be better used working other angles—the note, and who could have dropped it on my desk.”

  A.J. didn’t totally buy that, and he was right not to. The captain did little to hide his excitement. He might not have been at one hundred percent, health-wise, but the adrenaline rush of being with his old partner was carrying him through.

  “The lieutenant seems like a nice guy,” said Randy from the backseat of the Subaru.

  “He’s okay,” I answered from the driver’s seat, and felt I was being generous.

  The man we were visiting, Jasper Coleman, had been arrested a little over seven years ago, coincidentally on the very same day Monk and I were winging our way to Frankfurt, Germany, in pursuit of Dr. Kroger.