by Hy Conrad
A few more cross-checks showed that this same firm did the legal work for Willmott and Associates, a real estate development company that built high-end malls all over the state. The lawyers, who didn’t have much of a record of defending petty criminals, were also the lawyers of record in five other cases involving a pair of juvenile male offenders.
I was a little surprised but not shocked to see that the defense for the last Colin and Marshal case, the one that had sent them away for seven years, was not performed by the high-end lawyers. The boys had been represented by a San Francisco public defender. I’m no Adrian Monk, but it seemed to me that the Willmott family had finally grown tired of coming to the rescue of their wayward boys—with disastrous results for the boys.
I was still curious about the lack of paroles. But the Pleasant Valley warden had not yet returned my call. While I was waiting, I placed a call to Bethany Oberlin. Sometime during the funeral, between the time we walked into the Episcopalian chapel to view the body and the time Monk stood up and announced her father’s murder, Bethany and I had exchanged business cards, just in case she wanted to talk. She’d never taken me up on it—surprise!—but I hoped she would at least not hang up on me.
“Natalie, I’d been hoping you’d call.” The young woman’s voice sounded strained and anxious.
“I didn’t know if you were still in town.”
“Of course. I have to stay for the funeral. They just released his body. It’s hard to even think about going back to Thailand. I don’t want to lose my job, but with Dad still … when his murder is still … You know what I mean. Not that there’s anything I can do to help. Is there? Do you have any news?” Her voice grew excited. “Oh, my God, is that it? Did you catch his killer? Tell me.”
I felt so guilty. For the past few days my focus, all of our focus, had been on trying to prevent the captain’s death. We’d almost forgotten the first victim. Judge Oberlin still had a family that needed answers. “I’m sorry, Bethany. I should have stayed in better contact. No, we haven’t caught the killer, not yet. But there might be something you can do.”
I didn’t check with my partner since I knew his schedule as well as he did. Bethany and I set up a time—in one of the spaces between Monk’s morning “ablutions,” as he called them, and his cleaning schedule and his preparations for meat loaf night. It was Wednesday, after all. We’re not savages.
There’s never a lot of foot traffic coming by our door. That’s both a good thing, in that it’s not constantly distracting us, and a bad thing, in that, when it does happen, it’s more distracting. When I glanced up to see a car pull into the parking space, I recognized Daniela Grace’s silver Mercedes. Like her, the car always looked freshly waxed and detailed. Even though I knew she was on her way next door to Paisley Printing, I went out to greet her. “Daniela. How are you?”
“Not so well, dear.” Daniela was the kind of person who took such questions seriously. “Not that it’s your fault. Well, maybe your fault for asking.”
“I hope it’s not Peter and Wendy. I know they want to do a good job for you. If you just give them a chance …”
“No, Peter and Wendy are fine. They’re rolling with the punches.”
“What punches?” For a split second I thought Monk might be up to one of his tricks.
Daniela sighed and held up her leather Prada briefcase. “The IPO we’re working on. We’ve had a security breach at the office. Two similar companies are going public next month and someone leaked information about our deal—things like the exact offering price, common versus preferred percentages. Profitability forecasts. Those little numbers mean millions. I say it’s someone on the client side. The client says it has to be us. Meanwhile, we have to change the documents, just to prove the information false and pretend that the leak doesn’t exist. Just a few more days.” With her free hand, she crossed her fingers. “Wish me luck.”
“If you want, Adrian and I could look into it,” I suggested. “That’s why you have us on retainer, right?”
“Right.” Daniela cocked her head and laughed. “I’d completely forgotten about that.” A few weeks ago, I had talked Daniela into paying us a tiny retainer so that we would stay available for emergencies like this. I hadn’t even gotten around to telling Monk about it. “This is what I’m paying you for, isn’t it?”
“You’re paying us to be available, yes.” I was already regretting my offer. “But we are a little busy right now.” Why did I have to open my big mouth?
“Which is exactly why we signed that retainer. Rather clever of me, wasn’t it?”
“Although we are busy with a murder right at the moment.”
“Please. You’re always busy with a murder. But it’s good to know you can swoop in on the spur of the moment. Let me think it over and get back to you.”
We were still standing there when the Gerbers happened to see us through their window. They came out, Wendy in a peasant skirt and blouse left over from the seventies and Peter in a tie-dyed shirt that blended into a pair of tie-dyed jeans, almost giving the impression of a jumpsuit. On second glance, I saw it was a jumpsuit. Tie-dyed. “Ms. Grace.” Peter looked nervous and deferential. “Is there another problem? What can I do you for?”
“Natalie, I’ll be in touch.” And with a flourish, Daniela followed the Gerbers through the open doors of Paisley Printing, talking a mile a minute.
I stayed on the street. I was standing just a few feet, I realized, from where I’d first met Sue whatever-her-name-was.
Sue Puskedra non-O’Brien had been loitering at the curb, eyeing the Monk and Teeger storefront. Now she was gone without a trace, as if I’d simply imagined it. I couldn’t get my friends on the force to help find her. This wasn’t their fault. Nothing she’d done had been illegal, except not paying the bill I never gave her. Believe it or not, there’s no statute against claiming to be married to a gay man.
I didn’t even have a picture of her. That’s literally what I was thinking when my eye wandered to the storefront at the north end of our strip mall. It was a charming establishment with barred windows and a steel gate, known as 24-Hour Holiday Pawn. My attention wasn’t focused on the grimy windows, however, but on the two security cameras poised over the door.
A few months ago, when Monk and I opened up shop, we had a few run-ins with Al Wittingham, the owner. Monk had gotten into the habit of walking by the pawnshop on his way to work. His eye was naturally attracted to the filthy windows and the dusty displays—and, unfortunately for Mr. Wittingham, the items that were on display.
On three different occasions (it could have been four), Monk called the police. The first time it was a sterling silver punch bowl that he somehow knew was stolen property. The second time it was a Mickey Mantle baseball card. The third time was a forgery, a dozen Morgan silver dollars mounted in a felt display case. Of course it wasn’t Adrian’s fault that Wittingham occasionally turned a blind eye to customers with stolen goods. But it got to the point where the man had taped pictures of Monk and me on the wall beside the cash register, barring us from ever stepping inside.
“What did I tell you? Hey, don’t come in here. You’re banned for life.”
“Sorry,” I said to the man behind the counter. “I was hoping you could help me.”
“Help you? Don’t make me laugh.” Al laughed anyway. He bore a striking resemblance to a small, dirty owl, with round-framed glasses and permanent stains on his collection of vintage T-shirts from the 1980s. He wobbled out to try to block the door.
“I noticed your cameras,” I said, getting right to the point. “You’ve got one of them pointed at the street, if I’m not mistaken.”
“One on the door, one out to the street to catch license plates, and three of them inside, all angles, so don’t try anything funny.”
“For how long do you keep the footage?”
“What’s it to you, Miss Nosy? Now get out.”
“Mr. Wittingham, please. I did nothing wrong. My partner did call the
police, yes—”
“Not to mention the EPA. That was the worst. I had an antique tablecloth from Germany, sold to me legitimately by an old widow. How was I supposed to know—”
“It was made from asbestos.” (Four occasions. How could I forget the asbestos tablecloth!)
Asbestos, I learned, had been used for all sorts of things in the bad old days, even clothing. The emperor Charlemagne was said to have had the first tablecloth made of it. At the end of a banquet, he would throw it into a roaring fire and watch as the dirt got burned up but the tablecloth remained unharmed. Like a magic trick.
Wittingham scowled. “Thanks to your friend, they closed me down for a week and made me pay for the whole cleanup. I lost a ton of customers.”
“Well, it was asbestos. You should be grateful you’re not sick.”
“I could have sold it,” he snapped. “People were looking at it all the time.”
“Really, people were handling the asbestos tablecloth?”
“No, they weren’t,” he shouted. “I misspoke. It’s your word against mine.”
I held out my hands in peace. “Mr. Wittingham, I’m not here about the asbestos. I’m here about a woman who was standing in front of your place less than a week ago. I’m hoping your camera caught a glimpse of her. If we check the tapes …”
Wittingham smiled a toothy yellow smile. “So you need something from me, huh? You guys nearly ruin my business and now you want something. You don’t know how happy that makes me. NO! Not on your life, missy.”
“I completely understand.” It was the answer I’d been expecting. “I just want you to know that, after much effort, I finally got my partner to come into work from the south side of the parking lot, by the Laundromat.”
“Lucky for them.”
“Yes, lucky for them. But that’s another story. My point is that it took some effort, but I did it for you. I could just as easily talk Adrian Monk into taking his old route again—if you don’t appreciate all the effort I went through.”
It was an odd sort of blackmail. I’m not sure it’s ever been used before, threatening to get someone to change his walking pattern. And I didn’t feel guilty about it. If Wittingham didn’t keep illegal items in his shop, if he managed to clean his windows so they didn’t attract Monk’s irritated stare, none of this would be a problem. “He can’t really help himself, you know. Once he has you in his line of vision, it’s over.”
Wittingham folded his pudgy arms across his pudgy middle. “I can take everything out of the window. How about that? Or I can black it over. Give him nothing to see.”
“That would really help your walk-in traffic.” I took a step back and tried to look all sweet and innocent. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to check your security video? It won’t take long. We can look at it together.”
“I’m not letting a detective look at my video. What kind of idiot do you think I am?” I didn’t answer, just kept up my sweet expression. “How much trouble is this going to be? Do you have a date and a time when this woman was here?”
“I do.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mr. Monk Refocuses
The usual suspects, plus a few extra, were crowded into the semiprivate room at SF General. Trudy Stottlemeyer gathered her husband’s bag of dried, bloody clothes, ready to make their exit, while I adjusted the captain’s shoulder sling and tried to get him into a wheelchair. The captain wasn’t cooperating.
“I’m perfectly capable of getting around under my own power.”
“Everyone leaves the hospital in a wheelchair,” said Trudy. “It’s a rule.”
“A dumb rule,” said Stottlemeyer. “If I’m fit enough to go back to work …”
“You are not going to work,” Trudy informed him. “Banish that thought.”
“Why not? I dare you to find anyone more capable of tracking down my killer.”
“Leland, that’s not funny.”
“Trudy’s right.” Randy tried to guide his former partner into the wheelchair. “You can’t be part of the investigation. We need you safe at home with a guard at the door.”
The captain found it hard to argue, not after what had happened the previous day in the alley. “Okay. But I need you to keep me constantly updated.”
“Will do,” said Lieutenant A.J. He was lifting himself out of the next bed, with his sister helping him into the other wheelchair. Since he could put only limited weight on his right leg, the process was more difficult. “I’ll keep you in the loop, Captain.”
“Not you,” said the captain. “If I’m getting bed rest, you’re getting bed rest.”
“Sir, that’s not fair. I’m perfectly capable of returning to the field.”
“Not with that leg. Chief Disher is on loan from the Summit PD. Between him and our consultants, they can handle it.”
“You’re trusting your life to them?” A.J. stubbed his foot onto one of the wheels and let out a little scream.
“Sorry, Arny,” said Rebecca, as if she were somehow to blame. “So sorry.”
Her brother brushed her hands aside. “Captain, you can’t be serious. Some doofus with a dinosaur diary? A pair of strip—
mall detectives? Look at Monk. He can’t walk down a street without stepping over every crack. They’re not even with the department.”
“Well, I’m authorizing them. You’re going home and they’re in charge.”
“You can’t do that. I’ll file a complaint.”
“You do that, A.J. Meanwhile, will someone please get me out of this damn place?”
“It is not a dinosaur diary,” muttered Randy as he straightened the captain’s wheelchair and started pushing. “It’s a journal.”
“I wouldn’t trust this bunch of misfits to make me a sandwich,” shouted A.J. into our backs.
By the time the old Subaru made it through the crosstown traffic and was being flawlessly edged into a tight parallel parking spot on Hyde Street, the three of us had all calmed down. Pretty much. “How can you work with him every day?” Randy asked from the backseat.
“That’s my point,” said Adrian. “That’s why we need you to come home.”
“Monk, it’s not going to happen.”
“Then I’ll figure out some other way. Maybe Luther can help.”
“Luther?” said Randy, looking puzzled. “You mean your driver friend?”
Monk grinned. “Luther and I have our own ways of solving problems.”
I heard this and nearly scraped the bumper in front of me. “No. You and Luther are not going to pull one of your pranks. I absolutely forbid it.”
“We’ll see,” said Monk. “We’ll see.”
As we walked up to the porch of Judge Oberlin’s house, I noted the sturdy stone umbrella stand, the spot where the captain had sat down and chatted with me one day prior to his own poisoning. The answer had been right under him and we never suspected. Monk also saw the stand and gave it a wide berth.
Bethany Oberlin must have been waiting because the door flew open almost before I touched the bell. “Come in, come in. Please.” We wiped our feet on the mat and followed her instructions. The front door opened directly onto a wide, homey living room with a stone fireplace centered on the rear wall. Before sitting down, Randy introduced himself.
“A police chief from New Jersey?” Bethany stiffened. “Are murders like this happening in New Jersey?”
“No, no,” Randy assured her. “I worked with Captain Stottlemeyer seven years ago. And your father, too. On those trials where someone wanted to kill us.”
“Seven years ago? What happened seven years ago?”
I tried to explain in as few words as possible. Someone had dropped a note on the captain’s desk, claiming that the attacks were revenge for stealing “seven years of my life.”
“We think it may be a trial the judge and the captain were involved with,” said Monk. “But it could be anything. Were you living with your father back then?”
She thought for a moment. “I
was in high school. Sixteen. Mom had just died in a car accident.”
“I’m so sorry.” That’s what I say when someone mentions death, no matter how long ago.
“Thank you. It was a rough patch for Dad. He was just going through the motions. Some of his old friends tried to reconnect, but I couldn’t tell you who. I spent a lot of time with my high school friends. Captain Stottlemeyer … I know he and Dad used to be close. But that was before I was born. I think the first time I met the captain was at Dad’s first funeral.” She shuddered at the memory. “His second funeral is tomorrow, by the way.”
“Tomorrow?” Monk turned to his appointment secretary. “Is that on our schedule, Natalie? You didn’t mention it.”
“It’s a small event,” said Bethany Oberlin, biting her lower lip. “I didn’t think to invite you. But if you really want to come …”
“Thanks, but we’ll let you grieve privately.” The last thing the poor girl needed was Monk bending over her father’s casket again.
“Do you think Dad did something bad?” she asked. “To make someone hold a grudge strong enough for murder? For seven years? He was in mourning at the time and not always rational.”
“Whatever he did, it involved the captain,” I pointed out. “We’re checking the trials, but there might be something else. Do you have any idea?”
“Dad wasn’t the type to make enemies. But he was known for his strict sentencing. Several of his decisions went in front of review boards. I don’t think any of them was overturned.”
“Was he a strict father, too?” I had to ask.
“Dad was …” She thought hard before going on. “I’m not sure he liked children, even his own. Growing up, I got treated like a little adult. Mom was different. I could always go to her for sympathy and a hug. I work with kids myself now. Kids aren’t always perfect. They like to experiment, try on different personas and behaviors.”
“Make mistakes,” I said, thinking of my own relationship with Julie.
