by Hy Conrad
“Then we’ll relieve the second vehicle,” I said.
“Already done. The new second vehicle just got here.” There was a certain lightness to A.J.’s voice that made me nervous. I shifted into park and turned my head to spy a familiar brown Buick sedan.
“No. What the hell is he doing here?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I hung up, drove right past the dusty Honda, and made the next three left turns. I double-parked beside the brown Buick and rolled down my passenger window. The captain’s window was already down.
I leaned over to speak, but Monk said it for me. “If Natalie were an assassin, you’d be dead by now.”
“From the look of her, I’d say she wants me dead anyway.” Stottlemeyer’s arm was still Velcroed to his body, but he was grinning like a schoolboy.
“Captain,” I shouted. “We’re doing this to protect you. And you purposely put yourself in danger?”
“We’re doing this to catch Judge Oberlin’s killer,” Stottlemeyer countered. “Every officer puts himself on the line every day. The average bad guy would shoot through any of us to get away. From the way I see it, this is no different.”
“What about your shoulder?”
“My doctor came by and cleared me last night. It’s like A.J. told me… .”
“A.J. talked you into this?” I asked, shaking my head. “I should have known.”
“Hey. No one has to talk me into doing my job. Besides, as A.J. pointed out, if these boys are after me today, it’s a lot safer to be behind them than in their sights.”
“What about your wife?” I asked. “Where is she?”
“Trudy’s staying with her sister in Santa Cruz. She left last night.”
Our debate was interrupted by the communicator on the captain’s uninjured shoulder. It buzzed and Lieutenant Thurman’s voice crackled. “We’ve got the elder Willmotts leaving the house. Does the wizard of odd want to give them a glance?”
“Does he mean me?” Monk asked.
“He means you,” I said.
Monk and I had to scramble out of the Subaru to get a better view. From a spot behind a hundred-year-old maple, we could see the trunk of a black Lexus pop open. Ben and Olivia worked together to clear a space for a large shopping bag. Ben was in a black suit, Olivia in a dress of flowery, tasteful pastels, knee-length, with a small white hat perched on her head. They reminded me of my parents heading out for a weekend brunch at the country club.
No one even suggested following them. In fact we felt relieved that they were out of the picture. We settled into our three vehicles—the Honda across the street, the Buick around the corner, the old Subaru farther down the block—and wasted the next few hours getting on one another’s nerves.
“Wizard of odd,” Monk mumbled under his breath. He was in the passenger seat, belted in. I was kneeling down on the sidewalk by his window, eating a Fig Newton. Monk doesn’t allow eating in my car.
“Let it go, Adrian,” I mumbled between bites. “Sure, he’s obnoxious and mean. But I think everyone realizes that. In some ways, A.J. is his own worst enemy.”
“Not as long as I’m alive.”
“Well, get used to him. Arny Senior and Leland have this bond. When Arny dies, it’s only going to get stronger. You know how loyal the captain is.”
“What if something unexpected happens to A.J.? You know, like a bomb. Or he gets pushed off a cliff. Accidentally.”
“Really? You?” I had to laugh. “You could never kill anyone. First off, you’re not the type. Second, I know you. You’d confess within five minutes. Even if you didn’t confess, you could never get away with murder.”
“What do you mean? I’m an expert in killing. I have lists of every possible way to die. I have a hundred locked-room murder methods that look like suicide.”
“So you’re constantly thinking how to kill people?”
“I’m a dangerous man, Natalie. I review and update the lists once a month.”
“Update? Why do they need updating?”
Monk sighed. “It’s the bane of technology. I had a perfect murder method using a Western Union telegram, another using Morse code. Both of those had to be eliminated. I have six that involve pay phones, which are dangerously close to extinction. On the plus side, I do have two new ones that didn’t exist before Candy Crush. That’s a mobile game people play on their phones.”
“I know what Candy Crush is. I’m just surprised you do.”
“A possibly lethal application like that? I’d be remiss in my duty to humanity.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. How do you kill someone using Candy Crush?”
There was just the hint of a crinkle around his eyes. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you—with Candy Crush, just to make sure it worked.”
“You’re all talk, Adrian.”
“I know.” And the smiling hint disappeared. “Meanwhile, our careers are ruined.”
“Not ruined, just changed. Change is good.”
“How is it good? Give me one example.”
“Okay, change is not always good. But it’s inevitable. We’ll do fewer cases with the police and more civilian cases, like the one for Daniela.”
Monk scowled with disapproval. “Trying to patch a leak. That’s not why I became a detective.”
“It may not be as exciting as murder. But there’s millions of dollars at stake and her company’s reputation.” My phone rang and in one fluid motion, I stashed the remaining Fig Newtons in my tote and pulled out the phone. “Finally, some action!”
I checked the display, sighed, and pressed “ignore.” “Was that Exciting Daniela?” Monk guessed.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Her fourth call and, unless you’ve solved her case, I don’t want to talk about it.”
The phone rang again and I almost pressed “ignore” again. But this time it was Lieutenant Thurman. “They’re on the move,” he said. “Dressed in black. One backpack. Four duffel bags that look empty. Don’t seem to be in a rush. You got the plate number?”
“The old Volvo? Sure.” The boys were in the habit of driving a forest green Volvo SUV, decorated in dings and rust, at least a dozen years old, undoubtedly lent by one of their begrudging families. A fresh bumper sticker sported a skull with tiny swastikas in the eye sockets. Colin was behind the wheel.
Tailing the Willmott cousins wound up being like a weird, secret parade. They were in the lead, of course, followed by the Honda a block behind, the Buick in point position two blocks back, and my Subaru on a parallel street. Things became more organized once we hit the 101 heading south. The neo-Nazi cousins engaged in no evasive action. They didn’t even break the speed limit.
“They’re not anywhere near the captain’s house,” Monk observed.
“Is that good or bad?” I asked, but he didn’t answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mr. Monk and the Ballrooms
Fifteen minutes later, the parade led us off the 101, around the bend of an off-ramp, down an access road, and into the oversized parking lot of the Tuscany Pines. Not one of us had ever been here before.
Our three tail vehicles idled on the access road as Colin backed the Volvo into a handicapped space by a side door. The cousins took the duffel bags out of the back, hefted them on their shoulders, and disappeared into the building.
“A restaurant?” asked A.J. Everybody had everybody else on speaker.
According to its bright signage, the Tuscany Pines was several things: restaurant, catering service, banquet facility. The section of the parking lot in front of the main doors with the faux-Roman columns was crowded with a hundred or more cars, from shiny and expensive to more than a few pickups.
On instructions from the captain, we all parked in different spots, facing out, giving ourselves quick access to various exit routes. It was reassuring to see Stottlemeyer once again in command of the situation.
We met by the captain’s Buick. He had already grabbed his duty handgun from his glove box and slipped it und
er the Velcro strap of his sling. “Monk, Natalie and I will go in the front. Natalie, I’m going to need you to keep your weapon locked and within reach.”
“Got it,” I said. I was going to keep my Glock .22 in my PBS tote on top of my packets of disposable wipes. Instead, I left the tote on Stottlemeyer’s front seat and stuffed the Glock into the oversized pocket of my thigh-length, truffle-colored Calvin Klein belted trench coat. It looks much nicer than it sounds.
The four of us made our way to the Roman columns. “Should we call for backup?” I asked.
“We don’t have a crime,” said A.J.
“But I have a bad feeling,” Monk said. “I estimated a sixty-eight percent chance—”
“Shut up, Monk.”
“Lieutenant …” Stottlemeyer’s gaze fell to A.J.’s right leg. “You keep a position out here. We don’t know what they’re up to, but the Volvo is their transportation.”
“Let Monk do it,” said A.J. “He’s useless in the field.”
“He’s not useless in the field. Besides, he doesn’t have a driver’s license.”
“I do have a driver’s license,” said Monk. “I just choose not to use it.”
“Why can’t Natalie stay back?”
“Because Natalie has two good legs. End of discussion.”
The lobby of the Tuscany Pines gave the veneer-thin appearance of an Italian villa, with marble tiles and crystal chandeliers. In front of us were the oak doors of a closed restaurant. To the left and the right and up the polished stairs were doors and hallways leading to the event rooms. Around the staircase, on a trio of freestanding signs, were listed the afternoon events. Pointing right: BOWERSOX-CASTELLO WEDDING. BALLROOM A. Pointing up the stairs: RODRIGUES QUINCEAÑERA. BALLROOM B. Pointing left: ANDREW AND ADAM GREENBERG BAR MITZVAH. BALLROOM C.
Adrian, Leland, and I stood in the empty lobby, staring at the signs and listening to the distant sounds of music and celebration. Where the hell were the Willmott boys in this monstrosity? And why?
“A bar mitzvah?” whispered the captain, focusing on the third sign. “You think they’d actually shoot up a bar mitzvah? With kids?”
It was a frightening thought. “We know they’re here with guns,” I answered. “They hate Jews and they drew a skull and crossbones on their save-the-date calendar.”
“Maybe,” said Monk.
“What do you mean, maybe?” I asked.
“According to the parents, these boys are motivated by revenge and spite. Do they even know the Greenbergs?”
“It’s a Jewish name,” I said.
“I know. But this was carefully planned, whatever it is, not some random hate crime.”
“So, what now, Monk?” said the captain. “We just stand here until you figure it out?”
“Yes, that’s pretty much what I do.”
“Well, we can’t afford to wait.” The captain obeyed the arrow on the sign, hurrying down the hall on the left toward Ballroom C. Monk and I were right behind him. The weight of the Glock and its full clip rubbed against my hip.
As we came closer, we could hear the commotion. It was the good kind of commotion, made up of singing and music and shouts of laughter. What a relief. And then, just as we arrived at the double wood-paneled doors, the good commotion was overshadowed by the sound of a crash. Something breaking, like glass and wood. A few screams. A few more shouts and screams. Then the music stopped.
“Captain, I’m still not sure—”
The captain used his good arm to take out his cell phone and toss it at Monk. “Call for backup and nine-one-one. Both.” He used the same good arm to take out his Beretta.
“Captain …”
“Now, Monk. You ready, Teeger?”
“Yes, sir.” The gun was out of my trench coat in a second and I was following the captain through the unlocked doors. So far we’d heard no shots. That was good, I thought.
The banquet room was crowded and in total confusion, with a well-dressed crowd shouting and pointing and trying to get a better view amid the chaos. We only succeeded in adding to the confusion—two strangers in civilian garb, one with an arm sling, one in a stylish trench coat, their weapons pointed down and held tight to the body, textbook-style.
I don’t know how we got to the center of the action so quickly. The guns might have had something to do with it. Small shards of mirror crunched under our feet as we came closer. Someone, a woman, raised her voice, calling for a doctor. A half dozen doctors, at least, raised their hands and began to crowd forward. They stopped when they saw us and the guns. A few screamed.
In the middle of the huge room, under the broken remains of a half-hanging mirror ball, were two teenage boys sprawled on the parquet floor. They wore matching white dress shirts and ties and could have been twins. They probably were.
“Police,” shouted the captain. “Is everyone all right?”
“We don’t need the police. We need a doctor,” shouted the same woman. Again, a half dozen people, maybe more, surged their way forward. This time, they weren’t deterred by the man in the sling and the woman in the trench coat. The boys on the floor were moving now. One of them even managed a weak laugh. Two banquet hall chairs, one with a broken leg, were sprawled beside them. For the first time since entering, I realized something was terribly wrong—or rather wasn’t terribly wrong.
“Will someone please tell me what happened?” the captain barked.
The information came from several sources all at once, but it wasn’t hard to piece together. The coming-of-age ceremony had ended and the celebration begun. The bar mitzvah boys, Adam and Andrew Greenberg, had been participating in the hora, a dance involving chairs held aloft by a throng of friends and family. The boys had been in the chairs at the time, waving with the music and laughing, and—here’s where the stories differed, but only slightly—somehow in all the excitement, they and the chairs and the mirror ball, which should never have been hanging so dangerously low, had all managed to collide. It had been traumatic, of course, but nothing compared to the nightmare of a couple of neo-Nazis with handguns.
Two internists and a cardiologist were checking for blood and broken bones, while a representative from Tuscany Pines finally arrived to deal with the damage and the interrupted party. Several lawyers in the crowd were in the process of canceling their day off and starting to take statements. We managed to escape questioning by the uncle of the twins who was demanding to see identification and get a written statement on what we’d witnessed.
“Where’s Monk?” asked the captain. We had put away our weapons and were letting ourselves be pushed toward the door.
“The last thing I saw, you were telling him to call nine-one-one.”
“Shoot.” Stottlemeyer and I stumbled out into the hallway. “Something else to deal with. Monk!”
“He wasn’t enthusiastic about this lead,” I said, looking around. “Adrian!”
We quickly made our way back to the lobby and there he was, glancing between the closed restaurant and the other two signs. He didn’t ask any questions about our adventure, just handed the captain his phone. “I didn’t call.”
“Monk!” The captain’s voice held a strange combination of anger and relief. “When I tell you to call for backup, do it. It’s the chain of command. What if there’d been a mass shooting? Every second counts.”
“But there wasn’t.”
“There wasn’t.” The captain sighed. “Thank you. You were right. I should have listened.”
“What was it?” Monk asked.
“It was a hora accident,” I told him.
“Horror?”
“No. Hora, the Jewish dance. Never mind. Where are the Willmott boys?”
“I checked with Lieutenant Thurman,” said Monk. “As far as he knows, they’re still in the building.”
“But where?” asked the captain. “They’re obviously not after me, not unless they’re three steps ahead of us and led us here on purpose.”
“Those two?” Monk scoff
ed. “They’re not three steps ahead of anybody. My guess is they’re here for their cousin’s wedding.”
“What cousin?” I asked.
Monk pointed to the freestanding sign and reminded us. “Olivia Bowersox-Willmott. That’s how she introduced herself. The family’s other nephew, she said, was getting married this weekend to an Italian girl whose Italian last name I’ll wager is Castello.”
There it had been, right in front of us. Bowersox-Castello Wedding. Ballroom A. “I should have seen it when we walked in,” said Monk. “I don’t know how I missed it.”
“You were distracted,” said Stottlemeyer. “Sorry, buddy.”
The captain took a second to check in with A.J., still working backup in the parking lot. “Stay put, that’s an order,” he argued as we started down the Tuscany Pines’ other wing. “We’re fine. Just had a little delay.”
As we approached Ballroom A, we could hear the live music coming from behind the double doors. “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey, which I suspect is a fairly popular wedding song, although, for pure energy, I think I’d go with the hora.
The captain stopped, undecided about pulling his weapon this time. I was skittish, too. “What do you think, Monk?”
“You should ask them about the wedding gifts. Where are they?”
“Wedding gifts?” The captain laughed. “You think our skinheads are here to steal the happy couple’s blenders?”
“As far as we know, the skinheads only have two handguns. If they were preparing to shoot up a ballroom, they would have brought more power. Plus, in my personal opinion, they’re not killers. They’re spiteful and sick. Seven years ago they had a chance to shoot you. They didn’t.”
Stottlemeyer thought it over. Behind the doors, we could hear the band switch over to “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” “Okay, Monk. We’ll do it your way.”
Our entrance into Ballroom A was much more subdued. There was no dancing with chairs, no broken mirror ball, no guns. And, more important, not a neo-Nazi in sight. There were just a hundred or so guests dawdling over drinks and wedding cake. The bride and groom were on the floor, slow-dancing photogenically while an exhausted photographer balanced on one knee, still doing his job.
