Mr. Monk Goes to Germany

by Lee Goldberg

  I did. Monk got on the line in the kitchen. We could see each other through the open doorway.

  “I want to report two officers who are shirkers,” Monk said. “Flagrant shirkers.”

  “I’ve got a murder here, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s a tricky case. I could use your help on this one.”

  “I’ve secured this crime scene,” Monk said. “I can’t just walk away. Vital evidence could be lost.”

  Stottlemeyer sighed again. I could visualize him rubbing his temple, fighting a growing Monkache in his skull.

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Monk. If you come over here, I’ll reassign Randy to the Sock Recovery Task Force and send him to your place to lead the investigation.”

  “You have a Sock Recovery Task Force?” Monk said.

  “We do now,” Stottlemeyer told him.

  Monk smiled. Balance was being restored.

  Any other cop would have been pissed off about being taken off a homicide case and sent to Monk’s apartment to look for a lost sock. But not Lieutenant Randy Disher, the captain’senthusiastic and loyal right-hand man. Disher was just thrilled to be heading a task force, any task force, even if it existed in name only to satisfy the crazy obsessions of a single psychologically disturbed ex-cop.

  It was still a task force. And Disher was the top dog.

  Disher didn’t say this to me, but it was evident from the way he bounded into Monk’s apartment, with his notepad out and a big smile on his face.

  “What have we got?” Disher asked.

  Monk told him. Disher took detailed notes.

  “Can you describe the sock?”

  “White, tube-style, size ten to twelve,” Monk said. “For the left foot.”

  “That’s a pretty common sock,” Disher said. “Would you be able to identify it if you saw it again?”

  “Absolutely,” Monk said.

  I wondered how he’d do that, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “I’m on it,” Disher said. “I’ll develop a detailed timeline, retrace your steps from the laundry room, and question the suspects.”

  “What suspects?” I asked.

  “The ones that will emerge in my investigation,” Disher said.

  “It’s a lost sock, Randy,” I said.

  Monk leaned close to Disher and spoke in a whisper. “I would start with the new tenant in apartment 2C.”

  “Why?” Disher whispered back.

  Monk tipped his head towards the window. The three of us looked outside. A young man in his twenties was making his way down the sidewalk on crutches. He was missing his right leg.

  “That’s him,” Monk said. “He’s obviously an unbalanced individual. I knew it instinctively the instant I saw him.”

  “He’s missing a leg,” I said. “That’s not a crime or a reflection of his character.”

  “He doesn’t have a right leg,” Monk said. “So he’d only be interested in socks for his left foot. And you’ll notice he’s wearing a white sock.”

  I didn’t notice. “That doesn’t make him a thief.”

  “The day after he moves in, one of my best left socks is stolen,” Monk said. “Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

  So that was what this was all about. The new tenant had upset the delicate balance of Monk’s world. He couldn’t stand the idea that someone with just one leg was living above him. It had probably been all Monk could think about since the man moved in and that irrational anxiety had manifested itself in a lost sock.

  I felt like a detective who’d just solved a case.

  “I’ll question him,” Disher said, tipping his head towards the man outside.

  “You’re not serious,” I said. “You’ll offend him.”

  “I’ll use finesse,” Disher said.

  “There is no way to ask a one-legged man if he stole his neighbor’s sock and not be offensive.”

  “I don’t see how it’s any more offensive than asking the same question of someone who has both legs,” Disher said.

  “You’re right,” I said. “So if I were you, I wouldn’t ask anybody that question.”

  “But you aren’t wearing a badge,” Disher said. “I am. Being a cop means asking the tough questions.”

  “He doesn’t shirk his responsibility,” Monk said.

  I didn’t want to be there when Disher started his questioning.I visited Monk’s apartment almost every day and I wanted to be able to face his neighbors without embarrassment or shame.

  “You wouldn’t want to shirk yours either, Mr. Monk. You have a murder investigation to consult on.”

  Monk nodded. We got the address of the crime scene and the names of the victims from Disher.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” Monk said.

  “You don’t know anything about the case yet,” I said.

  “It’s a murder,” Monk said. “How hard could it be?”

  “It’s not like it’s a lost sock,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  Monk had no ear for sarcasm. Thank God for that. If he did, I probably would have been fired years ago.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mr. Monk Takes the Cake

  Eric and Amy Clayson were a beautiful couple leading a beautiful life. They were in their thirties, with fashion-model, airbrush-perfect bodies and complexions, living in a wonderful, very contemporary Telegraph Hill apartment in that was full of light and had a spectacular view of the bay. The Claysons were the ideal twosome pictured in advertisements for every product or service that promised health, vitality, sex appeal, and endless happiness. The only thing wrong with this picture was that the Claysons were dead.

  But even in death, they looked great. There was no sign of violence or bloodshed, just their bodies frozen in rigor mortis like two toppled mannequins in a window display.

  Eric was shirtless and wearing pajama shorts. His wife was in a nightgown and a thin robe. They were both on the floor beside the dinner table, their chairs still upright. On the table sat an open wine bottle, two glasses, and a half-eaten piece of birthday cake, with two forks on the edge of the plate.

  When we came in, a team of forensic guys was waiting impatiently to bag the items on the table and two attendants from the morgue were waiting just as impatiently to bag the two corpses on the floor. I’d seen them lingering and fidgetinglike that before. They’d undoubtedly been told by Stottlemeyer to wait so Monk could survey the scene.

  Before we could get there, we were intercepted by Captain Stottlemeyer, who pulled us aside for a quiet briefing and rubbed his bushy mustache with his finger. That was his tell. He was stressed.

  “The victims are Eric and Amy Clayson. They sell real estate together. They were discovered this morning at eight a.m. by their maid,” Stottlemeyer said. “The ME pegs their time of death at about midnight.”

  Monk cocked his head and regarded the bodies from an angle. “They were poisoned.”

  “That’s what the ME thinks, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll analyze the wine, the cake, and their stomach contents. We shouldn’t have any trouble identifying the poison and what was tainted with it.”

  Monk walked over to the table, holding his hands in front of him like a director framing a scene.

  “What’s the tricky part?” I asked the captain.

  Stottlemeyer brushed his mustache again and gestured towards a tight-lipped man who was standing by the picture window, grimacing at the view. He had a military-style hair-cut and seemed uncomfortable in his dull gray suit.

  “That’s Andrew Walker, U.S. Marshals Service,” the captain whispered. “The Claysons were in the witness protection program.”

  At the mention of his name, Walker whipped his head around. He had the super-sensitive hearing of a Doberman pinscher and probably the same groomer. He marched straight over. I was afraid he was going to either shoot us or bite us.

  “What are these civilians doing here?” Walker said. He spoke through gritted teeth, as if his jaws were wired shut. Or maybe he was tr
ying to speak and growl at the same time. “It’s bad enough our security was breached without widening the hole with two outsiders.”

  “That’s Adrian Monk over there and this is his associate, Natalie Teeger,” Stottlemeyer said. “If you want this case wrapped up quick, Monk is the guy who can do it.”

  Walker glanced at Monk, who was scowling at the cake, his nose nearly touching the dried white frosting.

  “I’m not impressed,” Walker said.

  “He hasn’t done anything yet,” I said.

  “I’m trained to assess the capabilities of an opponent in a nanosecond.”

  “He’s not an opponent,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “The same criteria apply,” Walker said. “He’s a lightweight. ”

  “Why were the Claysons in witness protection?” I asked.

  “It’s need to know, honey,” Walker said.

  “They’re dead, Walker,” Stottlemeyer said. “What difference does it make now?”

  “It reveals our methods,” Walker said.

  “Which you ought to be changing anyway, since they clearly don’t work,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned to me. “The Claysons were lovers working as accountants for a mob family in New Jersey. The government threatened the couple with twenty years in prison unless they told us where the mob was stashing their money.”

  I watched Monk. He was roaming around the apartment, straightening things on shelves and wiping away dust.

  “They agreed to talk in return for protection, immunity from prosecution, and a big wedding in Manhattan,” Stottlemeyer continued. “They went off on their honeymoon and never came back. The government gave them new faces, new names, and new lives here in San Francisco. Everything was dandy, until now.”

  No wonder the Claysons looked like the ideal couple leading the ideal life. They were fake, inside and out. But I appreciated the symbolism of them literally starting their lives anew on their wedding day. They were criminals with a sense of romance.

  Monk stopped in front of the TV. The screen was black but the DVD player was turned on. He rolled his shoulders and cocked his head from one side to the other. He wasn’t straightening himself out; he was solving the crime. He hadn’t said a word yet, but I knew we were done here.

  I glanced at Stottlemeyer. He knew it, too.

  “We made sure they could never be found. But someone inside the Justice Department must have talked,” Walker said. “There aren’t that many people who knew who they were and where they were. I am going to find the leak and plug it with a bullet.”

  “There is no leak,” Monk said.

  “Then how did the mob find them?” Walker said. “Even if Big Carlo DeSantini himself bumped into them face-to-face on the street he wouldn’t have recognized them.”

  “If this was a mob hit, why were they poisoned?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Why not shoot them or stab them or throw them off their balcony?”

  “Dead is dead,” Walker said.

  Stottlemeyer shook his head in disagreement. “But you’d think that DeSantini would want to make it as messy and brutal as possible to send a message to anybody else who is thinking about cooperating with the government: We’ll find you and you’ll die a horrible death.”

  “The mob didn’t find them,” Monk said.

  “The Justice Department was a week away from seeking multiple indictments against the DeSantini family,” Walker said. “The Clayson murders last night torpedo the entire case. You don’t see the connection?”

  “The Claysons weren’t murdered last night,” Monk said.

  I jumped in before Walker could shoot Monk where he stood.

  “I think what Mr. Monk means is that, technically, itwas this morning,” I said. “The ME says they died after midnight.”

  “It was dark out,” Walker said. “In my book that makes it night.”

  “They weren’t murdered this morning either,” Monk said.

  Walker turned to Stottlemeyer. “This imbecile is the best detective you’ve got? That doesn’t say much for law enforcement in Frisco.” He turned to Monk. “I see two dead people on the floor. What do you see?”

  “I see two people who were murdered a year ago,” Monk said.

  “Don’t you think they’d be a little more ripe? Besides, I was at their wedding a year ago, posing as one of the bar-tenders, and they were very much alive.”

  Stottlemeyer rubbed his temples. “Monk, do you think you could be a little less cryptic and get to the point?”

  Of course not. Monk had to have his fun. I knew it and Stottlemeyer knew it, but Walker didn’t, and his face was turning an ominous shade of red. Ominous for Monk, not for Walker.

  “The whole story is right here,” Monk said, and hit PLAY on the DVD machine.

  It was a wedding video. An attractive couple were taking their vows in front of a dour-faced judge in what appeared to be a grand banquet hall in an old hotel. I assumed, since we were talking about a wedding, that the couple were the Claysons before they got their new faces. Their old faces weren’t so bad either.

  “What the hell were they doing with their wedding video?” Walker said. “It’s a major security breach. If anybody saw that, it would have blown their cover.”

  They were romantics at heart, so of course they kept the video, regardless of the risk, which didn’t seem too high to me.

  “I don’t see how,” I said. “It could have been the video of a friend or relative’s wedding.”

  “It got them killed, didn’t it?” Walker snapped at me. At least his teeth didn’t break my skin.

  “No, it didn’t,” Monk said. “But it does show the murder being committed.”

  “How could it?” Walker said. “That video was shot a year ago.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” Monk said.

  “I’m not getting a damn thing,” Walker said.

  “Just spit it out, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Who killed them?”

  “I don’t know who did it.” Monk looked at Walker. “But you do.”

  Walker marched up to Monk and got nearly nose to nose with him. “I ought to kick your ass right here, right now. Are you accusing me of being the leak? Or are you saying that I murdered them myself?”

  Monk took a step back to put some space between them and bumped into the TV. “Neither. Here’s what happened. Somehow the DeSantini family discovered that the Claysons, or whatever their names were before, were going to cooperate with the authorities and that they would be entering the witness protection program that night. The couple would soon have new names and faces and would be next to impossible to find. So the wedding was the DeSantinis’ last chance to kill them, but the couple was too well protected.”

  “You’re damn right they were,” Walker said. “All the guests were thoroughly checked out, there was security at all the entrances and exits, and all the servers were U.S. Marshals. Not even a mosquito could get in that room and bite them.”