by Lee Goldberg
Rayburn was very narrow, little more than an alley, and was clogged with official vehicles, which were all in a neat line, parallel to the cars already parked on the street. It wasn’t done to satisfy Monk, because there was no other way to park, but he seemed pleased anyway, nodding with approval as we walked past the vehicles.
Stottlemeyer was waiting out front for us.
“This is a big week for murder,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time we had so many of them.”
“And all of them within walking distance of my house,” I said. “Maybe I should move.”
“Any luck finding Rico Ramirez yet?” Monk asked.
“Not so far,” Stottlemeyer said. “Devlin is on it. So I’m taking this case myself, though I’m hoping you can help me speed the investigation along.”
“You mean you’d like him to solve it on the spot,” I said.
“That would be nice,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Who is the victim?”
“Stuart Hewson, fifty-two, an engineer working with the Bay Area Rapid Transit District. Every morning he goes power walking with a couple of his neighbors before work. When he didn’t answer the door, they were concerned because he’s had some heart trouble, which is why he does the walking. One of the guys had a key, opened the door, and found the body.”
Stottlemeyer stepped aside and beckoned us into the house. Monk led the way, and Stottlemeyer and I followed.
A miniature railroad track ran along the tops of the walls and into each room like crown molding. But the train that rode those tracks wasn’t a replica of a locomotive or steam engine—it was a distinctive silver electric BART train. The track continued on over the picture windows and out to the kitchen and the rooms beyond.
I was so busy looking at it that I didn’t notice the side table in the entry hall and banged against it, nearly knocking over Stuart Hewson’s car keys and his neatly stacked mail.
The entire house was neat. In fact, it was the neatest house I’d ever been in besides Monk’s. Everything was straight and clean and even. The floors, tabletops, and counters gleamed. There was no disarray, nothing the slightest bit out of place, except for the corpse in the middle of the living room floor.
Stuart Hewson was a big man, barrel-chested and thicknecked, with a military buzz cut. There were four bullet holes in his upper body. He was in his stocking feet and wore jeans and an untucked red lumberjack shirt.
“The ME says the time of death was around one a.m., but no one heard any gunshots,” Stottlemeyer said. “These homes are packed pretty close together, so the killer must have used some kind of silencer.”
Monk squatted beside the body and examined the wounds. “That’s odd.”
“What is?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“The killer was experienced enough to fit his weapon with some sort of silencer, but his aim was terrible. He shot up Hewson when one well-placed bullet in the chest or head would have done the job.”
“Could be he wanted Hewson to feel some pain before he died,” Stottlemeyer said.
“How did the killer get into the house?”
“The back door was jimmied open,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Maybe Hewson startled a burglar,” I said, “who panicked and shot him.”
“That would explain the four wild shots,” Stottlemeyer said, “but not the silencer. You don’t bring that unless you’re planning on trouble.”
Monk got to his feet. “This is a heinous crime.”
“Murder always is,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Stuart Hewson was a pillar of the community, an upstanding citizen, and a truly decent human being.”
“Really?” Stottlemeyer said. “How well did you know the guy?”
“I didn’t, but his sterling character and moral integrity are obvious.”
“Because he was a clean freak,” Stottlemeyer said.
“There’s nothing freakish about cleanliness and order. It is the norm. The fact that so few follow the norm is what is freakish and very, very wrong.”
“If hardly anyone is so clean, then how can you call it the norm?” Stottlemeyer said. “Isn’t what most people do, by definition, considered the norm?”
“Only if you’re looking up the definition in the Dictionary of Aberrant Behavior. I’ve lost a kindred spirit today. I shall avenge this crime and bring the perpetrators to their knees.”
Monk turned his back to us and began to move around the house, doing his thing, hands in front of him, framing his view.
“That was an extreme reaction, even for Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I’m not a shrink, but my guess is that he’s latching onto Hewson because he feels his values are under attack.”
“But he always feels that way.”
“Ambrose has a girlfriend,” I said.
“Is she virtual or inflatable?”
“She’s flesh and blood and she’s living with him. She’s Yuki Nakamura. You met her in Yosemite. She was Dub Clemens’ researcher.”
“The Asian woman with the tattoos?”
“That’s her,” I said. “She’s Ambrose’s assistant, too.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“I’m happy for him,” I said.
“You’re not even a little bit uncomfortable?”
“Why should I be?”
“Because it could give Monk ideas about the two of you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “We don’t see each other in that way.”
“Yet,” he said.
“Ever,” I said.
“Well, all things considered, I’d say Monk is handling it well.”
“Only because he’s had the Ramirez killings, the crime scene cleaning, and now this as a distraction. If he stopped to think about it, he’d fly off the rails again.”
As I said that, the miniature BART train zipped past me on the track over my head, which probably explained why I’d used that cliché to describe Monk’s mental state. I had railroad tracks on my mind.
Stottlemeyer and I both instinctively ducked, even though the train was on a stationary track several feet above our heads.
“Speaking of distractions,” Stottlemeyer said, straightening up again. “How goes your investigation into Jack Griffin?”
“It’s not a distraction,” I said. “I am taking it very seriously.”
“Sorry,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I’ve identified him. His name is Walter O’Quinn, and he was presumed dead, lost at sea years ago,” I said, telling him the rest of the story as Monk surveyed the scene.
“I’m impressed, Natalie,” Stottlemeyer said when I finished. “You found out who he was and you managed to close a cold case that’s been unsolved for decades. I’ll dig up those files from storage, update everything, and officially close the case. I’ll also notify the morgue to hold his body for a little while longer.”
“You could show your appreciation by getting me a crime scene or morgue photo of O’Quinn.”
“Will do,” he said.
“You could also run a background check on Stacey O’Quinn and her daughter, Rose.”
“I’ll be glad to. If we can find them, I’ll notify them of his death.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “That’s the fun part, bringing it all to an end. I need to be there for that.”
“You may be in for a disappointment. In my experience, it’s never pleasant telling a person that a loved one has died.”
“They thought he died years ago, so that’s not going to be a shock to hear,” I said. “The news is that he was alive all of these years and that he came back here to find them.”
“I’m just saying that you never know how someone is going to react. It may not go the way you expect,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ll come with you, if you like. You can use me for my badge or for moral support. Or for both.”
“That’s very nice of you, Captain.”
&nb
sp; “You’ve earned it,” he said.
Monk crouched on the hardwood floor beneath one of the picture windows. I went over and joined him, mostly so I could look out at the view. He was studying three indentations in the wood that formed the points of a triangle.
“Could you please step back?” Monk said. “You smell like a hobo.”
I sniffed myself. “Do I? I can’t tell. The solvents in that hotel room have burnt the lining off my nasal passages. All I can smell are cleansers.”
Monk stood up suddenly and backed away from me.
“Okay, you’ve made your point, Mr. Monk, I’ll take a shower as soon as we leave.”
But Monk wasn’t listening. He made a beeline past me and Stottlemeyer to the kitchen, where he opened the cupboard under the sink and began sorting through the cleansers. Stottlemeyer and I shared a look.
“Do I really smell that bad?” I asked.
“I’ve smelled worse,” he said.
“That’s not the reassurance I was looking for.”
Monk closed the cupboard, then moved to a utility closet in the adjacent laundry room. He opened the door and examined the broom, mop, and vacuum inside the closet, then hurried past us again to the entry hall as if we weren’t there. We followed him.
“C’mon, Mr. Monk, you’re overdoing it,” I said.
“Natalie’s hygiene can wait,” Stottlemeyer said. “We have a murder to solve.”
Monk picked up the set of keys on the side table and opened the front door.
“What are you doing?” Stottlemeyer asked.
Monk pointed the key fob at the street and pressed a button on it. A car alarm started to wail. He followed the shrill, electronic whine to a pickup truck parked midblock. We hurried after him.
“You’re not seriously thinking about driving off in the dead guy’s car, are you?” Stottlemeyer shouted.
“You stay, Mr. Monk, I’ll leave,” I said as we caught up to him. “I’ll go straight home and shower.”
“I haven’t been to the hotel,” Monk said, “but I smelled cleansers in the house, too.”
“So did I,” Stottlemeyer said. “Because the guy is a clean freak.”
That’s when we got to the truck. It was covered with a fine layer of dirt. The space between the dashboard and the windshield was stuffed with yellowed papers and invoices. The seats were stacked with files and there were loose papers and empty soft drink cans on the floor.
“So why is his truck a rolling trash bin?” Monk said. “His cleaning tools are filthy, too.”
“I’ll be damned,” Stottlemeyer said. “Whoever killed Hewson cleaned up the crime scene afterward.”
“Thoroughly and professionally,” Monk said. “He used the same cleansers as crime scene cleaners do. He didn’t want to leave a trace of forensic evidence behind.”
“Why didn’t Stuart Hewson’s friends say anything about how much cleaner the place is than usual?” I asked.
“Because they didn’t notice,” Stottlemeyer said. “When you see your friend pumped full of bullets on the floor, you don’t pay attention to the housekeeping.”
“I would,” Monk said.
“You’re the exception. But I’ll bring Hewson’s friends back to look at the scene now. You did good work, Monk.”
“Thank Natalie,” Monk said. “If she didn’t reek so horribly, I might not have noticed the discrepancy.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said.
“I’d prefer you take a shower,” Monk said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mr. Monk Sees the Answer
I did as Monk asked.
We went straight from the Hewson crime scene to my house, which was only a few blocks away. I was reluctant to bring him with me, since my place was a mess, but then I saw the upside.
“Please forgive the clutter,” I said. “And make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.”
“Be long,” Monk said. “It’s a big job.”
“It’s a shower, Mr. Monk.”
“It’s more like decontamination at this point.”
I went to my bedroom for a change of clothes. I cringed when I saw the unmade bed and overflowing hamper. Monk wouldn’t like that. So I made sure to leave my bedroom door ajar so he could see it.
I knew Monk couldn’t forgive the clutter. And I knew exactly how Monk would make himself comfortable: He’d clean my entire house.
So why fight it? I not only gave in, I made the job irresistible for him.
Besides, Monk was right. It had been a while since the house had been thoroughly cleaned, and on the off chance Jerry might be coming back with me tonight, I wanted the place to sparkle.
You could say I was taking advantage of Monk.
Or you could look at it from another perspective and say that I was making him happy by letting him do something that he loved.
Either way, I was sure there would be some misery involved for me, so I wasn’t getting out of this without paying a price. But the pluses outweighed the minuses.
I began with a scalding shower and then segued into a long, hot bubble bath, giving Monk plenty of time to indulge himself.
As I lay there soaking my cares away, I thought about Stuart Hewson and wondered what he’d done to make someone sic a hit man on him. Perhaps he’d uncovered some sort of conspiracy inside the Bay Area Rapid Transit District and the bad guys wanted him silenced.
But if he was killed by a pro, why was he shot four times? Was it to throw us off? Or was it, as Stottlemeyer suggested, because the killer wanted Hewson to experience agony before his death?
It was idle speculation, since I didn’t know anything at all about Hewson yet. We’d get into that investigation once both my house and I were clean.
I was also eager to get back to the O’Quinn case, though I was at a standstill until I had some more facts to go on or O’Quinn’s photo to show around. That reminded me that I had to call Ambrose and Yuki and ask them to look into who owned those condos across the street from the Excelsior.
I got out of the bathtub, opened the drain, and began to dry off. I could hear Monk vacuuming so I took my time brushing my teeth, shaving my legs, putting on skin cream, and doing my hair.
By the time I was done, Monk had cleaned most of the house and there were three bulging trash bags lined up at the front door. He was wearing my pink dish gloves, my apron, and a surgical mask.
“Where did you get that mask?”
“I never leave home without one,” Monk said. “You should know that by now.”
“My mistake,” I said and motioned to the trash bags. “What’s in those?”
“Toxic waste,” he said. “This entire house should be on the EPA’s hot list.”
I walked past Monk and peeked into my bedroom. The bed was made and I noticed my hamper was open. But I didn’t hear the washer or dryer running, which made me very nervous.
“Did you throw out all of my laundry?”
“Not all of it,” Monk said.
I turned around and saw him in the bathroom, picking up my dirty clothes off the floor with a pair of kitchen tongs and holding them at arm’s length from his body.
“You really need to get an incinerator,” he said, walking my clothes to one of the bags.
“You are not throwing out my clothes or burning them,” I said and glanced toward the kitchen. The sink was empty, and so was the strainer, and the dishwasher wasn’t running. “Are my dishes in one of those bags, too?”
He dropped my clothes into a bag and threw the tongs in, too, as if they were red-hot. “Just the ones that were soaking in swill, lost beyond all hope of recovery.”
“I appreciate the cleaning that you’ve done, Mr. Monk, but you can leave the bags where they are. I’ll sort through them later.”
“Do you have a Tyvek suit?”
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“You should ask Jerry for one tonight,” Monk said. “And if you bring him back here for a romantic interlude, he sh
ould put on his first.”
“That’s taking protection a little too far,” I said.
“There’s no such thing,” Monk said. “I could use one now.”
“Why?” I said. “You’re done cleaning.”
“There’s still the bathroom.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll do it later.”
“That’s what they said about the leak at Chernobyl.” He took deep breath to fortify himself. “I’m going in.”
And with that, he marched into the bathroom.
I took it as an opportunity to call Ambrose and Yuki. They told me that they’d been able to find all of Stacey O’Quinn’s relatives, but no trace of the woman herself or her daughter. Most of the family still lived in eastern Washington State, around Spokane and Walla Walla.
“You’ll have to grill the family,” Ambrose said. “I’m sure they know her new name and where she is.”
“Try to talk to them in their homes,” Yuki said. “They may have some family photos in plain sight that will give you some clues.”
“I’m hoping I won’t have to make a trip to solve this,” I said. “I have another possible lead closer to home.”
That’s when I asked them to find out who owned condos across the street from the Excelsior. They agreed to do it and told me that they’d e-mail me the results.
After the call, I opened up my laptop and checked my e-mail. I had a message from Glenn Shaffner, the representative from the company that now owned the discontinued Jackson/Elite brand of binoculars.
He told me that the antireflection coating dated the binoculars from the early 1960s, which I already knew. But what I didn’t know was that the serial number placed it among the stock of the now-defunct chain of Valu-Mart discount stores in the Seattle region.
Now, that was big news.
“Why do you have that dopey grin on your face?” Monk asked, looking over my shoulder.
