by Lee Goldberg
“Like what?”
“Buffet restaurants,” she said.
“I agree,” Monk said.
I looked at him in disbelief. “You do?”
“Buffets are very dangerous. Everyone eating out of the same dishes, handling the same serving utensils, mixing their entrées together on their plates. It’s unsanitary.”
“And un-American,” she said. “It’s dining socialism.”
I didn’t see how an all-you-can-eat buffet could be an example of socialism, but before I could pursue the matter further, Disher emerged in full uniform from the door that led into the back.
“I see you’ve met Evie,” he said. “The longest-serving employee in the department. She was the dispatcher back in the day. Now she’s our front-desk officer.”
“The first line of defense against the public,” she said.
“I thought that’s who you are supposed to serve,” I said.
“Only after Evie screens out the wackos,” Disher said.
“And liberals,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “They are easy to spot.”
I wondered what gave me away. I wasn’t wearing my VOTE OBAMA pin, or holding my NPR mug, or throwing myself in front of a tree to protect it from a bulldozer, so I decided it was because I wasn’t wearing makeup. She’d pegged me as a hippie instead of just lazy.
“Evie, I want you to treat Natalie and Monk as two full-fledged members of our police force,” he said. “They get total and complete access.”
“Yes sir,” she said, but it was clear she didn’t agree. I could tell because her face puckered up again, as if she’d just started sucking on a fresh lemon.
“Lovely woman,” I said as we walked through the door into a short hallway that led to the squad room.
“She’s crusty but she doesn’t miss much,” Disher said. “More than I can say for most of my cops.”
“She’s also crazy,” I said.
“People have said the same thing about some other detectives I know,” Disher said, casting a glance over his shoulder at Monk, who responded with a quizzical expression.
“I like her,” he said. “She’s vigilant.”
“You’ve got to be with all those commies lurking around,” I said.
The squad room consisted of several filing cabinets and four unoccupied metal desks with computer terminals, which were situated in front of Disher’s glass-walled office. It was like the SFPD homicide division in miniature.
“Where is everybody?” I asked.
“Not counting me, Evie, and the dispatcher, we’re only a six-man force,” he said. “Two cops working three eight-hour shifts. Let me show you around.”
He led us down a short hallway that branched off from the main squad room. We stopped in front of an observation window, which looked in on the one interrogation room. A middle-aged couple sat at a table in the room, looking miserable.
“Those two are Harold and Brenda Dumetz, the owners of the hotel,” Disher said. “They were implicated by their daughter, Rhonda, in the burglary.”
“She ratted out her own parents?” I said.
Monk shivered. “Please don’t mention rats. It makes me want to shower again.”
“She did it because they were going to hang her out to dry,” Disher said. “They claimed not to know anything about what she was doing. But she says the ghost thing was entirely their idea and so was the surveillance.”
“Surveillance?” I said.
“She claims all the rooms are wired for sound and video,” Disher said. “They were blackmailing guests. Apparently, people in Manhattan sneak out here to the burbs to have their affairs where they won’t be recognized.”
“It’s going to create quite a scandal once the tapes come out,” I said.
“Just what we need,” Disher said. “But we don’t have the tapes yet. The Dumetzes have lawyered up and are keeping quiet. My guess is that they’re going to use them as bargaining chips to make a deal with the DA.”
“Maybe the DA is on one of those tapes,” I said.
“It wouldn’t surprise me, the way things have been going in this town since I got here.”
He showed us the locker room, the radio room, and the holding cells, where Rhonda Dumetz sat on a concrete bench and glowered at me from behind the bars. She looked scarier now than she did with the yellow contacts and plastic fangs.
We worked our way back to the squad room and over to a large map of Summit. There were about a dozen colored pins stuck in the map.
“These pins represent the locations of residential burglaries over the last few months,” Disher said. “As you can see, they’re all over town. And they’re happening day and night.”
“It’s anarchy,” Monk said.
“It’s not quite that bad,” Disher said. “But it has to stop. They’re taking cash and electronics, mass-produced stuff like Rolex watches, but no paintings, rare books, or custom jewelry that needs to be fenced, which leads me to believe we’re dealing with amateurs.”
“These homes don’t have alarms?”
“They do,” Disher said. “But if the alarms go off, the burglars are gone before our cops get there.”
“How do you know there’s more than one burglar?” Monk asked.
“It’s a guess, based on how much they’re taking and how quickly they seem to be doing it. And on a couple of occasions, they’ve taken a big-screen TV, which requires more than one man to carry.”
“What about neighbors?” I asked. “Nobody saw anything or anyone unusual?”
“Nope,” Disher said. “And the burglars always seem to know when the house they’re hitting is going to be unoccupied, even if it’s only for an hour or two.”
“So they have these places under surveillance,” I said. “But nobody has spotted them watching.”
Disher nodded. “We’ve even stepped up our neighborhood patrols during each shift, but if anything, the burglaries have only increased. It’s as if the bad guys are mocking us.”
“It’s intolerable,” Monk said.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Disher said. “Your dedication to your work is one of the big reasons I brought you out here.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, man up,” Monk said, and began removing pins from the map and setting them on the desk in color-coordinated piles. “You’re the chief of police.”
“What are you doing?” Disher said.
“What you should have had the guts to do weeks ago as the leader of this force. You’ve got reds and blues and whites all mixed together. Pick a color and have the fortitude to stick with it, no matter what.”
“I was talking about the robberies, not the pins,” Disher said.
“What kind of example are you setting for your men?” Monk said. “You need to demonstrate clarity of thought, steadfast resolve, and total command of the situation. You can’t do that with multicolored pins unless each color represents a different kind of crime.”
Disher picked up a stack of folders from the desk and handed them to me. “Here are the case files on each of the break-ins. You can take the map on the wall with you.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To buy new pins,” Monk said.
“I’ll buy new pins. You’re going to the scenes of those burglaries. Maybe you’ll spot something we missed.” Disher reached into his pocket and put a set of keys in my hands. “These keys go to the car I picked you up in last night. It’s parked out front. You’re One-Adam-Four on the radio if you need to call in.”
“You’re putting us in a squad car?” I said. “But we’re not cops.”
“It’s all I’ve got,” Disher said. “And this way you can monitor the radio calls and go to any crime scene where your detecting might be needed, though things are pretty slow around here compared to Frisco.”
“But what if someone on the street flags us down and expects us to help them?” I asked.
“We do it,” Monk said.
“
No, you don’t,” Disher said. “You call in to the dispatcher and she’ll send somebody out. You’re not cops, even though I’ve given you free rein in the station and a police car.”
“And you expect us to investigate and solve crimes,” I said.
“Exactly. I’m glad that’s clear,” Disher said, then checked his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the city accountant. Good luck.”
He hurried off. I looked at Monk over my pile of folders. “Where to first?”
“The most recent crime scene,” Monk said.
9
Mr. Monk and the Poop
This is going to sound silly, but even though I’d hung around cops for years as Monk’s assistant, I was really excited about driving a police car. The moment I got behind the wheel, I felt a childlike sense of glee. I wanted to turn on the siren, drive fast, and arrest someone.
It was too cool.
I’d driven an unmarked police car before, when Monk was a scab during the SFPD police strike a few years back, but never a squad car. It was like trading up from a speedboat to a destroyer.
There were no gun turrets or rocket launchers on our vehicle, but it felt big and powerful anyway, like a car on steroids.
The rifle was missing from the gun rack, but otherwise the car was fully equipped, though I had no clue how to use the laptop built into the center console. That didn’t matter to me as long as the lights and siren worked.
I knew I’d find an excuse to use them before our trip was over.
I put on my seat belt and glanced over at Monk in the passenger seat. He sighed contentedly, which for him meant he was as excited as I was.
“Let’s roll,” he said.
I started the car and the engine roared with more horsepower than anything I’d ever driven before. I held on tight to the steering wheel as if that would somehow rein in the car if it got out of control. I shifted the car into drive and tapped the gas pedal.
It was like lifting off in the space shuttle. I almost rear-ended the car in front of us on the road.
I eased up on the gas and took a deep breath. This was a car that wanted to go fast, smash through walls, and fly over the tops of hills with lots of loud action music blaring in the background.
Of course, it wasn’t the car that wanted to do that, but the driver. I managed to hold my reckless desires in check and steered us slowly down Springfield Avenue, Summit’s main drag, on our way to the scene of the last home burglary.
The street was lined with buildings made of stone, brick, and concrete—buildings crafted in the Edwardian Classical style that was popularized in the 1920s and that personifies small-town America so much that Disneyland used it for its Main Street.
The newer buildings in Summit paid homage to the style without turning it into caricature, so they fit right in with the authentic stuff. The abundance of mature trees and old-style parking meters only added to the charm.
But, as Sharona had told me on the plane, the decidedly upscale nature of the restaurants, shops, and galleries, not to mention the preponderance of Range Rovers, BMWs, Lexuses, and Mercedes on the road, belied the small-town vibe.
As we cruised along, I could feel every person on the street looking at us but, in reality, nobody was.
I was simply self-conscious about being a stranger driving a cop car down the main drag of a town I’d never been in before. It was almost as if I was afraid someone would accuse me of pretending to be a cop.
Which, to be honest, was exactly what I was doing at that moment. I was pretending I was Angie Dickinson in Police Woman and that Monk was my crusty boss, which he was, so that part felt very authentic.
It was childish, I know, but I was having fun. I was deep into my imaginary episode, pretending to be scanning the streets for perps, pimps, and pushers, when Monk slammed his hand on the dashboard, startling me.
“Stop!” he yelled.
I stomped on the brakes, bringing the car to a sudden, jarring halt, which dug the seat-belt strap into my chest and sent a jolt of adrenaline into my bloodstream.
I was wide-awake, more so than I’d been in hours. For one terrifying moment, I was certain that I’d fallen asleep at the wheel and that Monk had saved me from running over a dog, or an old lady, or some kid on a bike.
But there was no one in front of us. In fact, there was nothing amiss at all that I could see.
“What’s wrong? You scared the hell out of me, Mr. Monk.”
“Pull over,” Monk said. “Hurry.”
I parked in a red zone, one of the perks of being in a cop car, and turned to face him, my heart pounding so hard in my chest that it felt like it was trying to escape. “What’s the big emergency?”
“You might want to call for backup,” Monk said.
“Is there a robbery in progress?”
“No,” he said.
“An assault taking place?”
“No,” he said.
“Then what do we need backup for?”
“An unspeakable crime,” he said.
I looked around and identified only one thing that could provoke such an exaggerated response. “Are you talking about that dog peeing against the tree?”
“Worse,” Monk said and pointed out the window.
A few doors down was a gallery with some sculptures in the window. The place was called Poop and was tucked between a café and a clothing store.
“It’s just a name,” I said.
“It’s a profanity,” he said.
“Poop?”
“Sssh,” Monk said. “You’re in a police car.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“We should be setting an example by being law-abiding citizens.”
“No one can hear us,” I said. “And even if they could, there’s no law against saying ‘poop.’”
“Sssh,” Monk said. “Pop the trunk.”
“Why?”
“Would you please just do it?”
I did. He got out of the car and so did I. He went to the trunk. He took out two gas masks and a bullhorn.
“Prepare yourself,” Monk said, handing me a gas mask. “This could get ugly.”
I tossed the mask back in the trunk and slammed it shut. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? It’s just a cheeky name for a gallery.”
“It’s much, much worse than that,” Monk said. “This could quite possibly be Summit’s Chernobyl.”
“What are you talking about?”
Monk began creeping up cautiously on the Poop storefront.
“Have you seen what they sell?”
“Art,” I said.
“Look closer,” he said.
I walked ahead of him and up to the gallery’s front window. There were four items on display.
There was something that looked like an ossified pile of soft-serve ice cream, about one cone’s worth, on a piece of polished marble. A little placard in front of it read:
AUTHENTIC COPROLITE (DINOSAUR POOP). 65 MILLION YEARS OLD. CUT AND POLISHED. $1,275.
The next item was a bronze watch laid atop a piece of jagged stone like a lizard sunning itself. It was a very masculine, predistressed watch with styling that made me think of mud-caked Jeeps, guys in khaki, and the grassy plains of Africa. The watch face had an organic texture and was the color of a dried leaf. The placard beside it read:
FINE SWISS TIMEPIECE WITH JURASSIC COPROLITE (DINOSAUR POOP) FACE AND AMERICAN CANE TOAD STRAP. $12,000.
Beside it was a crude, two-foot-tall version of Michelangelo’s David, sculpted out of what looked like straw and clay and protected in a glass box. Its placard read:
PANDA POO DAVID BY STANLEY HUNG, IMPORTED FROM CHENGDU, CHINA. $25,000.
And finally, fanned out like peacock feathers, was an array of multicolored, very pulpy paper. The tiny placard beside the paper read:
WIDE SELECTION OF ELEPHANT, RHINO, AND BISON DUNG STATIONERY NOW AVAILABLE!
It was disgusting and yet strangely fascinating.
I
took the excrement art as intentionally outrageous, a heavy-handed attempt to be shocking, but I had no idea what to make of the fossilized dino droppings, or the dung watch, or the crappy paper.
It made me very curious about the store, which I suppose was the whole intention of the window display. I wanted to see what other poopy products they were selling, but first I had to deal with Monk, who I feared was probably on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.
I took a deep breath and turned to face his bullhorn as he made an announcement, nearly scaring the poop out of me.
“Attention poo-poo felons, this is the police. You are completely surrounded. Come out with your hands up and thoroughly washed.”
His words were heard up and down the street. People began pouring out of the buildings all around us. Monk turned to address them with his bullhorn.
“Go back inside. You must remain indoors for your own safety. You don’t want to be on the street when the Poop door opens.”
Nobody was listening. In fact, even more people came out.
“Mr. Monk—,” I began, but then he yelled into his bullhorn again.
“What’s wrong with you people? Take cover. This is a toxic emergency.”
I yanked the bullhorn out of his hand. “That’s enough, Mr. Monk.”
That was when a woman emerged from Poop. Monk let out a cry of alarm and slipped his gas mask over his face.
She appeared to be about my age but carried herself with an elegance and grace that I could never pull off. She had long blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and perfect skin. She was immaculately dressed in a silk blouse and slacks and approached us with a genuinely warm smile, as if she hadn’t been summoned by a bullhorn, and seemingly oblivious to the crowd coming out of the café, the clothing store, and buildings all around.
“Is there a problem?” She asked the question without a trace of anger or embarrassment and because of that, I liked her immediately.
If anything, she was amused.
“You’re under arrest,” Monk said.
“We aren’t cops, Mr. Monk,” I said, then turned to the woman. “I am so sorry about this.”
Monk looked at me in shock. “You’re apologizing to her? This woman is the most heinous, despicable, and deadly criminal I have ever encountered.”
