by Lee Goldberg
Evie was waiting for us when we came in. I didn’t expect to see her there so late at night. She held a dark blue police uniform that was wrapped in plastic.
“The chief asked me to get this for you,” she said, presenting the uniform to Monk. “It’s brand-new, never worn, and is about your size.”
Monk accepted it with a smile and turned to Randy. “Thank you, Chief.”
“No problem, Monk,” Disher said.
“For the record, I don’t approve of this one bit,” Evie said. “He’s impersonating a police officer.”
“Monk won’t be wearing the badge, or the hat, or carrying a weapon,” Disher said.
“He’ll just be wearing the uniform and driving one of our police cars,” she said.
“Exactly,” Disher said.
“If it makes you feel better,” Monk said, “I am a former San Francisco police officer who rose up to the rank of homicide detective. I still meet all the legal, professional, and physical requirements to serve.”
“What about the psychological ones?”
“Do you?” I asked her.
She reached behind the counter and I flinched, half expecting her to come out with her gun. But instead she pulled out my soggy purse.
“The firemen were able to recover this from your room,” she said and tossed it to me. It was like catching a leather bucket full of water and I got nice and wet.
“Thanks,” I said.
Disher pointed Monk to the side door.
“You can go change out of those wet clothes in the locker room down the hall. I’ll see to it that nobody comes in.” Monk headed off to change. Disher turned back to Evie. “Are Lindero and Woodlake back yet?”
She nodded. “They brought the Dumetz family clan in with them. The forensics unit is on the way out to the Dumetz place and we’re having the Dumetzes’ cars towed in.”
“Good work,” Disher said. “I really appreciate your coming in to help out.”
“It’s what I live for,” she said.
She was so sour-faced I couldn’t tell whether she meant it or if she was being sarcastic, not that it really mattered. I followed Disher down the hall into the squad room, which was occupied only by Lindero and Woodlake, who sat at their facing desks doing paperwork.
Lindero looked up as we came in. “We’ve got the Dumetz family in the interrogation room.”
“Did they give you any trouble?” Disher asked.
“Docile as lambs,” Lindero said. “They claim we woke ’em and that they’ve been home all night.”
“But they can’t corroborate that,” Woodlake added.
“In the morning, once the stores open up, I want you to visit the businesses along Springfield Avenue and get their exterior security camera footage from tonight,” Disher said. “Maybe one of the cameras got a shot of the Dumetzes’ car passing by around the time of the firebombing or caught them on foot.”
“Will do,” Lindero said.
Monk came in wearing the uniform, which seemed to have imbued his stride with a heroic swagger. Either that, or he had a nasty case of hemorrhoids, which I considered highly doubtful.
“When you brought the Dumetz family in,” Monk said to the officers, “did you tell them they have the right to remain silent, that anything they say can and will be used against them in a court of law, and that they had the right to have a lawyer present during questioning?”
“Of course,” Woodlake said.
“Did you understand those rights?” Monk asked.
“You mean did they understand them,” Lindero said.
“No,” Monk said, “I meant you.”
“Yes, we understood what we were saying,” Woodlake said.
“Good. That will save us some time and trouble,” Monk said. “You’re both under arrest.”
Lindero laughed. “What for?”
“Burglary and murder,” Monk said.
Disher took a seat on the edge of a desk and rubbed his brow. For a moment, he could have been Captain Stottlemeyer. It was uncanny.
I felt his pain. I’m sure the last thing Disher needed in the wake of a city hall corruption scandal was another one in the police department. But that was what he had now, even if he hadn’t quite accepted it yet.
“Please, Monk, tell me you’re joking,” Disher said.
“I don’t joke about murder. In fact, I don’t joke about anything, though I do know a few knee-slappers. Here’s one: A drunken man is walking down the street, with one foot on the sidewalk and one in the gutter. A police officer stops him and says, ‘You’re under arrest for public drunkenness.’ The drunk says, ‘Are you sure I’m drunk?’ The police officer says, ‘Yes, I am.’ The drunk sighs with relief. ‘Thank God. I thought I was crippled.’”
Monk slapped his knee and waited for us to laugh. None of us did.
Lindero pointed at him. “That man is mentally ill.”
Woodlake stood up and walked up to Monk, invading his personal space. “Where do you come off calling us burglars and killers? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re the good guys.”
Monk took a big step back. “You’re supposed to be, but you’re not. The reason the burglars are always gone by the time you get there is because you’re them.”
Lindero swiveled his seat around so he could face us. “Let me get this straight, because it’s fun for me to try to think like an insane person. You’re saying that because the burglars were gone when the police showed up, that means the police must be the burglars.”
When he put it like that, it did sound silly. But it didn’t to me when I considered the theory in light of what I knew about the burglaries, and what I’d witnessed firsthand when we arrived at the McAfees’ house.
Monk didn’t let Lindero’s objection slow him down. He plowed on with his summation.
“There’s more. Being police officers on patrol is also how you’re able to case the homes you’re planning to break into without anyone noticing anything unusual and it’s how you’re able to track the movements of the various residents,” Monk said. “For instance, thanks to your patrols, you knew that the Roslands’ house would be unoccupied in the afternoon and you knew that their nosy elderly neighbor, Mr. Baker, was hospitalized, giving you a window of opportunity to burgle the home without being seen. It’s why you didn’t see anyone flee from the McAfees’ house, and neither did we, and why there were no signs of the burglar’s escape across the wet grass.”
Woodlake shook his head and looked over at Disher. “Do we really have to stay here and listen to this craziness, Chief?”
Disher sighed and glanced at Monk. “I have to admit, Monk, you’re not making a very convincing case. If you’re going to accuse two cops of being dirty, you better have solid, irrefutable evidence to back it up.”
“Officer Lindero told us that he’d never been to the McAfees’ home before,” Monk said, then turned to Lindero. “And yet you knew the rear door didn’t slide properly on its track before you opened it.”
That was true. He did.
Lindero shrugged. “I have a good eye for doors that aren’t plumb. If being able to tell when something is crooked is a crime, then you’re a master criminal.”
“He’s got a point, Monk,” Disher said.
“I also found this at the house.” Monk pulled a plastic evidence baggie from his pocket and handed it to Disher. “I just picked it up from the clerk in the evidence room. It’s one of the many yellow fibers collected at the crime scene.”
“What’s a bunch of lint prove?” Woodlake asked.
“It’s not lint,” Monk said. “It’s fiberglass strands from the insulation at the Claremont Hotel. It stuck to Officer Lindero’s uniform when he was up in the crawl space and later he tracked it into the McAfees’ house when he burgled it.”
“That’s your evidence? Bits of insulation?” Lindero said. “You’ll find that same insulation in thousands of homes.”
“But not the McAfees’,” Monk said. “They have sprayed cellulo
se insulation.”
That got Disher’s attention. Now he, too, saw the pieces falling into place. He straightened and looked hard at his two officers. They noticed.
“This is hooey, Chief,” Lindero said. “Monk can’t prove those strands came from me or from the Claremont.”
“Actually, I can.” Monk took the baggie from Disher and held it up in front of Woodlake’s face to demonstrate his point. “If you’ll look closely, you’ll notice the fiberglass strands are stained with blue. It’s from the glycol in the fog machines they had up in the crawl space.” Monk handed the baggie back to Disher, then tipped his head toward Lindero. “And speaking of stains, you’ve got some pine sap on your uniform from when you climbed the tree outside the hotel to throw the Molotov cocktail into my room.”
“Well, hell’s bells.” Lindero drew his weapon and aimed it at Monk.
“That’s not a very wise move, Ray,” Disher said.
“It’s the only one I’ve got left,” Lindero said, rising from his seat. “Don’t just stand there, Walt. Get the chief’s gun and give it to me.”
Woodlake did as he was told, but he didn’t seem to have his heart in it. His shoulders were slumped and he looked like he might burst into tears at any moment.
“You could just give up,” Disher said.
“I’m not a quitter. I always go down fighting. Cuff yourself to the radiator, Chief,” Lindero said, then tossed his cuffs to Woodlake, who caught them. “Cuff Monk and his lady friend to the radiator, too, Walt.”
“What’s your plan?” Disher asked, as he went over to the radiator and looped his cuffs through it.
“I’m not sure yet,” Lindero said, “but I know a big part of it involves not getting arrested and going to prison.”
“I don’t see a scenario where that’s possible,” Disher said, then looked over at Walt, who led Monk to the radiator. “Do you, Woodlake?”
“All we wanted to do was make a few extra bucks,” Woodlake said as he cuffed Monk. “Everyone is getting rich in this town except us.”
“I’m not,” Disher said.
“Because you’re a fool,” Lindero said. “Why do you think the city hired you?”
“Yet I still managed to bring the corrupt politicians down,” Disher said. “And now two thieving killer cops.”
“You’re handcuffed to a radiator,” Lindero said.
“But it’s still over for you both,” Disher said.
“And it wasn’t you who figured us out.” Lindero gestured to Monk. “It was him.”
“I brought him here to solve the burglaries and he did,” Disher said. “And the murder, too.”
“We never killed anyone,” Woodlake said, taking out his cuffs and approaching me.
“So I suppose Pamela Goldman beat herself to death and that Molotov cocktail threw itself into Mr. Monk’s hotel room,” I said. “Wake up, Walt. You’re out of luck. You’re just making a bad, bad situation even worse for yourself.”
“I don’t see how it can get any worse than it already is.” Woodlake took me by the arm and started to lead me over to the radiator.
“Hold up, Walt. Just cuff her hands behind her back,” Lindero said.
“Why?”
“We’re bringing her with us,” Lindero said.
I certainly didn’t like the sound of that, or the way Lindero leered at me when he said it. Or the thought of what might happen to me when they decided they didn’t need a hostage anymore.
“Take me instead,” Monk said.
Lindero laughed. “I’d rather go to prison.”
“Okay,” Monk said. “It’s a deal. I’m sure glad that’s over.”
“You really are a strange guy,” Lindero said. “So smart and yet so clueless. I knew you’d be trouble.”
“But you thought you could scare him off with a Molotov cocktail,” I said.
“The man is scared of dust,” Lindero said. “So yeah, I figured a firebomb might send him running back to Frisco. Or, worst case, bagged and shipped to the morgue.”
Woodlake cuffed my hands behind my back. “I don’t think this is such a good idea, Ray.”
“We need some insurance and I like the way she looks in her underwear. You got a better suggestion?” Lindero asked. Woodlake didn’t say anything. “That’s what I thought. There’s a roll of duct tape in the closet. Tape their mouths shut and let’s go.”
Woodlake went to the closet for the tape.
“Do you have any idea where that tape has been?” Monk asked.
“In the closet,” Lindero said.
“Has it been disinfected lately?”
“Who disinfects duct tape?” Lindero said.
“Who doesn’t?” Monk asked.
“We don’t.” Woodlake came out of the closet and tore a strip off the dusty roll as he approached Monk.
“Wait, wait. I think I speak for myself and for the chief when I say that there’s no need to put that tape on our mouths,” Monk said. “Our lips are sealed for at least an hour.”
“Not good enough,” Woodlake said.
“Two hours,” Monk said.
“We can’t trust you to keep quiet,” Woodlake said.
“Okay, then shoot us,” Monk said.
“What?” Disher said.
“It’s better than suffering a slow, painful, drooling death,” Monk said.
“It’s duct tape,” Disher said. “It’s harmless.”
Monk turned to Disher to argue the point and Woodlake slapped the duct tape over his mouth.
“Thank you,” Disher said.
Woodlake taped Disher’s mouth shut, Lindero grabbed me by the arm, jabbed his gun into my side, and we backed up toward the door. I was scared but I felt worse for Monk than I did for myself. He looked terrified.
Lindero stopped. I felt his body tense up. Woodlake turned and stared at something in the hallway behind Lindero.
“That’s a .357 Magnum in your back, Ray,” I heard Evie say behind us. “You so much as twitch and I’ll fire, snapping your spine. You’ll spend the rest of your miserable life in a wheelchair, crapping into a colostomy bag.”
“Maybe you didn’t notice that I have a hostage,” Lindero said. “I’ll shoot her.”
“Go ahead,” Evie said. “I’ll sleep better at night with one less commie to worry about.”
He knew she meant it and so did I.
Lindero dropped his gun on the floor and kicked it aside. Woodlake took his gun slowly out of his holster and tossed it on a desk. It was over.
16
Mr. Monk Takes a Nap
“You can’t get hantavirus from duct tape,” the irritated paramedic said, closing his medical bag. It was the same guy who’d come to our hotel the previous morning.
“You can’t know that until you’ve had the duct tape tested,” Monk said. Before the paramedics arrived, he’d washed his mouth out with Scope and brushed his teeth two dozen times (luckily I had Scope and a Gertler 4000, his favorite toothbrush, in a sealed package in my purse for emergencies). Now he sat on the edge of the couch. I sat beside him while the paramedic crouched in front of him.
“I’m a paramedic, not Dr. House,” the paramedic said, rising to his feet in front of Monk.
“This is how the Black Death got started,” Monk said, sitting up.
“They didn’t have duct tape in the Middle Ages,” the paramedic said.
“But they had rats, ignorance of proper hygiene, and careless physicians,” Monk said.
“Next time you call, you’d better really be sick or injured.” The paramedic headed for the door, his partner in tow. “Or we’ll file charges against you for fraudulent calls.”
“So I shouldn’t call you until I’m in my death throes,” Monk said, “the Grim Reaper standing over me with his scythe dripping with my fresh blood.”
“Now you’re getting the point,” the paramedic said and walked out.
Monk shook his head. “They are as corrupt as Lindero and Woodlake.”
�
��Not quite,” I said. “They haven’t killed anyone.”
“They have by their inaction and laziness,” Monk said. “When I drop dead in six months, foaming at the mouth with the plague, I want those two prosecuted as accessories to murder after the fact. Make a note of that.”
“Will do,” I said.
“You aren’t making a note,” he said.
“My notebook is sopping wet, so I’ve made a mental note instead.”
“You’ll forget,” he said.
“I’ll remember,” I said.
“I’ll haunt you if you don’t.”
“It’s an empty threat,” I said. “You’re going to haunt me anyway.”
Monk nodded. “True.”
Disher was busy interrogating Lindero and Woodlake and preparing for the scandal that would erupt once the media learned about what had happened. So Sharona came to take us back to their house before the reporters showed up. With the hotel shut down, there was nowhere else for us to stay except with Randy and Sharona.
Their place was a very cozy two-story Craftsman with lots of stone and exposed wood beams. The interior décor was eclectic, but not by design. It was a mishmash of Disher’s bachelor pad furnishings and Sharona’s single-mom furniture and, as a result, was very much a picture of their pasts and their new beginning. For me, it made the house a home. I found it charming and welcoming.
Monk hated it because nothing matched. He liked symmetry, consistency, and uniformity, none of which was present in the intermingling of Sharona’s and Disher’s lives and possessions. Life wasn’t neat.
That was a reality Monk could not, and would not, accept. But at least he was polite about it.
“You live like animals,” he said.
“We love like animals, too,” Sharona said with a mischievous grin, “so I hope you’re a sound sleeper.”
That completely grossed him out. He covered his ears and began singing “100 Bottles of Windex on the Wall” to clear his head.
He deserved it.
Sharona showed him to her son Benjy’s room, where Monk would be staying. The room was decorated with comic book posters and filled with shelves of graphic novels, DVDs, and CDs. Benjy was about the same age as my daughter, Julie, and was traveling through Europe with some of his friends before figuring out what he wanted to do with his life.
