Mr. Monk Is a Mess

by Lee Goldberg

  I left the kitchen and crept down the dark hall toward my bedroom, cursing the old floorboards for creaking under my feet. The bedroom door was ajar. I used my foot to slowly open the door.

  There was a pair of red-soled Christian Louboutin high-heeled shoes, a Chanel silk blouse, a short skirt, a lacy bra, and G-string panties.

  They certainly weren’t my clothes or my daughter’s. The shoes alone cost more than Julie’s tuition.

  The discarded clothing made a trail to the bed, where the sheets and comforter were a rumpled mess.

  Someone has been sleeping in my bed.

  As I stepped into the room, I heard water dripping behind me. I turned around and headed toward the half-open bathroom door down the hall, midway between my room and Julie’s old bedroom.

  But that’s when I picked up a metallic odor in the air that stopped me cold, my heart thumping hard and heavy in my chest.

  I recognized the smell.

  And, in a way I was thankful for it, because it gave me a warning and a moment to prepare for the horror I was going to see.

  It was the smell of blood.

  Gobs of it.

  I’d never been more afraid in my life.

  I held my breath, my heartbeat resonating through my whole rigid body, and with a shaking hand, I used the tip of the umbrella to ease open the bathroom door.

  The first thing I saw was the puddle of blood and water on the linoleum.

  And then I saw the pale female arm draped over the side of the tub, crimson water spilling over the edge, a bloody straight razor dangling from her hand.

  And then I saw the naked red-haired woman sitting in the tub, her head lolled back against the white tile wall and staring at me with wide, dead eyes, her throat slit open in an obscene smile.

  I took a sudden breath, as sharp and painful as a knife, and fell to my knees, my body racked by deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

  Of profound relief.

  There was a dead woman in my bathtub.

  And it wasn’t my daughter.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mr. Monk Has a Dream

  I got a grip on myself, stood up, and backed out of the room. I retraced my steps through the house, dropped the umbrella back in the stand, and grabbed my purse on my way out the front door.

  I sat down on the porch, took in a few deep breaths, then got some tissues out of my purse, wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

  An attractive young couple walked by, pushing a stroller. They smiled and waved and I smiled and waved back at them as if I were one of those nice neighbors who didn’t have a dead naked woman in my bathtub. It made me wonder what might be hidden behind the smiles and draped windows of my neighbors.

  I reached into my purse, took out my cell phone, and called Captain Stottlemeyer. He answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Captain, it’s Natalie.”

  “How are things in Summit?”

  “I’m here in San Francisco,” I said.

  “It’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you and Monk were ever coming home,” he said. “When did you get back?”

  “I just walked in the door,” I said.

  “And Monk insisted that you alert me right away that he’s ready and available for work,” Stottlemeyer said. “Consider me alerted. Now get some rest. I’ll be sure to light up the bat signal as soon as there’s a tricky murder I need his help with.”

  “Actually, Mr. Monk didn’t ask me to call. He’s at home in bed. He took a sleeping pill before we got on the plane and probably doesn’t even realize that he’s in San Francisco yet. So he’s going to be a bit disoriented once you manage to wake him up.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you’ll want to stop by and get him tonight on your way over to my house.”

  “As eager as I am to hear all about your trip,” he said, “I think I can wait a few days until you get settled in.”

  “Yeah, but by then the corpse in my bathtub will have decomposed so much, the neighbors will be complaining about the smell.”

  There was a long moment of silence. “There’s a dead body in your bathtub?”

  “There is,” I said.

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I came home from the airport and there she was, naked with her throat slit, sitting in a tub full of water. From what I can tell, she’s been there since this morning.”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “Just the front door and an umbrella,” I said. “As soon as I saw the body, I retraced my steps and went back outside. But it’s my house, so my fingerprints are going to be everywhere anyway. I am now out front, securing the crime scene.”

  “Okay, sit tight. Someone will be there within five minutes. I’ll be there shortly with Monk. Are you going to be okay until then?”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve seen a murder victim. It’s not even the first time I’ve seen one in my house.”

  “That may be the most depressing thing I’ve heard all day,” he said.

  “The day isn’t over yet,” I said.

  * * *

  Two squad cars showed up a few minutes after my call and four officers got out. I identified myself and remained on the porch with one of the officers while the others got to work. One went into the backyard to secure the back door of the house, another established a perimeter with crime scene tape, and the last posted himself on the street to keep the curious neighbors away.

  The medical examiner, the forensics team, and Lieutenant Amy Devlin arrived at about the same time, nearly causing a pileup. But Devlin won out, cutting off the other vehicles and skidding to a stop at the curb in her 1990 Firebird.

  She slammed her door and marched up the front walk toward me.

  “Welcome home,” Devlin said. “Do you really have a stiff in your bathroom?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said.

  Devlin wore her standard uniform—blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket that looked like it had been salvaged from a fire and attacked with the same weed whacker she used to style her hair. Her badge was clipped to her belt right beside her gun, which I bet she even wore with a bathing suit.

  “Anybody you know?”

  “Nope,” I said, hoping she didn’t plan on asking me every question that I’d already answered for the captain.

  The forensic team and Dr. Daniel Hetzer, the medical examiner, went past us on their way into the house. I’d met Hetzer a few times before. He was a balding man who carefully maintained two days’ worth of stubble on his face as if the hair were a rare orchid. I acknowledged him with a nod, and he nodded back at me, which provoked a glower of irritation from Devlin, who’d only recently transferred over to replace Disher. She resented my familiarity with everyone in homicide, especially while she was still finding her footing.

  “Did you have anyone taking care of your house or picking up your mail while you were away?” she asked.

  “The gardener comes once a week and mows the lawn, but that’s it,” I replied. “I put a vacation hold on my mail and newspaper.”

  “Who has keys to your house?”

  “Just me and my daughter.”

  “Where is she?”

  I shrugged. “At her apartment in Berkeley, I suppose. I haven’t called her yet.”

  “Could the dead woman be one of her friends?”

  “This woman looks older,” I said. “I peg her to be in her late twenties, early thirties.”

  “That doesn’t mean your daughter didn’t befriend her, give her a key, and let her crash at your place while you were away,” Devlin said.

  “That’s true,” I said. “But Julie wouldn’t do that.”

  Devlin started toward the front door and I followed her. She stopped at the door and turned to me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

  “Into my house,” I replied.

  “It’s a crime scene.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

/>   “That means it’s cops only inside until the captain decides it’s okay for civilians to come in.”

  “No problem,” I said and flashed her my badge. “I suggest you get some booties on your shoes before you go inside. I don’t want you contaminating our crime scene by tracking in stuff from your car.”

  “Let me see that.” Devlin gestured to my badge and I handed it to her. She examined it closely. I thought she might even bite it to see if it was metal instead of tinfoil. “How many rings did you have to toss to win this at the county fair?”

  “It’s authentic,” I said and pointed to the Summit Police photo ID on the opposite flap of the badge wallet. “I’m a police officer now. I’m only here long enough to settle my affairs, then I’m going back east.”

  “They’ll give these to anybody these days.” She tossed the badge wallet back to me. “Are you taking Monk with you?”

  “That’s the plan,” I said.

  “At least there’s a bright side to this.” She shouldered past me and headed over to the CSI van, where she helped herself to plastic booties from a box by the door.

  I’d thought that after all Devlin and I had been through together, I’d proven myself as reasonably competent and we’d finally worked through her hostility toward me and Monk.

  Apparently I was wrong.

  I marched up to her. “You looked at my badge like it’s a personal insult.”

  “It is,” she said.

  “Whether you like it or not, it means I am a cop now,” I said. “Just like you.”

  “You’re nothing like me,” she said as she slipped the booties over her shoes. “You haven’t been through the Academy, you haven’t put in years walking a beat, you haven’t spent months at a time undercover where the slightest mistake could put you in the ground. You’re a dilettante.”

  We’d been through variations of this dance many times before and I was tired of it. The difference now was that I had a badge, and while I could see how that might add some salt to her perceived wounds, it also gave me an advantage I didn’t have before.

  I reached for a set of booties from the van and tugged them over my shoes.

  “What you think of me or of my experience doesn’t matter, because as far as the law or anybody else is concerned, my badge makes me as much a cop as yours makes you.”

  “Except that I’m a homicide detective, you’re a patrol officer, and you’re thousands of miles outside of your itty-bitty jurisdiction. So your badge might as well have come from a cereal box for all it’s worth here.”

  I stepped in front of her and looked her right in the eye. “I’m tired, I’m jet-lagged, and there’s a dead body in my bathroom. I don’t have the patience to argue with you, so listen up. I’m a cop and that’s my house. I don’t need your permission to go inside. You, on the other hand, need mine. So shove the attitude or you’ll stay here directing traffic while I begin the investigation.”

  She took a step toward me. We were so close that our noses were almost touching. “You try to get between me and that house and I will take you down so hard you’ll think you were hit by a bus.”

  And that’s how we were standing when Stottlemeyer and Monk approached us. We were so caught up in our contest measuring a particular part of the male anatomy that neither of us possessed that we hadn’t heard them drive up and get out of the car.

  Whatever hostility I felt toward Devlin evaporated when I saw Stottlemeyer. I felt a wave of affection for him. He was his usual rumpled, weary self, his bushy mustache in need of a trim, his clothes wrinkled, his tie loosely knotted at his neck. I’d missed him.

  “I see you two are as chummy as ever,” Stottlemeyer said to the two of us.

  Devlin and I, suddenly both self-conscious, took a big step back from each other.

  I looked over at Monk, who was glassy-eyed and a bit wobbly on his feet.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Monk?” I asked.

  “I’m just a little sleepy. The captain woke me up from a nap,” Monk said. “You wouldn’t believe the dream I had. It was so vivid. You were in it. So were Sharona and Randy. And a lady who sold poo. We were police officers.”

  “That wasn’t a dream,” I said. “That really happened.”

  “We were really police officers? In Summit, New Jersey?”

  “Yes, we were. We still are.” I showed Monk my badge. “You’ve got one, too.”

  Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Randy let you keep them?”

  I wasn’t ready to answer the question yet so I ignored it.

  Monk took his badge out of his pocket and stared at it like it was the spinning top totem that Leonardo DiCaprio kept around in Inception to remind him of what was real and what was not.

  “What about the poo lady?” Monk asked.

  “Ellen Morse. Her store is called Poop. You had dinner with her last night.”

  “She really sells crap?” Stottlemeyer asked me.

  I nodded. “Stuff like fossilized dinosaur dung and an array of artwork and products made from excrement, like cooking oil made from goat droppings, coffee made from civet poop, and shampoo made from cow patties. She caters to a very wealthy and discerning clientele.”

  “And Monk ate with her?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Often,” I said. “He likes her.”

  “Maybe I’m the one who’s dreaming.” Stottlemeyer lowered his head and massaged his brow. “Or having a stroke.”

  Devlin cleared her throat. “I hate to intrude on this touching reunion, but there’s a corpse in the bathtub and it’s getting ripe. Maybe we should go inside and start processing the crime scene.”

  Monk blinked hard, suddenly alert, like a bloodhound picking up a scent, and pinned Devlin with his gaze.

  “You’re not going in Natalie’s house wearing that,” Monk said to her.

  “Wearing what?” Devlin said, checking herself out.

  “That leather jacket,” Monk said.

  Stottlemeyer looked up at him. “I know you’ve never liked the idea of people wearing animal hides or upholstering their furniture with them, but I thought you’d made peace with it a long time ago.”

  “That was before Ellen told me how they tan leather,” Monk said. “They soak the hide in a mixture of wood ashes and urine to make it easier to scrape off the fibers and then, in a process called bating, they soak it in a vat of hot dung, gathered from dogs and other carnivores. The dung has an enzyme that breaks down the collagen in the hide and gives it a soft, supple texture. So basically, Lieutenant Devlin, you’re wearing a latrine.”

  Devlin groaned with irritation, took off her jacket, and tossed it on the hood of her Firebird. “Happy now?”

  “It would be better if you incinerated it.”

  “Now that’s the Adrian Monk I know.” Stottlemeyer smiled with relief and clapped Monk on the back. “Let’s go solve a murder.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mr. Monk and Goldilocks

  As soon as we stepped into the house, Monk held his hands out in front of him, as if feeling the heat from a campfire, and began moving around the living room like a skater, swaying and dipping and spinning. Stottlemeyer called it Monk Zen, but whatever it was, it seemed to be his method for identifying patterns and spotting things that were out of place.

  “My family photos have been taken down,” I said, trying to be helpful. “It leads me to believe that the lady in the tub wanted to trick someone into thinking that she lived here.”

  “That’s a good observation,” Stottlemeyer said.

  Devlin rolled her eyes. “Positively brilliant. I’ll see you in the bathroom.”

  She walked away from us. Neither the captain nor Monk seemed in a big hurry to get to the corpse. I’d rarely been with the captain when he first arrived at a crime scene, so I was studying him to pick up his method, which at the moment seemed to be keeping his eye on Monk.

  “Was the front door locked when you got here?” Stottlemeyer asked me.

  “Yes,” I s
aid. “Dead bolt and all.”

  But the question gave me a thought. I hurried into the kitchen.

  “I don’t see any signs of a break-in, but this isn’t exactly Fort Knox,” Stottlemeyer said, trailing after me. “What are you looking for?”

  Using a dish glove, I opened my junk drawer, which was filled with stuff like rubber bands, paper clips, loose keys, duct tape, screwdrivers, coupons, batteries, pliers, screws, stamps, nail clippers, and dozens of those L-shaped little hex wrenches from the assemble-it-yourself stuff I bought at IKEA.

  “My spare house key,” I said. “It’s not here. She might have picked the lock or broken in to start with, but it looks like she may have used my keys to come and go after that.”

  “Somebody did lock up after killing her,” Stottlemeyer said. “Whoever it was might have taken the key.”

  “Looks like I’ll be changing the locks when this is all over,” I said.

  Monk circled the kitchen, studying the table, the counters, and the dishes in the drainer.

  “The dishes and utensils that were used indicate that there was only one person staying here,” Monk said. “Perhaps for two or three days.”

  “So she invited someone here for dinner. Perhaps he even stayed for breakfast,” Stottlemeyer said. “And then he killed her.”

  “But why was she in my home and not her own?” I asked. “And how did she know that I, or Julie, or a house sitter, wouldn’t walk in on her while she was here?”

  “All very good questions,” Stottlemeyer said and glanced at Monk. “Got answers for them yet?”

  “No, I don’t,” Monk said.

  “It must be the jet lag,” Stottlemeyer said. “I think it’s time we got a look at Goldilocks.”

  He headed down the hall. Monk and I followed, passing my bedroom, where Devlin was crouched on the floor, going through a Gucci purse that certainly wasn’t mine and that I hadn’t initially spotted when I was in there before.

  Since the bathroom was small, Stottlemeyer remained in the hallway so as not to crowd the female CSI, who was bagging the razor, and Dr. Hetzer, who crouched beside the tub examining the dead woman.