Mr. Monk Is a Mess

by Lee Goldberg

  “Damn,” I said. “I was hoping you could, because I have nothing left to go on except a gut feeling.”

  “Which is?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Indigestion,” Monk said, carrying the cleaning supplies back to the cupboard. “Pizza and Oreos aren’t a healthy meal.”

  “I believe Yuki truly loves Ambrose. She knows he can’t leave the house,” I said. “My gut tells me she wouldn’t stray far. She’d want to stay close to him.”

  “Is there anything you can do, Leland?” Julie asked. She was enjoying using his name.

  “Nope. No crime has been committed.”

  “She was attacked,” I said, pointing to the laptop.

  “You assume that she was,” Stottlemeyer said. “We didn’t actually see anything. For all you know, she attacked whoever was in that van.”

  “You don’t believe that,” I said.

  “No, but I have to deal in facts and with evidence, all of which are in short supply here. Not to mention the complete absence of any reason for me to be involved.”

  “It’s a missing-person case,” I said.

  “Or she broke up with a guy who can’t accept it,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I can,” Monk said, returning to the living room. “And I think we should accept it for him.”

  I got up and went over to Monk. “Okay, here’s the deal. You can stay here on two conditions.”

  “Two is a good number.”

  “One, you help me find Yuki and two, you help me figure out why Michelle Keeling killed herself in my house and had ten thousand dollars in stolen FBI sting money on her when it happened.”

  “What if we compromise?” he said. “I solve the Keeling case and we let Yuki go.”

  “My conditions are non-negotiable. Take it or leave it.”

  “Fine,” Monk said. “But I’m doing it under duress.”

  “You live your whole life under duress,” I said.

  Stottlemeyer got up. “I’m glad you two got that worked out.”

  “I didn’t hear you agree to help,” I said.

  “Keeling is a suicide and a theft from the FBI evidence room is a federal matter. There’s nothing for me to investigate. But I’ll provide oodles of moral support.”

  Julie got up now. “Adrian can stay in my room.”

  “Adrian?” I said.

  “I’m an adult now and technically he’s not your boss anymore, so why do I have to be so formal?” She gave me a kiss and looked at the captain. “Will you walk me to my car? This has become a dangerous neighborhood.”

  “It will be my pleasure.” Stottlemeyer and Julie walked out, leaving Monk and me alone.

  “You haven’t apologized,” Monk said.

  “Neither have you.”

  “Then we’re even.”

  “You like even,” I said.

  “I do,” he said.

  “So we’re good.”

  “I suppose we are,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mr. Monk Goes to Jail

  I called the crime scene cleaners and sent them over to Monk’s apartment. I told them to clean the place as if it were splattered everywhere with blood, brains, and fecal matter.

  “I’m not sure that’s strong enough,” Monk said. “Tell them it’s even worse than your house.”

  I ignored his suggestion.

  That chore done, I thought about our predicament with the feds and, in the absence of any other leads, figured it was time to go see the one person who probably had all the answers.

  Salvatore Lucarelli.

  I didn’t expect the mobster to confess, but perhaps we’d learn something that might help us. I shared my thinking with Monk and he agreed.

  Because Lucarelli was awaiting trial and was remanded to custody until then, he was being housed at the jail downtown on Seventh Street. The building was an architectural showplace, all undulating curves of frosted glass, which made it look more like it was designed for shopping than for incarceration.

  We were led to an interview room where Lucarelli was already waiting in his yellow prison jumpsuit, his arms and legs shackled to a chain locked into a metal loop on the floor. It seemed like overkill given that Lucarelli was in his late sixties, his body was frail, and his face resembled a drowsy basset hound more than, say, a raging pit bull.

  But you don’t take chances with the most powerful mobster on the West Coast, a man who reputedly sat and ate lunch while watching one of his rivals being beaten with baseball bats, then stuffed alive into an oil drum and coated with lye.

  Lucarelli smiled warmly as we came in. “Mr. Monk, Ms. Teeger, what a pleasant surprise. You two visit me more often when I’m in jail than my own family.”

  “That’s because your eldest son is in prison for attempted murder,” Monk said.

  “And your youngest son jumped bail on extortion charges and is on the run in South America,” I said, “where he is reputedly running your drug operation.”

  Lucarelli waved off the comments as if they were irrelevant. “It’s the thought that counts, especially since I won’t be in here much longer. My lawyer tells me the case against me has crumbled.”

  “So we’ve heard,” I said. “That’s why we’re here. We’d like to know how you did it.”

  “You think I arranged for the theft of the marked money from the evidence room in the Federal Building?” he said.

  “You’re the only one who benefits from it,” Monk said.

  “How about the guy who took it?” Lucarelli said. “He’s five hundred thousand dollars richer.”

  “Or more, depending on what you paid him,” I said.

  “I had nothing to do with the money being taken and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t admit it to you,” he said. “Besides, what do you care? It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That’s why we don’t understand why you’d drag us into this by planting some of the cash in my house.”

  Lucarelli leaned back in his metal chair and regarded us with amusement. “You’ve got the money?”

  “Only ten thousand of it,” Monk said. “Five thousand was under her bed, the rest was in the purse that belonged to the dead woman in Natalie’s bathtub.”

  “Michelle Keeling,” I said. “But you probably know all about her.”

  “I’ve never heard of her,” Lucarelli said. “Is she the one who took the money?”

  “We don’t know,” Monk said. “Now the FBI thinks we had something to do with the theft because Natalie works for me and I’ve reluctantly helped you in the past.”

  “Wow,” Lucarelli said. “You’re really jammed up.”

  “And we really want to thank you for that,” I said.

  “I feel real bad about this,” Lucarelli said.

  “I’m sure you do,” I said.

  “I’ve got no reason to cause you any misery. I’m genuinely grateful for all that you’ve done for me in the past.” Lucarelli leaned close and lowered his voice. “I’d tell my people to look into this but, to be honest, it doesn’t help me any if the money is found, even if the chain of evidence is now irreparably broken.”

  “Particularly if your people, with or without your knowledge, had it stolen,” I said.

  “You’re beginning to irritate me, lady. I told you I had no part in this and I am not accustomed to having to repeat myself,” he said, his gaze turning icy, showing me the first glimpse of the monster that lurked beneath the surface. “But let’s say that I did steal the money. What would I gain from bringing Mr. Monk into it? It would only point back to me and end up biting me in the ass, because he’s a genius and he’s going to find out who did it.”

  “This is true,” Monk said.

  It was a strong argument for Lucarelli’s innocence and that pissed me off. It meant we were even further away from a solution to the mystery.

  “So who do you think did it?” I asked him.

  “I wouldn’t want to speculate,” he said. “I’m just thankful that whoever
it was did it. Tell him that for me when you catch him.”

  * * *

  Special Agents Derek Thorpe and George Cardea were waiting for us in the hall when Monk and I came out of the interview room.

  “It didn’t take you two long to go crying to your boss,” Thorpe said, absentmindedly scratching the back of his hand. “What did you think he was going to do for you?”

  “He’s going to do nothing, that’s what,” Cardea said. “He’s going to walk free while you two take his place in the slam.”

  “Hardly seems fair, does it?” Thorpe said to Cardea.

  “I guess there’s no honor among thieves,” Cardea said.

  I shook my head at them. “That’s all you’ve got? You’ve got to work on your act, because it’s falling flat.”

  “The best you can hope for is that Lucarelli does nothing,” Cardea said.

  “Because what’ll happen if he decides you were sloppy and gets worried that you might talk?” Thorpe said. “How do you suppose he’d solve that problem?”

  “Maybe he’ll invite you over for lunch,” Cardea said.

  “But if he does, he’ll be the only one eating,” Thorpe said. “While you two are stuffed into barrels.”

  We walked right past them and out of the building.

  * * *

  On the way home, as a courtesy to Monk, I stopped by the grocery store and bought frozen waffles, maple syrup, and two droppers for filling each individual square with syrup.

  I made dinner as soon as we got home. And I have to be honest with you, it was nice sitting there, having a meal with Monk. It was also bittersweet, because I knew it might be one of the last times we enjoyed each other’s quiet company in such a simple, domestic moment.

  We’d long since moved past a basic employer and employee relationship and, while we rarely acknowledged it openly, we both knew it. But it was ordinary, seemingly unremarkable moments like our waffle dinner, and the familiarity we had with each other, that really drove it home for me.

  I’d miss having him in my life if he didn’t come with me to Summit.

  I felt myself getting teary-eyed, and hated myself for it, so to get my mind off of us, I brought up the Keeling mystery again.

  We briefly discussed the case but neither one of us knew what step to take next in the investigation.

  How did Keeling get the stolen money?

  Why was she in my house?

  Why did she kill herself?

  Who was the man—or woman—with heartburn who’d shared my bed with her? Was it the man from Walla Walla that she met at the Belmont Hotel? If so, where was he now?

  If Lucarelli didn’t have the money that was taken, who did? And why? Was it merely greed?

  What we needed was a break, something else to happen that could generate some fresh leads or at least give us a new perspective on what we already knew, which was very little.

  Sometimes investigations played out like that. I’d been through it many times before, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating, particularly since I had a personal stake in both cases.

  So we gave up and I sorted through my accumulated mail again because I’d unsorted it all when I swept everything back into the box. Most of it was junk mail, the rest was bills, most of which were overdue.

  Monk took my junk mail pile and organized the items into categories, then wrapped each stack with a rubber band before throwing it out. I had no idea why he did that and I didn’t care. All that mattered to me was that it kept him happy, occupied, and quiet.

  By nine p.m., I was exhausted and ready for bed. I was preparing to head to my room when my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. The number had a New Jersey area code but otherwise I didn’t recognize it.

  I answered the call.

  “Hello, Natalie. This is Ellen Morse.”

  I was surprised to hear from her and immediately glanced at Monk. “Hello, Ellen, how are you?”

  “To be honest, I’m miserable. I know it’s only been two days, but I miss Adrian terribly. I am hoping he’s with you, because he’s not answering his phone at home.”

  “You’re in luck. He’s right here.” I held the phone out to Monk, who shook his head no, ran a finger across his throat, and put his hands together as if in prayer. I continued to hold the phone out and yelled: “Mr. Monk, it’s for you. It’s Ellen Morse.”

  He glared at me, took a wipe out of his pocket, and took the phone from me with it.

  “This is Adrian Monk speaking,” he said, turning his back to me.

  I didn’t stick around to eavesdrop. I went down the hall to my room and closed the door. Suddenly I was so tired, I didn’t even have the energy to brush my teeth.

  I’d been looking forward to sleeping in my own bed and not even the knowledge that a stranger had been in it made the prospect any less appealing.

  I took off my clothes and slipped under the sheets.

  It was an old mattress, and those years of sleeping on it had molded the stuffing so it fit my body perfectly. It was like being in the arms of an old lover. It pleased me to imagine how uncomfortable the bed must have been for Michelle Keeling, especially with a stack of money underneath it.

  It was like the princess and the pea, if the princess was a suicidal, predatory temptress and the pea was stolen from a marked pod.

  I slept peacefully and deeply for almost twelve hours.

  * * *

  When I awoke a little after eight a.m., Monk was already up and making us waffles again. In fact, he was pretty much how and where I’d left him.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Did you sleep last night?”

  “Of course I did,” he said. “That’s why my clothes are all wrinkled.”

  “There isn’t a wrinkle on them.”

  “That’s because I ironed them.”

  “Then they aren’t wrinkled anymore.”

  “Yes, they are,” Monk said. “Under the ironing. I can feel them.”

  I took a chair at the table, which was already set for two with droppers of syrup, glasses of Fiji water, silverware, napkins, and disinfectant wipes. I didn’t mind having waffles again after having them for dinner, and I knew Monk certainly didn’t. He liked repetition and doing things in twos.

  “How did things go with Ellen last night?”

  Monk rolled his shoulders and set a plate with a single waffle on it in front of me. “I told her that I’m undecided about returning to Summit.”

  “Meaning you’ve decided to stay in San Francisco.”

  “Yes.” Monk got his own plate, put a waffle on it, and sat down at the table beside me.

  I could tell by the tone of his voice that this time he really meant it.

  And it changed everything.

  Sure, I’d thought about what it would mean if Monk stayed in San Francisco, but I realized now that I hadn’t really contemplated the full impact emotionally because I certainly didn’t anticipate both the sadness and the fear that I was feeling.

  Julie’s moving out and going to college had forced a change in our lives, one that I was, in some ways, reacting to. She’d freed me to explore options. Moving away and leaving her behind wasn’t such a big deal since she’d already left me to go off to college, even if it was only across the bay.

  But it felt like Monk and I were in this together. We’d both gone to Summit. We’d both been offered jobs as police officers. And we’d both accepted the offers.

  Knowing that he’d be there made the decision a lot easier. It gave me a sense of security as I embarked on something scary and new. There would still be something left of my old life that I was bringing with me besides my belongings.

  Sure, some important aspects of our relationship would be changing, but we’d still be together. I’d still be seeing him every day. We’d still be side by side, solving crimes.

  I would still have the familiarity, the comfort, and the safety of that relationship to depend on.

  Now it was hitting me that I would be losing that,
too.

  I would be losing Adrian Monk.

  And as infuriating, demanding, and selfish as he was, I would miss him terribly.

  Because I loved him.

  And because the person I’d become was a reflection of our time together.

  I never would have thought of becoming a cop, or had the skills for it, if not for my years with him. And that’s when I realized that, as sad and scared as I was at the thought of being without him, even if we weren’t together, he’d still be with me every day . . . though I could finally stop carrying around a bag full of disinfectant wipes.

  The enormity of the change I was making was now painfully clear.

  And yet I didn’t have any second thoughts.

  But I needed to know why he did, though I suppose that, on some level, I always knew he’d stay. “Why aren’t you going?” I asked and took a bite of my waffle, trying hard to sound neutral and not to betray my sadness.

  “It’s a big change.” He squeezed syrup into one of the squares with the precision and concentration of someone working with nitroglycerin. “More than I am comfortable with.”

  “You aren’t comfortable with any change.”

  “So there you have it,” he said. “But it’s more than that. I shared my apartment here with Trudy. She picked it out. It’s where we lived when we were married. I can’t leave those memories behind.”

  My situation with my house was pretty much the same and yet I realized I no longer had reservations about going. I knew that Mitch wouldn’t want me keeping the house like a shrine and I couldn’t use Julie as an excuse, either. She’d given me her blessing and a kick in the butt.

  And yet I still felt a stab of guilt, a sense of selfishness, for walking away from the house.

  “How did Ellen take it?”

  “Not well,” Monk said. “There was some weeping. Definitely some sniffling.”

  “What about her?”

  “Her, too.”

  “You’re breaking her heart,” I said. “And your own.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be, Natalie. She’s in Summit, and that’s not here. She sells poop, and that’s repulsive. Those are insurmountable problems.”

  “Not if you love each other,” I said.

  “I loved Trudy,” he said, as if that settled the matter.