Mr. Monk Gets on Board

by Hy Conrad

  Number ninety-nine. That’s where clowns used to be, followed by aardvarks. I had expected aardvarks to have moved its way up to ninety-nine, followed by something bumped up from the minors. Instead I found a brand-new phobia that I wasn’t sure even existed.

  Number ninety-nine: Fear of immersion therapy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mr. Monk and the Other Consultant

  The Melrose mansion, despite its location in the heart of the city, was an architectural throwback. Once we’d walked up the marble stairs to the double oak doors, we might as well have been time travelers, sent back to solve a case from a hundred years ago. Hmm, time-traveling detectives? That would be a fun read. I’ll have to check Amazon to see whether there is such a book.

  True to form, a butler outfitted in a black suit, black tie, and gray waistcoat met us at the door and led us up more marble steps to a second-floor library.

  Usually when we arrive on a scene, the CSIs are there. More times than not, so is the body. When no one is around except witnesses, the cops, and a bloody stain on a Persian rug, it can mean only one thing: The case was old. Monk hadn’t been needed. Not at first. Something must have happened to change this one from a routine homicide to a must-solve.

  Captain Stottlemeyer was in the room, ready to air-shake Monk’s hand. Stottlemeyer is the epitome of a senior cop, brusque when he needs to be, with thin remnants of sandy hair and a bushy mustache left over from the eighties. I want to use the word burly, but his apparent size is deceptive. Not so much burly as substantial.

  Lieutenant Amy Devlin is also substantial, in a different way. My mother would call her snippy. But I can empathize with the lieutenant. We’re both women in a profession where even the men feel the need to prove themselves. Devlin is tall and thin, with spiky black hair that looks different every time I see it. I want to use the word wiry. Can a tall person be wiry? Let’s say yes and move on.

  “Long time, no see,” said the captain. “I keep telling the lieutenant we need to hire you more, just to keep in touch.”

  Monk didn’t reply, but let his eyes roam the room. My partner likes to have a clean first impression. If something is wrong, he can usually feel it right away, even if it takes a week to figure out what it is.

  To me, the library seemed even more old-worldly than the rest of the mansion. The side walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all mahogany, with two library ladders, each serving one side. On one of the short walls was the door, flanked by a pair of marble busts of ugly dead males in togas. Greeks, I guessed. On the opposite wall was a tall window overlooking a lush garden. On each side of the window was an antique framed mirror. One reflected a pedestal, this one without an old Greek on top. The other reflected a leather-bound book on a book stand and a good-looking man in his forties examining the volume.

  Stottlemeyer pretended the man wasn’t there. “The owner of the house was Lester Melrose,” he said. “Fifth-generation San Francisco money. They made their first fortune selling pickaxes to the gold miners.” Stottlemeyer pointed to the stain I’d already seen on the Persian. “That’s his blood.”

  “Melrose was sick,” Monk said. How he knew this I couldn’t tell.

  “He was on his deathbed.” Devlin made it sound like she was correcting him. “Last night he dismissed his doctor. Fired him. Then he called everyone in and changed his will one last time. He had just a few days to live, he said, and wanted to spend them in peace. When his son went to check on him this morning, his bed was empty. He was in here.” She checked her notes. “Bludgeoned to death with the bust of Homer.”

  “Simpson?” I asked.

  Devlin shook her head. “No last name, just Homer. They took the murder weapon to the lab.”

  “Was he bedridden?” I asked.

  “No,” Monk answered for everyone, and pointed to something nearly invisible on the Persian rug. “This room was cleaned yesterday by someone who knew what she was doing.” Monk was referring to the perfectly straight parallel lines left by a strong vacuum cleaner. “But you can also see two wheel marks, eleven inches apart, going from the door over to the blood.”

  “And that tells you he wasn’t bedridden?” Devlin asked.

  I don’t know how she could be skeptical after all these years of listening to Monk. As for me, I was once again marveling at how he can see things the rest of us look at but never notice.

  “That’s the wheelbase of a portable oxygen cylinder,” Monk went on. “A common E tank. So, yes, I can tell he wasn’t bedridden. Was the cylinder here when you arrived?”

  “It was,” Stottlemeyer answered. “It was also taken to the lab.”

  I cocked my head and scratched at my part. “So, someone killed a man with only a few days to live?”

  I don’t know why this surprised me, now that I think about it. Monk had once solved a case in which someone murdered a prison inmate on death row, a man with just hours to live before his execution. Our current case wasn’t that extreme, but it was still puzzling.

  “Why do you need two consultants?” Monk asked, looking a little pouty. “Don’t you think I can handle this?” He was staring across at the man in the light jacket, who was still examining the old book on the book stand.

  “What makes you think he’s a consultant?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “Because,” Monk explained, “he’s wearing a nonpolice outdoor jacket, so he’s not a member of your team or the household. He’s been allowed into a crime scene. And his pin says ‘ABAA.’ It’s obvious.”

  The man had his back to us. But I could see the reflection of a gold lapel pin, the letters tiny and reversed in the mirror but still legible. Okay, I told myself, you’re a detective, Natalie. You’re Monk’s boss. You can figure it out. ABAA. And those initials must stand for … I thought and I thought. All I could come up with was maybe the guy was a member of an ABBA tribute band.

  “Antiquarian Booksellers’ Association of America,” Monk whispered, although I was sure the man could overhear everything.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Devlin. “Monk has memorized every single acronym in the world.”

  “Just the professional and sports organizations,” said Monk modestly. “And just the top ten thousand. What would be the point of memorizing them all?”

  “Well, you’re right, Monk,” the captain confirmed. “He’s a rare book consultant who’s worked with us on art fraud cases. We brought him in to verify the books in the Melrose collection.”

  Monk nodded. “Which means you’re thinking about a specific motive. Theft. Or the replacement of a rare book with a forgery.”

  Stottlemeyer nodded. “The Melroses are one of the city’s old families. The mayor found the funds to hire a few consultants on this one, including you. Looks like we all lucked out.”

  As we’d been talking, the four of us, consciously or not, had formed a little semicircle, cutting our book expert out of the loop, at least visually. Now he was directly behind us, still holding the thick leather-bound volume. For the first time, I noticed he was wearing white linen gloves.

  “It’s genuine,” he announced to the room. “A Shakespeare first folio. The first time the Bard’s plays were ever printed, seven years after his death. There are two hundred thirty known copies, in various states of disrepair. I can’t name you a price, but Paul Allen up the coast paid over six million for a similar one.” Wow. No wonder this guy was wearing linen gloves.

  I took a closer look at the six-million-dollar book. For being nearly four hundred years old, it was in great shape. I should look so good. It was larger than a normal book, maybe eight by twelve inches and maybe nine hundred pages long. He was holding it open, and I could see the pages were printed in double columns.

  “How about the other books in the collection?” asked Devlin.

  “Nothing else approaches the rarity of this,” said the man. “They’ve been catalogued, as you know. Everything seems to be here.” He didn’t come across as overeducated or stuffy. Maybe that wa
s due to the soft Southern accent that I couldn’t quite place. I would have to listen to him more if I wanted to narrow down the region.

  “Everything here?” Stottlemeyer brushed both sides of his mustache. “That nixes the robbery theory, not that it was a strong possibility.”

  “I’m Malcolm Leeds,” the man said, looking me in the eye and lifting an elbow. His hands were obviously full. Plus, the gloves meant that our hands couldn’t touch, although I could tell that he wanted them to.

  “Natalie Teeger,” I replied, keeping the eye focus. His were hazel, with a little more green than brown. I lifted my own elbow. “Of Monk and Teeger, Consulting Detectives. This is Adrian Monk.”

  Monk also lifted an elbow. He was always on the lookout for new ways not to shake hands.

  “Sorry for skipping the introductions,” said the captain. “But now I guess we confirmed the theory of an inside job. Monk, we’re going to need you to do your magic here. Mr. Leeds, if you could, please wait downstairs, in case we have any questions.”

  “Of course.” He removed his gloves and dropped them into his faux-leather messenger bag. Very Euro-stylish. “Can Natalie join me?” he asked. This opened everybody’s eyes an extra millimeter. Malcolm smiled but kept his professional demeanor intact. “I can fill her in on the whole collection. It may wind up being important.”

  “It may,” I agreed.

  Stottlemeyer cocked his head in Monk’s direction. “You think you can do this without your boss looking over your shoulder?”

  Ever since I’d incorporated our agency, the captain has loved to tease Monk about being my employee. And Monk always took the bait.

  “She’s not my boss,” he said, “except maybe in the legal and business sense.”

  “What do you think, Natalie?” asked the captain. “Can your guy handle this on his own?”

  “Perfectly on my own,” Monk said. “All I need is someone to hand me wipes and take care of all the other stuff.”

  I rummaged through my bag, found a pack of twenty moist wipes, and handed them off to Lieutenant Devlin. “Have fun,” I told her.

  “I will,” said Monk.

  The last thing I saw was my junior partner crossing to the library window, his gaze focused on a tiny white scrap of something on the parquet floor right under it. “Pick that up,” he ordered Devlin, who snarled—literally snarled—then bent down to pick it up.

  • • •

  “How long have you guys been in business?”

  “We’ve been incorporated for a few months,” I told Malcolm Leeds. “It’s been a slow start.”

  “Know how that goes,” he said sympathetically. “I was consulting for most of a year before I started breaking even.”

  “Louisiana?” I finally guessed. “Say New Orleans.”

  He laughed. “Nuh Or-lens. And yes, that’s where I’m from. Born and bred.”

  “Sorry,” I stammered like a schoolgirl. “It’s not an insult. I love your drawl.”

  He held up a hand to stop me. “Not a drawl. Texans have a drawl. Alabamans have a twang. I have a Southern regional accent. I’ll let you call it a lilt.”

  “I love your lilt.”

  “Better. Now what were we talking about? Consultin’?” He left off the “g.” Very lilty.

  “Uh, yes. Consulting.”

  “And things are a tad slow?”

  “It’s tough living on murder.” I know how callous that sounds. But it was something I’d given a lot of thought to. “Adrian refuses to do divorce work. And when it comes to bodyguarding or straight surveillance, there are better companies out there.”

  “I can’t imagine your partner being a bodyguard,” Malcolm said.

  “It’s not pretty. He once did a bodyguarding assignment where the client actually had to protect him. My challenge is to get people to think of us whenever there’s something unsolvable, not just murder.”

  “Perhaps a law firm could put you on retainer for criminal cases.”

  “I thought of that,” I said. “But Monk can figure out pretty quickly if a guy’s guilty. Lawyers don’t always like that.”

  “Do you have much of a financial cushion? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  I didn’t mind. It was nice talking to someone who knew what he was talking about, as opposed to the clowns at the Noe Valley Small Business Guild.

  Malcolm and I had retreated to the downstairs morning room. A morning room, from what I’ve heard, is a room with good morning light where the ladies could retreat while the maids were cleaning other parts of the mansion. I had no idea what the maids were up to here, but the butler had brought us tea, and we were sipping it very cozily in front of an unlighted fire.

  When we’d walked out of the crime scene, I hardly thought Malcolm and I would wind up comparing marketing strategies. After all, he was tall and angular, with a face that was just beginning to show a certain sexy cragginess. Did I mention the hazel eyes?

  To our mutual credit, we did spend our first few minutes flirting. Harmless flirting. Somewhere along the way, one of us—it could have been me—suggested we might get together for a drink that evening. That’s when we exchanged cards and started talking shop.

  “Monk and I got a reward from our last big case,” I said. “But I feel guilty about dipping into that.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Feel guilty, that is. You gotta establish yourself. Get out and network. I remember when I started. I took this seven-day, six-night business conference on the Golden Sun. Seemed like a splurge. But it led to my first gig with the police department. Best money I ever spent.”

  “What’s the Golden Sun?”

  “A cruise ship.”

  “Never heard of it. What line?”

  “It’s independent,” he said. “The ship has seen better days. But they run these business conferences every couple of months. You can meet a lot of clients in a very friendly atmosphere. Plus, it gives you a few days in the Mexican sun. I’ve done it five times myself.”

  “Five times?”

  “The connections alone are worth the price.”

  “On a cruise ship?” I had to laugh out loud. “No. I could never get my partner on a cruise ship, especially an old one. There aren’t enough antiseptic wipes in the world… .”

  “Don’t take him. You’re the business end. Why does he have to go?”

  “Go without Monk?” The idea was a shock, a wonderfully appealing shock. “It wouldn’t feel right.”

  “Why not? Can’t he survive without you?” Malcolm laughed.

  “I know you mean that as a joke,” I said, “but I’m kind of essential to his process. The last time he tried solving a case without me, he almost died.”

  “Wow.” His smile crinkled. “I’m impressed.”

  “Of course, we don’t have another case now, not after this one. Sometimes we go for weeks.”

  “So take the cruise. Look, it’s your call. You’re the company honcho.”

  Malcolm was right. It was my call. If Monk didn’t want to join me for a seven-days-at-sea business conference, he could just stay home. “You’re right,” I confirmed. “I am the honcho.”

  “Natalie?” The word had come from the doorway and was spoken as a high-pitched whine. “Natalie?”

  I didn’t even bother to look. “What is it, Adrian?”

  “You can take me home. I’m ready.”

  How humiliating. “What if I’m not ready, Adrian?”

  Monk snorted. “How can you not be ready?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Malcolm stifling a yawn. Oh no. I was boring him already. “Sorry,” he said, recovering. “Still getting over my jet lag.”

  “Oh, really?” I said, ignoring Monk’s impatience. “Where from?”

  “New York,” said Malcolm. “A buying spree for late medieval medical texts. I actually found one in High German. Most of them are in Latin.”

  “People really buy those?”

  “God, I hope so,” he said with a mock
grimace. “So, are we on for tonight? Around eight?” He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a watch. It looked like a Rolex. “Still on New York time,” he said, chuckling, and began to wind the stem.

  “If you two are done with your chitchat,” Monk said, tapping his foot.

  “It’s not chitchat,” I said, perhaps not accurately.

  “Well, I’m the one who examined the crime scene and interviewed everyone who was in the house last night and told the captain to drain the pond. What have you been doing?”

  “I’ll have you know that I have been talking serious business with Mr. Leeds and—hold on. You told them to drain the pond? What pond?”

  “There’s a pond out in the garden, covered with lily pads.”

  “Is it dirty? Is that why you want it drained?”

  “Yes, it’s dirty. Filthy with nature. But that’s not the reason. Whatever’s at the bottom of the pond is going to solve the case.”

  “Sorry,” I said to Malcolm. “This is what happens when you have a partner.”

  “Don’t apologize,” said Malcolm. “You two are fascinating.”

  I felt like blushing. Instead, I turned to Monk. “Do you know what’s down there or are you just guessing?”

  Monk twitched his nose and rolled his shoulders. “I’m eighty-six percent sure. We won’t know a hundred percent until it’s drained.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mr. Monk and Ms. Christie

  I felt bad about my behavior that afternoon, at least after the fact. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d left Monk alone at a crime scene. We were supposed to be partners, and I should have stayed at his side and helped to figure out who had killed an old man already on his deathbed.

  My only excuse … Make that three excuses. One, I had felt sure that Monk would do fine. He was already at eighty-six percent. Two, my contribution was mainly on the business end, and that’s what I’d been taking care of—networking with Mr. Malcolm Leeds. And three, let me mention once again the hazel eyes.