by Lee Goldberg
Monk went wide-eyed and snatched the shirt from him. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a health code violation. We could lose our business license if we let people try on clothes outside of the dressing rooms.”
“When did they start doing that?”
“Today,” Monk said.
“Today?”
“Every clothing store is following the new law, so whatever you do, don’t go anywhere else and try on any clothes on the sales floor.”
“Just in San Francisco?”
“The whole world,” Monk said. “And the international space station.”
The man shrugged and walked out. Monk sighed with relief, then looked over at me expectantly.
“What?” I said.
“I’m waiting for you to criticize me for not letting the ape man try on this shirt.”
“You did the right thing,” I said.
“That hasn’t stopped you before.”
We might have debated the point for hours on end if not for a mall security guard and a customer coming into the store at the same time.
The security guard wasn’t the same guy we’d seen at lunch. This guy was younger, in better shape, and had a mischievous grin that made my heart flutter. He was so buff, with pecs Superman would envy, that for a moment I was worried that he might actually be a stripper sent to surprise me with a public striptease. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. My birthday was still months away.
“You’re new here,” the security guard said, offering me his hand. “My name is Mike.”
I shook it. His hand was dry and rough. I thought about how nice it would be to rub some moisturizing lotion on his hands, which I knew was a pretty bizarre thing to be thinking about. But it had been a long time since I’d had a date and my imagination was filling the void.
“I’m Natalie. Do you keep track of all the saleswomen who come and go in the mall?”
“It’s my job to keep my eye on things.”
Monk came over to us. “If that was true, you’d have noticed there’s dirt on your knees. Do you do a lot of crawling in your job?”
“A woman lost her keys under her car,” Mike said. “I retrieved them for her.”
“That must happen a lot here judging by how filthy the guards are,” Monk said.
“Women often have their hands full with kids and shopping bags,” Mike said. “And I like to be helpful.”
“Don’t you have a customer, Mr. Monk?” I motioned toward a man sorting through some women’s blouses.
Monk went over to help him and I turned my attention back to the guard.
“So have you worked your way through all the other women in the mall?”
He laughed. “Not exactly. I just wanted to let you know that I’m here if you ever need security or someone to escort you to your car after work.”
I looked past Mike to see Monk approach the customer: a man in his twenties with close-cropped hair, heavy eyeliner, earrings, and a floral scarf around his neck. He was holding a pink blouse against himself and looking at his reflection in the mirror.
“You’re in the wrong department,” Monk said. “Menswear is on the other side.”
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Are you shopping for a friend?”
“I’m shopping for myself, sweetie. How does this look on me?”
“Wrong,” Monk said.
“Pink isn’t my color?”
“That’s a blouse, which is a shirt that women wear. You are a man. We have shirts for men in the men’s department”—he gestured to the other side of the store—“which is where men shop for shirts that men wear.”
I could see big trouble brewing between Monk and his customer, so I had to cut the flirtation with Mike short.
“How do I reach you if I need you?” I asked him.
“Dial 0336 from your store phone,” Mike said, then handed me a card from his breast pocket. “Or call this number to reach my cell anytime.”
“I will,” I said.
“I prefer to shop in the women’s department,” the customer said. “The men’s shirts are too butch for me.”
“Only women are allowed to wear women’s clothing,” Monk said.
“Where did you get that silly idea? This is San Francisco. Half the men in this city are wearing bras and panties.”
Mike headed out, walking past Monk and his customer, who gave him a thorough once-over.
“Don’t I get a card?” he asked Mike. “I might need help.”
The security guard smiled politely at the man. “You look like you can take care of yourself, sir.”
“I can take care of you, too, honey. Just give me a chance.”
Mike kept on going, pretending he didn’t hear him. The customer watched Mike go and caught me doing the same thing.
“I’m definitely tossing my keys under my car,” he said to me. “How about you, girl?”
I decided to let that comment pass. “May I help you pick out something?”
“He’s in the wrong department,” Monk said adamantly.
The customer put a hand on his hip, striking a judgmental pose, and wagged his finger at Monk. “Are you some kind of homophobe?”
Monk shook his head. “I’m a totalphobe.”
We broke our record. We got through the day without getting fired. I felt like celebrating.
I was tempted to call Mike so he could escort me to my car and protect me from rapists, robbers, and malcontents and then maybe take me to dinner. But with Monk tagging along, asking Mike to escort me would have seemed even more like the ridiculous excuse to see him than it was.
I thought I might have to toss my keys under my car after all. Monk certainly wouldn’t crawl under the car to get them for me, nor would he question me for calling someone else to do it for us.
I was mulling over that possibility as we walked past the umbrella kiosk.
A custodian parked a large trash cart behind the kiosk and began emptying nearby trash cans into it.
“He’s dirty,” Monk said.
“He’s a custodian,” I said. “If anybody is going to be dirty, it’s him. He spends his days cleaning up messes.”
“He’s been crawling around on his knees.”
“I’d think you’d admire the man for being thorough,” I said.
Monk rolled his shoulders and peered around the kiosk up at the security camera on the second floor. “You should call Randy.”
“That’s a great idea, Mr. Monk. I’m sure Randy will appreciate us letting him know how well our first day on the job went. We owe him a lot for doing us this favor.”
“And we’re going to pay him back for it tonight.”
“How?”
“We’re going to give him a major arrest.”
“Oh my God.” I stopped and faced him. “You’ve figured out how Bob Sebes got away with murder.”
“Sadly, no,” Monk said. “But I’m working on it.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“The big jewelry heist, of course.”
“What big jewelry heist?”
“Tonight Mike and his fellow security guards are going to break into that store,” Monk said, tipping his head toward the jewelry store that we’d just walked by.
I looked back at the store, and then at Monk. I was truly dumbfounded. “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t think it. I know it. Didn’t you see their pants?”
“Not everybody with dirty pants is going to commit a crime.”
“Filthy on the outside usually means filthy on the inside. Besides, both guards had dirty knees and dry hands.”
“You noticed Mike’s dry hands?”
“And the custodian’s knees and hands, too.”
“I don’t understand how that all adds up to a jewelry heist.”
“Mike and his cohorts have the mall all to themselves at night and have been digging a tunnel into the jewelry
store from the vacant storefront next door. The tunnel is just large enough for them to crawl through on their hands and knees, hence the dirty pants and dry hands.”
“How do you know the robbery will be tonight?”
“Because the security guard we saw at lunch moved the umbrella kiosk over a few feet to be sure that it blocked the security camera view of the unoccupied store. The guard wouldn’t have cared unless the robbery is going to go down tonight.”
Monk laid out the rest of their plan for me. The guards would rob the jewelry store during the night, taking turns so that each of them would be seen on security cameras elsewhere in the mall walking their usual shift, though most of the time their faces would be obscured by their hats or other carefully placed obstructions, like potted plants and kiosks.
When a guard, his face obscured, walked past the blocked camera in front of the boarded-up storefront, he would duck into the unoccupied store and switch places with one of the other guards, who would then continue the patrol, creating the illusion that all the guards were constantly on duty.
“That still leaves one guard stuck in the empty storefront,” I said. “How would he get out without being seen?”
“He’d slip out of the storefront, his exit blocked from view by the kiosk and umbrellas, and hide in the trash cart the custodian has just parked here. The custodian will come along later and push it away with his cohort hidden inside.”
“That’s a lot of cohorts,” I said.
“It’s a major heist,” Monk said. “When the robbery is discovered tomorrow by the jeweler, the evidence will lead the police to assume that the robbers hid in the vacant store until morning, unnoticed by the security guards on patrol, and then escaped by slipping into the crowd when the mall opened.”
“But won’t the old security tapes show the guards going in and out of the unoccupied store over the last few weeks?”
“They’ve undoubtedly been reusing old security camera footage, feeding it into the system and putting a new date stamp on it. I’m sure if we study the tapes we will find some tiny inconsistencies that they missed.”
He might, but I doubted that anybody else would unless they were told what to look for.
“You figured all that out from dirty pants, dry hands, and a guy moving an umbrella kiosk a couple of feet?”
“It was like a confession,” Monk said. “If Randy stakes out the mall tonight, he can catch them in the act.”
I took Mike’s card out of my pocket, tore it in half, and dropped it into the trash cart.
I had lousy taste in men.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Mr. Monk Has a Breakthrough
I called Disher but he was too busy to talk to me. He was at the scene of a murder in Golden Gate Park, so naturally Monk suggested that we stop by to deliver our favor in person.
It was almost dark when we got there. I parked under a wildly overgrown tree and we walked down the long jogging path toward a dense grove that was roped off with yellow crime scene tape. Forensic techs moved carefully through the brush, looking for clues, while others were setting up klieg lights to illuminate the scene in the creeping gloom.
People jogged, biked, and drove past the taped-off area without even stopping for a peek. I guess with three CSI shows, three Law & Order shows, and two NCIS series on TV, they were jaded. They’d seen plenty of crime scenes and with much better lighting and wardrobe than this one.
We went up to the police line and waited to be noticed. Stottlemeyer, Disher, and the medical examiner were huddled around the body of a man in a bright blue jogging suit who was lying in the weeds beside the path.
They seemed very intent on their work and I was in a hurry. I’d rescheduled Monk’s regular appointment with Dr. Bell to early that evening and I didn’t want him to miss it. So I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled as loudly as I could. It sounded like a bird being disemboweled.
Stottlemeyer’s face crunched into a particularly nasty scowl and he marched over to us in a fury.
“I told you that you’re off the Sebes case and I meant it,” Stottlemeyer said.
“This murder has something to do with Bob Sebes?” Monk said.
Disher caught up with Stottlemeyer. “This is my fault.”
He glowered at Randy. “You called Monk?”
“No, I didn’t. Natalie called me. I told her that I couldn’t talk to her now because I was busy at a crime scene in Golden Gate Park. I didn’t tell her it was Duncan Dern.”
I knew the name. I’d read all about him in the Chronicle. It was no wonder that Stottlemeyer was upset to see us there. “Duncan Dern is dead?”
“Try saying that three times fast,” Disher said. “Someone tackled him on his morning jog, strangled him with their gloved hands, and dragged his body into the brush.”
“Why are you telling these civilians about the case?” Stottlemeyer said, rubbing his temples. “It is none of their business.”
“Sorry,” Disher said. “Force of habit.”
“Who was Duncan Dern?” Monk asked.
“He ran the largest feeder fund that brought new investors into Sebes’ Ponzi scheme,” I said. “He earned millions in fees and all his clients lost everything.”
Monk cocked his head to one side. “Why was he strangled?”
“Maybe because somebody wanted to kill him,” Disher said. “That’s a wild guess on my part.”
“But why not shoot him or stab him or beat him to death with a blunt object, like a rock, a baseball bat, or a crowbar? Strangulation seems like an awfully time-consuming and personal method of killing.”
“We are not having this conversation, Monk,” the captain said. “If Dern wasn’t what brought you down here, what did? We’re kind of busy right now.”
“We just wanted to thank Randy personally for getting us great jobs,” I said. “And to tell him how well our first day went.”
Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows and faced Disher. “You got them jobs?”
Disher shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is to us,” I said.
Stottlemeyer nodded in agreement. “It was a hell of a nice thing you did, Randy. What kind of jobs are you doing?”
“We’re in the fashion industry,” I said.
“I have style,” Monk said.
“You certainly do, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Sorry about hauling off on you like that. I didn’t know about the new jobs. Congratulations.”
“That’s okay, Captain,” Monk said. “You’re under a lot of pressure at work and your home life is a living hell.”
“Actually, things are a lot better at home now. I’ll let you have a minute with Randy.” The captain leaned close to Disher. “Do not say another word to them about this case.”
The captain went back to the body.
“We didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I thrive under pressure. How did it go at Fashion Frisson?”
“Really well,” I said.
“Except for the man with all the body hair,” Monk said. “And the man who bought a blouse for himself.”
“Isn’t Kiana great?” Disher said. “She has incredible taste in music.”
I let that comment pass unmolested as a courtesy to Disher. “We came down here because Mr. Monk wanted to return the favor you did for us by giving you a present.”
“That’s really thoughtful,” Disher said. “But I have enough Q-tips to last me for a lifetime.”
“You can never have too many Q-tips,” Monk said. “But this is something different. It’s a jewelry heist.”
And then Monk told him everything. Disher couldn’t take the notes down fast enough in his little notebook.
“This is huge,” Disher said. “Thank you so much.”
Monk shrugged. “It was nothing.”
“Maybe for you, Monk, but nobody else would have seen those details and put them together the way you did. And nobody else would have given the bust to me.”
“I’m not a police officer,” Monk said. “You are.”
“This is so much better than the birthday present that you got me that I’m going to say that this is the birthday present instead.”
“What was wrong with Q-tips?”
“They’re fabulous,” Disher said. “But this arrest could get me a promotion.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Then you can hire us.”
We walked away. We hadn’t gone two feet before Monk whispered to me.
“Sebes is the guy.”
“I know, Mr. Monk. I just hope you can prove it before anybody else gets killed.”
I regretted the words the instant I’d said them.
“So now I’m responsible for everyone he kills until I solve the case. Just what I needed, added pressure and a healthy dose of guilt. Thanks a lot, Natalie. I wasn’t nearly frustrated and miserable enough.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Monk. I didn’t mean it that way. I know you are doing your best.”
I immediately regretted saying that, too.
“That’s just it. I’m not. Instead of investigating these murders, I’m making pizzas and selling clothes.”
I decided to keep my mouth shut because everything I said was coming out wrong. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault—it was the economy that was the big obstacle. If he was still a police consultant, he’d have access to the crime scenes, the evidence, and the suspects and have a real shot at proving how Sebes committed three murders while under house arrest and constant surveillance.
But now, broke and homeless, working odd jobs, and completely shut out of the case, it was nearly impossible for Monk to prove the impossible was possible.
That wasn’t going to stop him from trying. Monk couldn’t stop if he wanted to. I knew his mind was still churning over the details of every crime scene, of everything he’d seen and heard and that most of us probably missed.
Monk stopped a few feet away from my car, which was stained with bird crap and some kind of berries from the overgrown tree I’d parked under.
“You go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll get a taxi to Dr. Bell’s office.”
“You can’t afford a taxi. Get in the car.”
“I can’t. I’ll walk.”
