by Lee Goldberg
“Dr. Bell’s office is on the other side of the city. It will take you hours to walk there. You’ll miss your appointment.”
“Okay, I’ll wait here while you buy a new car.”
“I can’t afford a new car. The car may be dirty on the outside but it’s clean on the inside.”
“There’s no such thing. I can’t get into that car. It would be suicide.”
I took out my cell phone and called Randy, even though he was only a few yards away. I didn’t want to provoke Stottlemeyer but I needed a favor from Randy. I apprised him of the situation and reminded him of the big favor Monk had just done for him. Randy agreed to have a patrolman drive Monk to Dr. Bell’s office for me.
While Monk waited for his ride, I went to a quickie drive-thru gas station and car wash and then headed to the McDonald’s near Dr. Bell’s office for a cup of McCheapo McCoffee.
I was just about to walk into the McDonald’s when my cell phone rang. It was Dr. Bell, asking me to come to his office right away.
My first reaction was that Monk had suffered a complete mental breakdown and that Dr. Bell needed my help dealing with him. But when I walked into Dr. Bell’s office, I found them both sitting in their leather easy chairs, looking relaxed and contented.
Dr. Bell motioned to the couch opposite them. “Please, have a seat, Natalie.”
I felt like I’d been called into the principal’s office for disciplinary action.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing at all,” Dr. Bell said.
“If you don’t count getting fired, losing my life savings, being evicted from my home, and nearly dying of thirst,” Monk said.
“That’s true, Adrian, but now look at all the good that has come out of those setbacks, losses, and challenges.”
“I don’t see the good. Only the no-good.”
“I’m with Mr. Monk on this one,” I said.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about,” Dr. Bell said. “Adrian told me how you were both on the same wavelength about the mistake Bob Sebes made. That’s a great success.”
“Bob Sebes is still a free man,” Monk said.
“But what happened between you and Natalie represents a major breakthrough, not only in your relationship with her but potentially with other people. You experienced a powerful, intimate connection.”
“I have never had intimate connections with Natalie,” Monk said. “And never will.”
“I second that,” I said.
“Perhaps intimate was the wrong choice of words, but you both know that something special happened between you two. Natalie knew what you were thinking and you knew that she did. You told me yourself, Adrian, that you haven’t experienced a connection like that with anyone since Trudy was killed.”
Monk had told me the same thing at the time but we’d both consciously avoided talking about it. Dr. Bell wasn’t letting us get away with it.
“What do you think about men who dress in women’s clothing?” Monk asked him. “It’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Dr. Bell replied. “Unless you’re telling me that you’ve started wearing women’s clothing.”
“Of course I haven’t.”
“Then let’s focus, shall we? You can’t let this moment slip past you without appreciating its significance and how you can build upon it.”
“You’re making too much out of it. Let’s talk about why anyone in their right mind would eat pizza with their hands. Or let their feet be devoured by raging pestilence.”
“I know you’re uncomfortable dealing with intimacy, but I’m not going to let you run away from this. You’ve opened yourself up to another person, and she’s opened herself up to you, so now it’s possible for you to think like each other, to empathize with each other, to connect on a deeper level. That connection not only strengthens a relationship but gives you invaluable emotional support and comfort in times of extreme stress and uncertainty, like what you two are going through right now. It’s nice to be on the same wavelength with someone, isn’t it?”
Monk shifted in his seat, unable to get comfortable. “It cuts down on the explaining that I have to do.”
“You enjoy the explaining,” I said.
“I enjoy being understood,” he said, shifting some more. “There’s a difference.”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Dr. Bell rubbed his hands together. “So what does it feel like to have someone who understands you, Adrian?”
“Like I’m not so alone.”
“But you aren’t alone,” I said. “You have me, Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Disher, your brother, Ambrose.”
“You could have a lot more people in your life, too, if you use what you’ve learned from this experience,” Dr. Bell said. “Friendships are built on mutual interest and shared intimacy.”
Monk did a full-body cringe.
“You’re misunderstanding me, Adrian,” Dr. Bell continued. “I’m not talking about physical intimacy, I mean sharing personal information about yourself—your history, your hopes, and your fears.”
“My fears are available to anybody who is interested. They are detailed in ten volumes, not including the index. I give all my friends copies.”
“That’s one way of doing it. I’m suggesting a more personal approach. If you allow yourself to be as open with others as you have been with Natalie, I’m sure that you will discover that she isn’t the only person who can be on the same wavelength as you.”
Monk jerked as if zapped by an electrical shock. He cocked his head from side to side, rolled his shoulders, and sat up straight in his seat, staring at nothing and at everything.
I looked at Dr. Bell. “What do you make of that?”
“It’s a strong reaction to something, but I don’t know what it means.”
“I do.” I knew that it meant that everything was about to change for the better.
“There you go, Adrian. Another example of shared intimacy.” Dr. Bell smiled, obviously pleased with how events were unfolding. “So, Natalie, what is his body language telling you?”
“Mr. Monk just figured out how Bob Sebes got out of the house and murdered Russell Haxby, Lincoln Clovis, and Duncan Dern.”
Dr. Bell looked at Monk. “Is she right?”
Monk nodded. “He’s the guy and I can prove it.”
“Well,” Dr. Bell said, clapping his hands, “I think that counts as another breakthrough. What a marvelous session this has been.”
“If you enjoyed it so much, it hardly seems right that I should pay you for it,” Monk said. “This should be a freebie.”
“How do you figure that?” Dr. Bell asked.
“For what I’m paying you, if anyone is having any fun, it should be me and I’m not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mr. Monk Makes a Deal
What Dr. Bell said wasn’t entirely true. I was able to read Monk’s expression but I wasn’t on the same wavelength as him this time. I didn’t know how Sebes had managed to sneak out of his house and murder those people without setting off the tracking device or being spotted by the reporters and cops on the street.
And Monk wasn’t giving me any hints.
“What’s the harm in telling me?” I asked him once we were in my car. “It’s just the two of us.”
“I have a system and part of it is not revealing what happened until the decisive moment with the suspects present. I don’t deviate from my system. Besides, I still have a few things to double- check. Can you take me back home?”
As I drove him back to Ambrose’s house, I realized it might be a very good thing he hadn’t told me how he’d solved the case.
“Promise me you won’t call Captain Stottlemeyer or Lieutenant Disher and tell them anything about the case without clearing it with me first.”
“Why not?”
“Because sometimes you are your own worst enemy and I don’t want you to squander this opportunity.”
“What opportunity is that
?”
“To save yourself,” I said.
The first thing Monk did when he walked into the house was to ask Ambrose if he could see the last few months of the San Francisco Chronicle.
“Of course you can,” Ambrose said. “It’s the last two stacks at the end of aisle eight. But don’t mess up the order.”
Monk headed for the living room. “When have I ever messed up the order of anything?”
Ambrose followed after him. “I find it rather ironic that just yesterday you were suggesting that I throw them all out and now you want them.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight, Mr. Monk,” I yelled. “Don’t call or contact anyone until then.”
I slipped out and made a little detour on my way to my car. I stopped at the junction box outside the kitchen window and disconnected the phone lines. It’s no harder than unplugging a light. You might ask how I knew how to do that. A word to the wise: sometimes it pays to watch what the repairmen do when they come to your house.
I called Captain Stottlemeyer from the car on my way back over the Golden Gate Bridge from Marin County into the city.
“Are you still in Golden Gate Park?”
“I’m back at the station. Why?”
“I need you to take a break and meet me for coffee at the Starbucks by my house.”
“I’m very busy right now, Natalie. You might not have noticed, but I am in the middle of investigating three murders and I’ve got the mayor riding me like a donkey.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”
He sighed wearily. “There’s nothing to talk about. We’re in a financial crisis. We can’t afford Monk and we don’t want his help. I don’t know how many different ways I’ve told you that.”
“Mr. Monk has solved the three murders and Bob Sebes was the killer. He knows how Sebes was able to leave the house undetected and he can prove it. If you’re interested, it will cost you a White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino and a brownie to hear our terms.”
“Your what?”
I hung up and headed for Starbucks.
Stottlemeyer must have used his light and siren, because he got to the Starbucks at the same time I did. But he didn’t look thrilled to see me. His surly mood only made me happier. I had leverage and I intended to use it.
“I don’t appreciate being dragged out of my office so you and Monk can play games.”
“I dragged you out of the office because I can’t afford Starbucks anymore and I’m tired of McCheapo coffee. The games haven’t started yet but I think they’ll be less painful if you’re sipping a nice cup of coffee.”
We ordered our coffees and brownies and didn’t speak to each other again until we got our order and settled down in two wing-backed Queen Anne chairs in the only corner of the room that wasn’t lit by the glow of Mac PowerBooks.
He took a sip of his coffee, frosting his mustache with crème. It was hard to take him too seriously like that.
“Has Monk really solved the murders?”
“He has.”
“Like he solved them yesterday?”
I shook my head. “I told you, he knows how Sebes fooled the tracking device and slipped out of the house without being seen. He’s got him nailed.”
“So why are we here having coffee and not in Bob Sebes’ house hearing Monk’s long-winded summation?”
“Because, as you so gruffly pointed out, Mr. Monk doesn’t work for you anymore. You also made it clear that it was impossible for Sebes to be the killer and that Mr. Monk’s input on the case was no longer welcome.”
“I’ll be sure to apologize to Monk, and thank him for his help, as I’m putting the handcuffs on Sebes.” Stottlemeyer wiped his mustache with a napkin and ate half his brownie in one bite.
“Oh, you will, but that’s not going to happen until our conditions are met.”
“Conditions? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“We want a written agreement, signed by the mayor and the chief of police, guaranteeing Mr. Monk a three- year pay-or-play consulting agreement under the previous payment terms. Upon receipt of that agreement, Mr. Monk will disclose how Bob Sebes pulled off the murders. The agreement will be void if the disclosure doesn’t lead to Sebes being arrested and charged with murder on the basis of the evidence gathered on Mr. Monk’s information. Oh, and we want the district attorney’s office to investigate Mr. Monk’s landlord for illegal eviction of a tenant.”
Stottlemeyer laughed. “Is Starbucks putting liquor in the coffee now? There’s no way the mayor or the chief will agree to those demands.”
I casually sipped my coffee. “I think they will.”
“That shows how little you know about politics. The city is broke. Giving Monk a three-year pay-or-play consultancy agreement would cause a huge uproar, not just within the police union but with the public. It would also send the message that the police are incapable of solving the murders on their own.”
“Which is true,” I said.
“We’ll nail the killer. We’re still in the very early stages of the investigation.”
“Let’s be honest here, Captain. You’re completely and utterly lost. You have no suspects, no evidence, and no case. And while you dither around in all the wrong directions, the witnesses you need to put Sebes in jail and recover the billions of dollars that he swindled are getting killed, one by one. When he walks out of court a free man, what message is that going to send?”
Stottlemeyer finished his coffee. “Nice try, Natalie. As Monk’s friend, I appreciate what you’re trying to do for him. He’s damn lucky to have you. But I’m not going to take your deal upstairs. They would laugh at it and maybe even demote me for being dumb enough to take it to them.”
“Mr. Monk can give you Bob Sebes, not just for the murders but for the financial swindle, too.”
“You’re going way, way over the top now.” Stottlemeyer finished off the other half of his brownie.
“Am I? With a triple-murder charge hanging over his head, Sebes will tell you what he did with every swindled penny if it will keep him from the gas chamber. That would be a public relations bonanza for the city, far overshadowing whatever minor brouhaha giving Mr. Monk a consultancy agreement for his heroic efforts might raise.”
“I’m not convinced that Monk has solved the case,” Stottlemeyer said. “The tracking unit is tamperproof and there’s no way Sebes could walk out of that house without the mob of reporters seeing him. I also know that Monk has taken a lot of hits in the last week or so that have seriously affected his judgment.”
“I understand. If you don’t like the deal, that’s no problem. I came to you first as a courtesy. I’ll go to the feds next and ask for a percentage of the recovered funds as Mr. Monk’s fee. It might even be more lucrative for him than the consultancy agreement.”
I worked on my coffee and brownie for a few moments while Stottlemeyer narrowed his eyes at me and mulled over what I’d said. I tried to appear confident, relaxed, and a little smug, like all my problems had been solved.
“There’s a big flaw in your scheme,” Stottlemeyer said. “If Monk has really solved the crime, he won’t be able to keep the solution to himself. He’ll tell me everything for nothing.”
I shook my head and gave Stottlemeyer my best poker face. “Not this time. He’s lost too much and he is too hurt by your lack of confidence in him.”
“He’s the best detective I’ve ever known, but even he’s got to be wrong sometime.”
“This isn’t that time.”
“Let’s say you’re right. We both know that Monk desperately wants to nail Sebes. I don’t need to do anything. He won’t keep quiet waiting for a deal and risk the guy killing someone else in the meantime. He couldn’t live with that on his conscience.”
“That’s true. That’s why this deal has an expiration date of noon tomorrow. If we don’t hear from you by then, the feds get the arrest and you, the chief, and the mayor get egg on your faces.” I got up and wiped the br
ownie crumbs off my pants. “Mr. Monk has never been wrong about murder before. You should think about that. So should your bosses. Thanks for the coffee, Captain.”
I walked out. There was nothing more to talk about, plus I wasn’t sure how long I could maintain my poker face under the glare of an experienced interrogator.
This was more than just a homicide investigation now. It was my house, food on the table, my daughter’s college education, and Monk’s financial future that were at stake here.
Our salvation depended on Monk proving the impossible was possible, and on the chief, the mayor, and the captain being desperate and frightened enough to believe that he could.
I hoped that wasn’t asking too much.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mr. Monk Gets Wet
I hardly slept that night. I was too keyed up thinking about the endgame that I knew would play out the next morning. No matter what happened, Sebes would end up behind bars. The big question mark was whether Monk and I would be able to leverage the situation to save ourselves.
It all depended on what Monk did or didn’t do.
Could I convince Monk to keep his mouth shut until it could do us the most good?
I wasn’t sure that I could.
Monk’s eagerness to nail Sebes, and announce the solution to the mystery, might trump his self-interest . . . and mine.
The news about Duncan Dern’s murder was all over the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle. One of the articles focused on the impact the murder would have on prosecuting Sebes for his Ponzi scheme. Several pundits opined that the case against Sebes could fall apart before it ever got to the courtroom.
I was pleased by the news, not because I wanted Sebes to get away with his crimes but because it put even more pressure on law enforcement to accept my offer before things got even worse.
On my way out to Tewksbury, I called Kiana at Fashion Frisson and let her know that we wouldn’t be coming in for personal reasons and that I wouldn’t blame her if she fired us for letting her down. But she took the news with giddy nonchalance.
