by Lee Goldberg
“But he didn’t know about Sparky,” Monk concluded. “The dog charged him, so Breen grabbed the pickax to defend himself.”
That would mean it happened just as Monk described the first time we visited the firehouse.
We were so busy talking, I hadn’t paid much attention to our surroundings, but that changed as we passed between two buildings and a blast of icy wind slapped me awake.
The forest of skyscrapers blocked out what little moonlight there was. The wind whistled between the building, tossing fast-food wrappers and other loose trash, the tumbleweeds of a modern city.
I clutched my jacket tightly around myself. The chill wasn’t the only thing making me shiver. Monk and I seemed to be the only people on the street. It was amazing how fast the Financial District buildings had emptied out. With the exception of the occasional passing car or bus, it felt like we were the last two people on earth.
“What was it that made you realize Breen came to steal firefighting gear?” I asked.
“When we visited the firehouse the first time, I saw a firefighter’s coat on a hanger that was facing the wrong direction,” Monk said. “I fixed it, but it’s bothered me ever since.”
Only Monk would be bothered by something like that. I once made the mistake of accepting a baker’s dozen at Winchell’s, and Monk has been haunted by that thirteenth doughnut ever since.
“Captain Mantooth likes order,” Monk said. “The firefighters know better than to hang a coat on a hanger that’s facing the wrong way. But Breen didn’t. The coat I rehung was the one he stole the night he murdered Esther Stoval.”
“Then his fingerprints will be all over it,” I said.
Monk shook his head. “The coats and helmets are cleaned shortly after every fire to remove the toxins from the smoke.”
If the firemen weren’t so anxious to clean and shine everything, we might have had the evidence we needed to nail Lucas Breen. But now we had nothing, unless Monk had figured out something he wasn’t telling me yet.
“So how are you going to prove that Lucas Breen was in the firehouse?”
Before Monk could answer, someone grabbed me from behind, yanked me into an alley, and put the edge of a very sharp knife to my throat.
“Drop your purse,” a raspy voice hissed into my ear.
Monk turned and his eyes widened in shock. “Let her go.”
“Shut up and get over here or I’ll slit her throat right now.”
Monk did as he was told. We backed deeper into the dark alley. I was afraid to breathe, or even to tremble, for fear the movement would make the blade slice me.
“You,” the attacker said to Monk. “Give me your wallet and your watch.”
Monk took out his wallet, opened it, and began to carefully examine the contents.
“What the hell are you doing?” the mugger said. I was thinking the same thing. Didn’t Monk see the knife to my throat?
“Sorting through my wallet for you,” Monk said.
“I can do that myself,” the mugger said. I could smell the alcohol on his breath and the desperation in his sweat. Or maybe that was my desperation I was smelling.
“But if I do it,” Monk said to the mugger, “I can keep what you’d otherwise throw away.”
“Give me the damn wallet!”
“Obviously you want the money and the credit cards, but I’d like to keep the photo of my wife.” Monk showed him the tiny photo of Trudy.
“Fine, keep it. Give me the rest. Now. Or I’ll slit her throat. I will.”
I felt him shaking with nervous frustration right through the sharp edge of the knife pressed against my skin. All it would take was the slightest increase in pressure and I’d be bleeding.
“Please do as he says, Mr. Monk.”
Monk ignored me and took out a green-and-gold card, holding it up for the mugger to see. “What good is my Barnes and Noble Reader’s Advantage Card to you? You don’t strike me as a big reader. Do you really need a ten percent discount on books? I think not.”
“I’m going to cut her, Goddamn it!” the mugger said. I believed him. He was getting edgier by the second.
“And what about my Ralphs Club Card? What good is it to you? You probably get your discount on groceries by stealing them.”
All of the mugger’s attention was focused on Monk now. I felt the pressure on my neck slacken and his hold on my waist loosen. Without thinking, I grabbed his wrist with one hand, smacked him in the face with the back of my other hand, and stomped on his foot as hard as I could. I felt the bones crack under my heel.
The mugger yelped and released me, dropping his knife. I kicked the knife away, spun around, and drove my knee deep into his crotch. He doubled over and I shoved him headfirst into the wall. The mugger bounced off the wall and dropped flat on his back to the ground. I planted my knee in his crotch, pinned down his arms with my hands, and looked up at Monk.
He was still standing there, absorbed with putting everything back in the right place in his wallet. My heart was pounding and I was breathing hard as the adrenaline surged through me.
“Thanks,” I said. “You were a big help.”
“I was distracting him until you could make your move.”
“My move? What about your move?”
“That was my move.” Monk put his wallet back in his pocket. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“I’d like to know, too.” The mugger groaned.
“Watching my daughter in her tae kwon do class.” I glanced at Monk and jerked my head toward my purse. “You can use my cell phone to call the police.”
“Not yet.” Monk came over and crouched beside me. “Excuse me, Mr. Mugger. Do you work this street a lot? Is this your mugging turf?”
The mugger didn’t answer. I ground my knee into his testicles until he whimpered. I am woman; hear me roar.
“Answer the question,” I said.
The mugger nodded. “Yeah, it’s my patch.”
“Were you working on Friday night?” Monk asked.
“I don’t get a lot of vacation days in my profession,” the mugger said.
“Did one of your victims Friday night include a man named Lucas Breen?”
“Screw you.”
I increased the pressure on his privates. “You’ll have a hard time screwing anything ever again if you aren’t more forthcoming.”
I knew I sounded like a character in a bad cop movie, but I was still riding on adrenaline and pissed off about having a knife to my throat. The tougher I talked, the better I felt and the more the fear began to fade away.
“Yeah, I robbed Breen,” he croaked. His eyes were bulging so much I was afraid they might pop out and bounce away. I eased the pressure I was exerting on him.
“What time did you mug him?” Monk asked.
“I don’t have a watch.”
“You must have stolen hundreds of watches in your career. You never considered keeping one?”
“I don’t have lots of appointments.”
“Was Breen missing anything?”
“He was after I met him,” the mugger said.
“But not before,” Monk said.
“I took his wallet and his watch. I let him keep his wedding ring.”
“Why?” I said.
“Because people are real touchy and stupid about ’em. They’ll risk their lives for their wedding rings.” He looked at Monk. “I’ve never seen anyone do it for a Ralphs Club Card.”
“The savings really add up,” Monk said. “Did you notice anything unusual about Breen?”
“He was in a big hurry, couldn’t wait to give me his stuff,” the mugger said. “And he smelled like smoke, like he just ran out of a burning building or something.”
Monk called Stottlemeyer and, while he was filling him in, a black-and-white the captain sent showed up and two officers jumped out to take care of the mugger. I took the phone from Monk, called my neighbor Mrs. Throphamner, and begged her to take care of Julie for a couple hours while we fol
lowed up on what the mugger told us. Ever since I started working for Monk, Mrs. Throphamner has become used to my frantic calls for emergency babysitting.
We were just finishing up giving our report to the officers when Stottlemeyer showed up and motioned us into his car.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I think it’s time to have another chat with Lucas Breen,” Stottlemeyer said. He made some calls and found out that Breen was still at his office, just a few blocks away.
When we got to the building, Stottlemeyer used the guard’s phone to call up to Breen’s office. He spoke to the secretary and asked if Breen would come down to the lobby to meet with us. When the secretary said that Breen refused, Stottlemeyer smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “Tell him we can have the conversation about Lizzie Draper at his house in front of his wife.”
Stottlemeyer hung up, then motioned to the Boudin Bakery. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee while we’re waiting for Breen to come down?”
I took Stottlemeyer up on his offer and convinced him to sweeten the deal with a fresh sourdough baguette. Monk settled for a warm bottle of Sierra Springs water from my bag.
Five minutes later Lucas Breen emerged from the elevator alone and joined us at our table.
“What’s so important you had to drag me out of my office?” Breen said.
“You didn’t have to come down,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I guess you didn’t want the missus hearing about your affair with Lizzie Draper.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“She’s your mistress,” Stottlemeyer said.
Breen grinned with smug self-confidence and tugged at the cuffs of his monogrammed shirt. “Is that what she says?”
Stottlemeyer shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Breen said.
“We know you bought her a bouquet of flowers from the florist in this lobby,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Do you? I buy lots of flowers from Flo. I buy them for my wife, my secretary, my clients, and to beautify my office. How do you know her bouquet came from me? It could have come from anybody in this building. The woman could even have bought the bouquet here herself.”
“You bought it for her,” Monk said. “Probably the same time you left her your shirt. She was wearing it when we met her. The buttons are monogrammed with your initials.”
“My wife donated some old clothes to Goodwill,” Breen said. “She always hated that denim shirt. Perhaps this woman you talked to enjoys shopping for bargains at secondhand clothing stores.”
“How did you know it was denim?” Monk asked. “We didn’t tell you what kind of shirt she was wearing.”
“The buttons,” Breen said quickly. “Only my denim shirts and short-sleeved sportswear have my initials on the buttons instead of the cuffs.”
“How do you know we weren’t talking about one of your short-sleeved shirts?”
“I’m a happily married man and faithful to my wife, but even if I weren’t, adultery isn’t a crime.”
“But murder is,” Monk said. “You killed Esther Stoval.”
“That’s laughable,” Breen said. “I had no reason to want her dead.”
“Esther knew about your affair and was blackmailing you,” Monk said. “On Friday night you slipped away from the fund-raiser, smothered Esther, and set fire to her house.”
“You’re forgetting that I didn’t leave the Excelsior hotel until midnight,” Breen said.
“Yes, you did, and we can prove it,” Stottlemeyer said. “You were mugged on the street a block away from the hotel. We have the mugger, and we know you reported your stolen credit cards to your bank. But here’s the odd thing: You didn’t report the mugging to the police. Gee, I wonder why.”
Breen sighed wearily. “I briefly stepped out of the hotel for a smoke, and that’s when I was mugged. It hardly qualifies as ‘leaving.’ ”
“Then why didn’t you tell anybody about it?” Stottlemeyer said.
“Because I promised my wife I’d quit smoking. If she knew I was still smoking cigars, she’d have my head.”
“That’s why you didn’t report the mugging? Because you were afraid your wife would find out that you were still smoking?” Stottlemeyer said, incredulity dripping from every word.
Breen absently tugged again at the cuffs of his handmade shirt. I don’t know if it was a nervous habit, or if he just wanted us all to admire his cuff links.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Captain. I didn’t tell the police because I knew the press would pick up on it and the mugging would be all over the news. The last thing I want to do is create the impression that the neighborhood is a hotbed of crime. I have an ownership interest in the Excelsior. We’d lose room bookings, weddings, and convention business. But it’s more than that. I love San Francisco. I don’t want to do anything that might hurt the city’s image or cause a decline in tourism.”
“That’s a good story, and we’re all moved by your civic pride,” Monk said. “But here’s what really happened. You left something behind in Esther’s house. So you stole a firefighter’s coat and helmet in order to go back into the house and get it. But you didn’t know the firehouse had a dog, and when he came at you barking and growling, you killed him with a pickax.”
“Now you’re accusing me of murdering a dog, too?” Breen said. “This is outrageous. Do you have any proof to back up this fantasy of yours?”
“The mugger said you reeked of smoke,” I said.
“Reeked? He sounds like my wife. My God, everybody is antismoking now, even the muggers. Like I said before, I was having a cigar. That’s what he smelled. The wonderful aroma of a Partagas Salamones.”
Breen looked past me, something outside catching his eye. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a bum walking past the window. It was the same bum whom Monk had gifted with a couple dozen Wet Ones, shuffling by in his overcoat, pushing a rickety grocery cart overflowing with garbage. He saw me watching him and flipped me off.
Breen turned to Stottlemeyer, and when he spoke, his tone was much harder than before. “You’ve taxed my patience long enough with this inane inquiry. Make your point and get it over with.”
“Monk is right. You killed the lady and the dog, and you’re going down for it. All four of us sitting here know that,” Stottlemeyer said. “The thing is, since you’re such a booster of the police department and all, I thought I’d give you the chance to cut a deal before we both spend a lot of needless time and expense on this.”
“I heard you were a rising star in the department, Captain, and that you, Mr. Monk, were a brilliant detective. Obviously I was misinformed. I’m deeply disappointed in both of you. We’re done here.”
Breen rose from his seat, acknowledged me with a tip of his head, and walked back to the elevator.
“He’s disappointed in us, Monk.” Stottlemeyer finished his coffee. “I’m crushed; how about you?”
“He’s going to make life hard for you, Captain,” Monk said.
“Not as hard as I’m going to make it for him,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ll get search warrants tonight, and we’ll ransack his home and office for that little item he went back to Esther’s house to get—just as soon as you tell me what that little item is.”
“Something very, very incriminating.”
“Which is . . . ?” Stottlemeyer said.
“Something that points directly, irrefutably, and conclusively to him as the killer.”
“Yes, I get the concept of incriminating,” Stottlemeyer said. “But what is it, exactly, that I should tell the judge that we’re looking for?”
Monk shrugged.
Stottlemeyer looked at Monk, then at me, then back to Monk. “You don’t know?”
“Something so unbelievably damaging to him that he’d literally walk through the red-hot flames of hell to get it back.”
“Well, there go my search warrants,” Stottlemeyer said. “So what you’re basically saying is, we’ve got bupkis.”
13
Mr. Monk Does His Homework
Stottlemeyer drove us back to the Excelsior and used his badge to get my car out of the parking lot for free. It must be nice to have a badge and be able to park wherever you want without worrying about fees or tickets.
I made Monk promise not to say anything to Julie about the attempted mugging. She’d lost her father, and I didn’t want her worrying every time I left the house with Monk that she might lose me next. If Monk had a problem with my lie of omission, he didn’t say anything.
When we got home, lugging in our Pottery Barn purchases, Julie was at the table working on her homework, and Mrs. Throphamner was on the couch watching TV. Mrs. Throphamner’s dentures were on a napkin on the coffee table, facing the TV so they, too, could enjoy Diagnosis Murder.
I introduced Monk to Mrs. Throphamner. “He’s staying with us for a few days.”
She popped her teeth back into her mouth and offered her hand to Monk. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Monk took one look at her hand, which was covered with blisters, and shook the air between them instead.
“Yes, it certainly is,” Monk said, shaking the air enthusiastically. “What happened to your hands?”
“I’ve been tending my roses,” she said. “It’s hard work, but I love it.”
I paid Mrs. Throphamner twelve dollars for babysitting. She stuffed the bills in her cleavage, blew a kiss to Julie, and went home in a hurry so she wouldn’t miss a second of Dick Van Dyke’s sleuthing.
“Mrs. Throphamner’s such a sweet woman,” I said after she left.
“She’s a witch,” Monk said. “Did you see those gnarled hands and her puckered, toothless face?”
Julie giggled happily. She happened to share Monk’s opinion. I thought they were both being cruel.
“She’s old and lonely; that’s all. Her husband spends most of his time lately at their fishing cabin up near Sacramento. She’s had nothing to do the last few months except tend her garden and watch TV.”
Of course, that was also very good for me, because it coincided with my newfound employment with Monk and made her available almost anytime for babysitting. I liked to believe that Mrs. Throphamner and I were doing each other a favor.
