by Hy Conrad
“On my desk?” He took the envelope and unfolded it. “Captain Leland Stottlemeyer” was hand printed in block letters, the three words underlined.
Whatever Monk and I had been doing before, we were suddenly on alert. So was the captain. It was experience that taught us this, but also common sense. If you’re a police captain and someone just made an attempt on your life, and the next morning there’s a hand-delivered envelope on your desk … What kind of idiot wouldn’t be suspicious?
Monk was at the bedside before me. Out of nowhere, like a magician, he produced a ziplock baggie. Without a word, the captain slipped the envelope inside and sealed it shut. “Lieutenant? What the hell?”
Monk was just as furious. “The second you saw it, you should have bagged it with tweezers. What is wrong with you?”
“What?” said A.J. “Is something wrong? I thought it was a get-well card.”
“A get-well card?” said Stottlemeyer. “On my desk? After a murder attempt? It’s not even the same size as a get-well card.”
“You want gloves?” Monk asked the captain. “I’ve got gloves.”
Stottlemeyer mulled this over. “What the hell, sure. I’m already in a hospital.”
A pair of clear vinyl gloves, size large, came out of Monk’s inner jacket, probably from the same reservoir that had held the baggie. As Stottlemeyer put them on and unzipped the baggie, we all instinctively took a step back.
He used a knife from his set-aside food tray to slice open the bottom of the envelope, just in case there might be any DNA on the glued flap. He pulled out a single sheet of paper, carefully unfolding it. All our eyes were focused. If there was any dusting of gray powder, we didn’t see it. The captain cleared his throat and read aloud the two handwritten sentences.
“You and Oberlin stole seven years of my life. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”
CHAPTER TEN
Mr. Monk Loses a Client
It’s funny how killers, even smart ones, can’t resist helping you out. After “the night of the umbrellas,” as I call it, we suspected the motive might be revenge for some case Stottlemeyer and the judge had been involved with. What other connection could there be? Not only did this note confirm that, but it gave us a time frame. Seven years.
“It doesn’t have to be seven years ago,” said Monk. “It could be ten years ago and the killer has been postponing it for three.”
“Postponing it,” I asked. “Why would you postpone revenge?”
“Maybe he’s been planning it carefully. Or he’s been sick.”
This was Monk, as logical as ever. He was at his desk, the mirror image of mine except that he’d removed his computer from the desktop and packed it away in triple plastic wrap in a closet. I’d been surprised by this offense against the laws of symmetry. But I think my partner had grown annoyed that this mysterious, unusable machine was taking up so much space. His desk now looked like it had been time-traveled from somewhere in the forties, with a blotter in the center—remember blotters?—two holders, one for pens, one for pencils, an in-basket, and a matching out-basket, both of them empty.
It was a day later and the captain was still in the hospital. The doctors had revised his prognosis down slightly. They were concerned about the possibility of heart damage and had connected him up to a cardiac monitor. A patrol officer was assigned to his door, which was probably unnecessary since Trudy Stottlemeyer had returned and taken command of the room like a mother grizzly.
As for the note, the department’s forensics unit had come up empty. Lieutenant A.J. was investigating what civilians might have had access to the captain’s desk during the time in question. And since the firm of Monk and Teeger had been involved in most of the captain’s big cases in the past ten years, we had been retained to check into those cases—and our memory banks—for leads.
I had just cross-referenced a list of trials involving Judge Oberlin of the California State Superior Court and Captain Stottlemeyer of the SFPD. I tried to be generous with the dates, not to let any possibility slip through. There were nine cases that could fit the time frame, some of them with multiple defendants. I printed out a brief summation of each case, slipped them into a manila folder, and centered the folder in Monk’s in-basket.
“Why isn’t he trying to kill us, Natalie?”
“Excuse me?” I actually knew what he was talking about, but I guess I wanted him to lay it out.
“Our thallium killer didn’t mention us. If it was a case we were part of, wouldn’t he want to kill us, too?”
“What’s the matter? Are you feeling left out?”
“Just curious.”
“Maybe he does intend to kill us but doesn’t want to give us advance warning. Feel better?”
“Or maybe it was a case we weren’t involved in. The killer said seven years. Didn’t we go to Germany seven years ago?”
“Was that only seven years?” I wondered out loud. “Seems like a lifetime.”
In some ways it was a lifetime ago. That was back when Monk’s first psychiatrist, Dr. Kroger, was alive, long before Monk had solved his own Trudy’s murder. Back then he was still dependent on his sessions with Charles Kroger—three times a week on a good week. So when the doctor left to go to a medical conference in Germany, Monk felt he had no choice. He drugged himself on antianxiety meds and booked us on the next flight. Between solving a few murders in Germany and a few more in Paris, it wasn’t what you’d call a vacation. But the adventure did take us away from the San Francisco criminal court system. That month or so for us was a blank spot.
“Did the captain testify in any cases in front of Judge Oberlin while we were gone?” Monk had already picked up the folder. He flipped through the pages and found the dates quickly enough. “Huh,” he said, examining the few paragraphs of sketchy detail. “Two cases. Both with the captain as lead investigator, both pleaded in front of Judge Nathaniel Oberlin, and both ending up in convictions. Who knew?”
I smiled. “It seems the captain is capable of making arrests and getting convictions without you.”
“I never doubted it. Leland is a competent professional, one of the very best.” Monk rotated his shoulders in a little shrug. “But you’re right, Natalie. I’m surprised.”
“So these are the cases we focus on,” I suggested. “I’ll call Lieutenant Thurman and get the complete files.”
“Thurman?” Monk shuddered. “What a moronic jerk. And I say that with full apologies to all the moronic jerks who maybe aren’t quite as bad.”
“Don’t work yourself up, Adrian.”
“I’m not working myself up.”
“Like it or not, we have to get used to him. The captain is going home for some bed rest. Until he’s back at full capacity, A.J. is in charge.”
“In charge?” Monk moaned. “No, that’s unacceptable. What about Lieutenant Devlin? She can come back, at least until the captain is safe.”
“I already asked her. She said no.”
“What about Randy Disher? He can come back.”
Randy had been the captain’s number two for years, until he’d found a better job on the other side of the country. “Randy’s a police chief in New Jersey. He’s not coming back.”
“You don’t know that. Okay, what about Lieutenant Devlin?”
“I just told you.”
“Okay, what about Randy Disher? I’m giving you all these options.”
“Adrian, stop it.”
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my cardigan. I pulled it out and checked the display. It was Timothy O’Brien’s office, returning my call.
“What about you, Natalie? You could be a temporary lieutenant. I’ll talk to the commissioner.”
“I have to take this,” I said, and headed out the door. “Meanwhile, breathe deeply and count to one hundred. We’ll figure a way to work with A.J.”
I didn’t want to walk out with Monk still in that state, but I had no choice. I made my way down the sidewalk past the door to Paisley Printing.
I followed my own advice and took a deep breath.
“Hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Teeger. Thanks for getting back to me. Is it possible to get an appointment with Mr. O’Brien today? I know it’s late notice. I’m filing for a divorce and one of my girlfriends at the Metropolitan Club …”
I think it was mentioning the Metropolitan Club that did the trick. Places don’t get much richer or snootier than this Waspy bastion on Union Square. O’Brien’s assistant managed to squeeze me in for a consultation that afternoon at two.
The call couldn’t have taken more than three minutes. I spent an extra minute or two standing there, thinking about Sue. She had come to me in her hour of need and I’d reassured her, made her believe I knew what I was doing. Now I had to go back inside and tell Monk what I should have told him yesterday.
Disappearances shouldn’t be taken lightly. I had already driven by the O’Brien house twice, once last night after dropping off Trudy and once this morning. In both cases, Sue’s BMW had not been in the driveway. She wasn’t registered in any local hotels or hospitals. And her cell phone was still out of service. I didn’t know where else to check. If I could just get Monk to join me in my meeting with O’Brien …
When I walked back into the office, he was on the phone. “The captain needs you, Randy. Someone’s trying to kill him and you’re the only one. You can take a leave of absence. And Natalie has a spare bedroom.”
I dove for my phone, pushed an extension button, and got in on the call. “Randy. Hi, it’s Natalie.”
“Natalie.” The last time I’d spoken to Randy Disher, he’d been in bad shape. This was after he’d falsely accused his local mayor of murder and become the town’s laughingstock. His own officers had taken to making crank calls and luring him to nonexistent crime scenes. At the time, Randy was talking seriously about coming home to San Francisco, a move I was totally against. “I hear the captain needs me,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I mean, it’s nothing Adrian and I can’t handle.”
“If someone’s trying to kill Leland and I can help, of course I’m going to be there. You couldn’t keep me away.”
“Randy, you have your own town to keep safe. And Sharona. We don’t want to take you away from Sharona.”
Sharona Fleming, for those who don’t know, had once been Monk’s nurse, back when he needed a full-time nurse in order to survive the chaos of this world. She was now back in her home state of New Jersey, working in a hospital and sharing her life with Randy.
“Sharona will be glad to get rid of me for a week or so. I haven’t been very good company.” He lowered his voice. “And I think she’s getting a cold. I don’t want to catch her cold.”
“You don’t want to be there to take care of her?” I asked.
“Have you ever been around Sharona when she’s sick?” It was a rhetorical question.
“I told Randy about the cases from seven years ago,” said Monk, who couldn’t help smiling. “He remembers them both. He’ll be an invaluable asset.”
It didn’t take a genius to see what Monk was up to. “The captain is safe,” I assured the ex-lieutenant. “We have all the notes from the investigations and the trials. There’s no reason—”
“But that can’t substitute for someone who was there. I helped put these scumbags away, remember? What are their names again? Monk said, but I didn’t write it down.”
“He wants to do it for Leland,” my partner emphasized.
“It’ll be like old times,” said Randy. “I’ll be on the first flight I can get. See you tomorrow.” And he hung up.
“I know what you’re up to.” This time I said the words out loud. Very loud. “So, you’re willing to disrupt Randy’s life and lure him back just so you don’t have to deal with A.J.? Are you really that selfish?”
“Randy wants to move back. We just have to make it easy. Once he’s at Captain Stottlemeyer’s side again, he’ll realize—”
“You want Randy to give up his dreams and everything he’s achieved just so you can feel more comfortable.”
“Sure, you can make anything seem bad when you sneer like that.”
“And what about Sharona?”
“She’ll give up her job and move back with him. She can be our office assistant.”
“I’m calling Randy right now. I’m telling him your plan.”
“No, don’t,” pleaded Monk, his palms pressed together. “We really need him. Honest. If this is connected to a case, one that happened while we were away in Germany …”
He had a point. Under any other circumstances, I would have welcomed a professional visit from Randy. “Okay. But just temporary. As soon as this guy is caught and the captain is safe …”
“It’s a deal. You’re my hero, Natalie.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“No, I mean it. That’s what being partners is all about, helping out the other person even when you think he’s wrong.”
“I’m glad to hear you say it, Adrian, about helping each other. That makes this next part a lot easier.”
• • •
Monk still managed to be furious with me. Even after I reminded him that partners help each other out, he still pouted and threatened to leave me on my own. “We don’t handle divorces,” he whispered again, as we sat in the polished waiting area of Smith, Willard & O’Brien.
“Well, it’s not a divorce now. It’s a missing person.”
“You still shouldn’t have done it.”
“I know, Adrian. And you’re my hero.”
It was a few minutes after two when the phone on the receptionist’s desk buzzed. She reluctantly put down her sudoku puzzle, said a few words into the receiver, and guided us down the hall to the closed door of a corner office. She knocked gently, then opened it.
I don’t think I’ve described Timothy O’Brien yet. He was a large man—not particularly overweight, just large and imposing—with the remains of a head of Irish red hair around the rear and sides, cut short in a stylish way. When he smiled, I imagined his face could look quite handsome. But he wasn’t smiling.
“Mrs. Teeger?” He made it all the way around his mahogany desk to shake my hand. “I was led to believe this would be a private consultation. About a family matter, I was told.”
“Mr. O’Brien, this is my associate, Adrian Monk.”
“I’ve heard of Adrian Monk, of course,” said Timothy. He didn’t reach out to shake Monk’s hand, which was just as well. “Unless my assistant has become unforgivably sloppy, I take it this appointment was made under false pretenses. You are not in the market for a divorce, am I right?”
“I apologize,” I said. “I needed to see you right away.”
“And without my knowing the purpose of your visit.”
“Mr. O’Brien,” said Monk, “I see that you’re not wearing a wedding ring. Do you have any idea where your wife is?”
“My wife?”
“Your wife, Susan, has been missing for almost two days. One day and twenty hours to be precise. I know she told you about having a sick aunt in San Diego. That was a canard fabricated by Mrs. O’Brien and Natalie here.”
“Mr. Monk, I’m gay.”
“That’s what Natalie tells me. Do you think your wife suspected?”
“Suspected?” O’Brien stared at Monk over the top of his rimless half reading glasses. He pressed a button on his phone console. “Gayle, can you come in here?”
Her office must have been right next door, since it took Gayle Greenwald less than thirty seconds to arrive in his doorway. This was the first time I’d seen her close-up and in office lighting. She was older than I’d originally thought—almost Sue’s age, attractive with highlighted brown hair. Not quite the husband bait I’d imagined.
“Gayle, this is the brilliant detective Adrian Monk. He wants to know where my wife is.”
“Your wife?” Gayle laughed. “You were never married, were you? I’ve known you since law school. I was there when you met your first boyfr
iend, Frank. Kind of a pretentious jerk, although I never said so.”
“Agreed. He preferred to be called Francis, which should have been a clue.”
O’Brien was nodding his head while I shook mine. “No, that can’t be right. A woman came into my office. Susan Puskedra O’Brien. She told me her life story. She said she was your wife and that you were having an affair. The two of you.”
“You mean Timothy and me?” asked Gayle. She laughed. “Maybe we should have. It would have saved me from a bad marriage.”
“Yes,” Timothy agreed. “Then you would have had two bad marriages.” They were both treating this as a joke. Maybe it was.
Monk turned to me, scowling. “Did anyone meet this Sue, besides you?”
“I don’t think so, but …”
“Did she show any ID? Do you have a photograph of her? An e-mail address? A business card?”
“Yes, a card,” I said, and began to rummage through my bag. “When we first met.” I pulled out the card triumphantly and handed it to O’Brien.
“Susan O’Brien,” he said. “With a phone number only.”
Monk leaned my way. “You didn’t have her fill out a client form or sign a contract?”
“No. I didn’t want you finding out.”
“Did she pay you, at least?”
“I was going to bill her at the end of the week.”
“Great, just great. Thank you, Natalie. You’re my hero.”
It seemed that Monk was getting better at sarcasm every day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mr. Monk and the Clean Sweep
Puskedra. I should have known when she gave me that name.
“How could you not know?” Monk demanded.
“I don’t know,” I moaned. “I take things at face value. A sympathetic woman walks through the door and talks about her cheating husband. Why would she invent a story like that?”
“She didn’t walk through the door,” he corrected me. “She was on the street, casing the joint. You’re the one who pulled her inside and got her talking about her quote, husband, unquote. You made it easy for her.”
On our drive back to the mini-mall, I told him everything, every detail I could remember about our nonexistent client. “Made what easy? What did she do?”