Mr. Monk Helps Himself

by Hy Conrad

“How did Devlin get them?”

  “She worked her charm.”

  “Is this the same Devlin?”

  “She went out of her way, okay? She’s on my side, Adrian, like you should be.”

  “All right, I’ll look at the files.”

  “Thank you.” I would have been even more grateful if I’d thought he was paying the slightest attention. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re playing with something in your pocket.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. What is that? Is that the remote for the toilet?”

  “No. What makes you think … ?”

  A second later, when the toilet flushed and the music started to play, I punched him on the arm. Then I punched him on the other arm, just to make it symmetrical.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mr. Monk Gets Mail 2.0

  Monk had promised to examine the file, and I meant to hold him to it.

  Years ago, I memorized his morning routine. Shower. Exfoliate. Shower again. Floss. Brush teeth. Exfoliate the gums, whatever that means. That’s just the first twenty minutes of a two-hour process, starting at six a.m. on the dot—except for daylight saving time. That’s when the whole schedule gets pushed up to seven a.m., although Monk would argue that he’s still starting off at six while the rest of the world plays fast and loose with the natural order.

  Except for emergencies, like crime scenes or death threats or the menace of a spider or aardvark, the routine is sacred. I remember one night when the city underwent a blackout. By the time Monk woke up, he was eight minutes behind. For the entire rest of the day, he was exactly eight minutes behind and we had to reschedule a meeting with the mayor from four to four-oh-eight in the afternoon.

  I had calculated exactly when to knock on his door the next morning. I had to squeeze in after he finished his routine, but before Captain Stottlemeyer showed up to discuss the clown-Cemedrin case. Our secret team was having as many meetings as possible outside the station, just to be safe. I tacked on an extra ten minutes for Monk to play with his toilet and arrived at the perfect moment.

  “Well?” I was sitting across from him, the file on the coffee table between us.

  Monk thumbed through the paper-clipped pages. “The good news is motive,” he said. “All of Miranda’s money will be taken by the courts to pay off her embezzlement. The same with the assets of the cult of the Best Possible Her.”

  “Best Possible Me.”

  “Sorry. Best Possible You.”

  “Whatever.” I’m not always sure how much of Monk’s behavior is naturally irritating and how much is an act. This, I’m pretty sure, was an act. “Go on.”

  “It looks like the Bigleys, alive or dead, will be wiped out.”

  “So where’s the motive?”

  “Insurance,” Monk said. “Miranda had three policies, one personal, one as CEO of the company, and one as president of the nonprofit.”

  “Her insurance pays out for a suicide?”

  There was a case we had worked on a few years ago. I don’t think I’ve ever written about it. But a famous ventriloquist was deeply depressed and in debt and committed suicide. He tried to make it look like murder—specifically, a mugging gone bad—so that his wife would get the insurance payout.

  The wife, it turned out, had no clue about the suicide and wound up being at the wrong place at the wrong time. She came to Monk when the San Francisco police arrested her for her husband’s murder. It was one of those impossible crimes where no on else could have done it. Except the victim, who just happened to be a ventriloquist.

  The ending was bittersweet. The woman was exonerated by Monk’s brilliant work. But she lost the insurance settlement and wound up broke. She never could pay her bill.

  “Some policies will,” he informed me. “In Miranda’s case, there were suicide provisions. After you have the policies three years, your heirs can claim full suicide benefits.”

  “All of her policies were like this?”

  “Not so unusual,” said Monk. “I have four policies like that myself.”

  This could have been the start of a two-hour conversation about Monk and insurance and his beneficiaries, et cetera. You’ll be glad to hear that I refrained from going there.

  “So, all three of Miranda’s policies pay out.”

  “Yes. And since Damien inherits as an individual and not as a part of Best Possible You, he won’t be forced to pay off the debts. It’ll be his, free and clear. A little more than five million.”

  “You see?” I felt vindicated. “That’s a great motive. Kill the wife and start a new life with your mistress and a ton of money.”

  “Now all we need is a murder. That’s the bad news that comes with the good news.”

  I’d been prepared for this, but it still stung. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m ninety-seven percent sure, yes.”

  “Ninety-seven percent?” All right, there was hope. “What’s the three percent?”

  “Allowing for the existence of magic.”

  “No. There has to be something or you wouldn’t have said three percent. What is it?”

  Monk rolled his eyes. “The cult leader’s cell phone. When the body washed up, they found a cell phone twisted in one of her pockets.”

  “I remember from the report. Is this important?”

  “Not important. Three percent.” He twisted his neck and rolled his shoulders. “It seems slightly odd to make a premeditated jump with a cell phone on you. Most jumpers divest themselves of things—glasses, wallets, phones. It’s not like you’re going to twitter your fans when you’re freefalling off a cliff.”

  “So, what does that mean?”

  “It means nothing. It means ninety-seven percent instead of a hundred. Still …”

  “Still what?”

  “It might be a good idea to check with the phone company. See if any calls were made to the woman’s cell phone after she died. Between her jump and when the body washed up”

  “And if I find something? If someone called her phone? You’ll be willing to work on the case?”

  Monk responded by growling under his breath. He actually growled. It might have even developed into a bark, but we were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Captain Stottlemeyer.

  “Monk, Natalie.” He walked in, right past us. “Bad news about the Harrimans.”

  Okay. Time to change gears. From the suicide to the Cemedrin murders. Just like that. Dealing with multiple cases seemed to be a regular part of our lives.

  “Devlin couldn’t find a motive,” Monk guessed.

  “None. Neither John nor Alicia had any connection to the oh-nine victims.”

  The captain settled into Monk’s favorite white leather chair. “The first, you might recall, was Craig Tuppering, a nine-year-old boy in Damien’s Point. He woke up one morning complaining of a headache. His mother thought the boy was faking it and didn’t want to go to school. But she gave him a Cemedrin just in case. Two hours later, little Craig was dead.

  “The second case was two days later. A girl in Excelsior got hit on the head by a softball. Ginny Costello.” The captain knew all the names, probably by heart from 2009. I half remembered them myself; the cases had been that traumatizing for the city. “Her Little League coach gave her two Cemedrins and sat her out for the rest of the game. An hour after her team won, Ginny died.

  “This time the medical examiner could trace it. The poison was quick-acting and Ginny hadn’t eaten anything that morning except the pills. Within twelve hours, the city was on alert. Within twenty-four, the parent company had cleared the shelves of their product.

  “The third victim was Harold Luckenby. He was an older man, a Vietnam veteran who lived alone and was a bit of a hoarder. Hated spending money or throwing things out. His daughter came by every day to check on him. Harold regularly took pain relievers for his arthritis. She discussed the scare with him. She made him promise to throw away any bottle
of Cemedrin. The next day, she came and found him dead in front of the TV. All because he wouldn’t throw things away.”

  The three tainted bottles had been bought from two drugstores in the Mission District, both of them Walgreens. So had the two other tainted bottles that were caught in time. The police deduced, from the estimated dates of purchase, that the bottles had been tampered with and placed on the shelves two weeks before the first death.

  “The Harrimans had been in San Francisco during that period,” Stottlemeyer continued, still not referring to any notes. “Along with eight hundred thousand other citizens.”

  “And they had no connection to any of the victims,” I said, just to be sure.

  “None. And according to their insurance records, neither Harriman has been treated for any mental or emotional disorders, which doesn’t rule out anything. Jeffrey Dahmer had a clean bill of health, as far as I know. Look what happened to him.”

  “How about their investments?” Monk asked.

  The captain scowled. “You mean the Harrimans’?”

  “They were both stockbrokers at that point. Did they have any investments that might have profitted from the Cemedrin scare? Did they own stock in a rival company like Tylenol? Or in a rival drug store like CVS?”

  “Are you saying they killed three people, including two kids, just to manipulate the stock price?”

  “It’s money,” Monk said. “People kill for it. And they had no idea that kids would die, only that someone would.”

  The captain shook his head. “I’ll get Devlin on it. If it was a business investment, there’d be a record at their brokerage house. If they did it on their own, there are all sorts of ways to hide it.”

  “How about their tax returns?” I said. “If there was any profit or loss declared from a transaction …”

  “And how do you suggest getting their returns?” the captain asked. “You can’t even make presidential candidates show their returns. The whole point, Natalie, is for us to get a warrant without arousing their suspicions.”

  “Oh. Right.” I’m sure I would have known this if I’d spent the weekend studying for my PI exam instead of eavesdropping and getting a massage. My embarrassment was tempered by the ringing of Monk’s bell.

  “Adrian?” came a voice from the other end of Monk’s intercom. It was Andrew, the mailman. “Got a package for you to sign for.”

  “Is it from Japan?” Monk asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Monk was disappointed. But he started down the stairs, leaving the front door open behind him. Stottlemeyer watched him go, then lowered his voice. “Monk tells me you spent the weekend in Half Moon Bay.” His tone sounded a little accusing.

  “Not that it’s anybody’s business. But yes.”

  “And that you’re trying to make her suicide into something more.”

  “Adrian thinks it might be more,” I said. “He’s going to help me look into it.”

  “Don’t do this, Natalie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you admired this woman. But this clown case is big. We have families still looking for answers. Not to mention me and Devlin putting our jobs on the line. If it blows up and the FBI discovers we were withholding evidence in one of their biggest cases—”

  “We can handle more than once case,” I assured him. “We do it all the time.”

  “Maybe. But we need his full attention. I can’t order you to stop—”

  “That’s right. You can’t.”

  “But I can appeal to you as a friend. There’s a lot on the line. Life is not just about you and your personal fulfillment, no matter what this guru told you.”

  I was thrown by his attitude, to say the least. And it really hurt. Miranda’s philosophy wasn’t about selfishness. It was about taking control over your choices. And that’s what I thought I was doing here, taking some control.

  “Natalie?” Monk was coming back up the stairs, holding the open box Andrew had just delivered, about twice the size of a shoebox but shallower. There was confusion in his voice.

  “What is it?” But I already knew. “Mystery package?”

  He held it out and I reached in past the bubble wrap. “Stones.”

  “The handwriting is the same,” he said. “Addressed to Mr. A. Monk. And there’s no note or return address, like the other.”

  “You mean like the Confederate money?” Stottlemeyer said, pushing his way to see. “Put it down. It could be dangerous.”

  “No, I had Andrew open it. There’s no bomb. Just stones.”

  “Stones?” Stottlemeyer took the package anyway, brought it in, and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Who would send you anonymous stones?”

  Before unwrapping the stones, Monk insisted that we put on rubber gloves. He kept them in a drawer in all our sizes—small, medium, and large.

  Neither the captain nor Monk knew what they were dealing with, but I did. Flat, black volcanic stones with rounded edges. Eight of them of various sizes. “They’re massage stones,” I said.

  “Massage stones?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “It’s a technique where they heat up stones and massage you with them,” I explained. “From Japan, I think.”

  “Then it must be good,” Monk said. “Except the massage part.” He shivered with disgust, then turned to me. “How do you know this? What kind of massage did this Teresa give you?”

  “A hot-stone massage,” I said. “You don’t think … Why would she send me stones?”

  Monk was already checking the postmark. This time it was inked and clear. “Hot Springs, Arkansas. It wasn’t Teresa.”

  “Who is Teresa?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “She’s Damien Bigley’s mistress,” I told him. “And she was involved in Miranda’s suicide.”

  “Says you,” Monk scoffed.

  “Says me,” I confirmed. “Where was the Confederate money sent from? Could your guys lift the postmark?”

  “They could,” Stottlemeyer said. “I got their report this morning. Tupelo, Mississippi.”

  “Not Hot Springs, Arkansas.”

  “But the same person sent both,” Monk said. “The handwriting is the same.”

  “What are we going to do about this?” I asked the captain.

  “Do about it?” He tilted his head. “Okay, let’s review. You’re receiving anonymous stuff in the mail. There’s no note. There’s no threat. There’s no charge. I’m not sure what we can do to stop this heinous crime spree.”

  “But isn’t it a little weird?” I asked.

  “Last time I checked, weird wasn’t a crime.”

  It was a puzzlement, all right. We get into a case with poisoned money, and a few days later, someone sends Monk a package of Confederate money. We get into a case where I eavesdrop during a hot-stone massage, and days later, someone sends him massage stones. From across the country no less.

  My first thought was that our cases might be connected. This has happened more often than you might think. Dozens of time. It’s almost a pattern. We work on two impossible cases, and by the end, they wind up being parts of the same case. But I really didn’t see how that could be happening this time.

  On the upside, since Monk will never, ever have anything to do with a massage, I now had my own set of massage stones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mr. Monk Skips Lunch

  That afternoon I had a late lunch scheduled with Ellen, just us girls. We’d both been meaning to try the new Peruvian bistro on Steiner, one block over from her Union Street store. This would be the perfect time. Between her rocky relationship with Monk and my weekend at BPM, the two of us had a lot to catch up on.

  This left me just enough time to visit Lieutenant Devlin.

  I found her in Captain Stottlemeyer’s office with the door closed. Ever since we started our special team, this had been our command center. And Devlin was getting more and more used to sitting at the captain’s desk when he was away. She didn’t even get up when
I knocked, but just motioned me inside.

  “Where’s the captain?” I asked.

  “At the courthouse,” she mumbled, then went back to staring at her laptop screen. “He’s throwing a Hail Mary Markowitz.”

  That was our nickname for it: a Hail Mary pass made in front of Judge Mary Markowitz, the most cop-friendly jurist on the San Francisco bench. We’ve gotten a lot of questionable warrants through her. I personally think she has a thing for the captain, even though they’re both happily married.

  “Trying to get a warrant for the garage,” I guessed.

  “Uh-huh. But he can’t tell her about the Cemedrin bottle. All he can show her is our evidence that this clown Smith was blackmailing someone and that he had used the Harrimans’ garage shortly before the alleged blackmail began.”

  “Is he going to mention Monk’s theory that garages are insidious time bombs?”

  “I don’t think it matters what he says. But he’s giving it a shot.” Devlin lowered her laptop lid and emitted a groan. “If we can show the Harrimans profited from the Cemedrin murders, then we can tell her about the bottle and maybe get a warrant. Maybe. Even then we’d have to make the argument that this is our jurisdiction and not the FBI’s.”

  “So, how’s it going?” I asked, pointing at her computer. “Anything?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I suppose we could get a tech in here to hack their financial records, but we’d need a search warrant for that. A search warrant in order to find something that might get us the search warrant we want.”

  I nodded in sympathy—make that empathy, since I was part of the team. “Do you have a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Totally different case.” I cleared my throat. “Do you need a warrant to get the phone records of a deceased person?” I knew the answer from my PI study guide but figured this was a good way to bring up the subject.

  “Not if it’s an active investigation. Why?”

  I sat down in the guest chair and explained about the phone in the pocket and Monk’s three percent hunch.

  “So he thinks someone called Miranda? How is that important? A lot of deceaseds get calls. We had a case last month. The victim got three dozen texts from her BFF in Cincinnati before we called back the number and gave her the bad news.”