Mr. Monk Helps Himself

by Hy Conrad

  I eyed my Glock, sitting prominently on the bedside table. What if Ellen got hurt? Or killed? That would be a tragedy. For her, obviously, and her family and friends. But also for Monk. He had already lost one woman in his life to a violent death. The loss of a second would be devastating. And I would be indirectly responsible.

  The other option, on the opposite end, was that nothing would happen.

  What if there was no danger at all? I wondered. No Damien-Teresa conspiracy to reveal? What if, like Monk said, we were just a couple of cultists, trying to deny the sad truth about our cult leader? That would have its own implications.

  Among other things, it would mean I probably shouldn’t be a partner, that I don’t have the instincts or skill, and that I should just fade into the background, content with handing out wipes at a crime scene. My expired police badge and all my work in Summit, New Jersey, would suddenly mean nothing. And I’d be back where I’d been nine years ago.

  But at least Ellen would be safe. I had to think of it that way.

  I put the gun away in a drawer. Much better. Then I gravitated to the only reading matter in the room: a three-punch binder filled with fliers from the local restaurants, including a separate section for restaurants that delivered.

  When my phone dinged, I threw down the binder and flew across the room. It was a text from Ellen. “Anyone up for a game of footsie?”

  A second later, it dinged again, this time with a photo. It had been taken under a tablecloth, probably at one of the larger tables facing the sea. It was a shot of a leg in a stylishly distressed pair of jeans curled seductively around a shapely bare brown leg in a white Dansko sandal with a two-inch heel.

  I immediately texted back. “What are you doing?”

  Twenty seconds later. Ding. “Meet and greet. With feet.”

  Yes, of course. The meet and greet. “Hope you had your flash off,” I texted.

  Ding. “Not to worry. This ain’t my first rodeo.” Ten seconds later, she dinged again. “Actually, it is.”

  “BE CAREFUL!” I shot back. Do people take you more seriously when it’s all in caps? I hoped so.

  I knew firsthand the euphoria of being undercover and getting away with a few little jokes. Before you know it, you’ve drawn some unwanted attention to yourself. I could have kicked myself for not warning her.

  I waited a few minutes. But she didn’t text back, which I took as a good sign.

  As long as I was on the phone, I did a quick Facebook check and was just in time to catch a new post from Lieutenant Amy Devlin. “I need a martini. Hold the ice, vermouth, and olive. Make it a double.”

  This made me laugh—not because I wanted her to drink, but because I knew the cause. I checked back on her Timeline and saw her earlier posts for the day. One other mentioned alcohol, one mentioned prescription medication, and one was a copy of the Serenity Prayer, printed over a pair of clasped hands. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change… .”

  I called her up to commiserate.

  “So, how’s Adrian? You guys having fun?”

  She almost reached through the phone and grabbed me by the neck. “You wouldn’t believe it. It was a clown meltdown. How do you deal with him?”

  “I don’t, for now.”

  “Natalie, you have to come back.”

  “I’m not a partner, remember?”

  I felt bad for Devlin and Stottlemeyer. They were people I liked and admired. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have had to abandon them just as Monk was facing down one of his top one hundred. But I was not going back.

  On the other hand, I felt I could use some entertainment. “Okay. Tell me all about your day.”

  And she did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mr. Monk Faces the Lair

  I had seen this coming. With the Cemedrin angle blocked, Monk had been forced to focus on the clown’s murder. Hey, what could go wrong?

  Devlin told me the fun had started that morning at the crime lab when Monk let something slip. He was standing in a corner, averting his eyes, and running out of patience. “You’re not going to find anything on those shoes.” He’d emphasized the word “those” and Stottlemeyer picked up on it.

  The captain’s favorite new technician, Jasmine Patil from New Delhi, was at the steel table, dissecting the size twenty-two soles of a yellow clown shoe, trying to find any connection to the Harriman garage where, according to our theory, Dudley Smith had changed clothes and stumbled upon the bottle of solid cyanide compound. It was a long shot.

  “What do you mean, ‘those’ shoes,” demanded the captain. “You’re saying Smith had other shoes?”

  Monk didn’t answer. But Devlin walked over to a steel desk where she checked an inventory list, then checked again. “There were no other clown shoes in the house.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Monk said meekly. “My mistake.”

  “No,” said Stottlemeyer. “I’m pretty sure it’s our mistake. What other shoes?”

  Monk tried to dismiss it. “Well, look at them,” he said, pointing to the scuffed yellow banana shoes. “They’re old and the soles are cracked. They’re like his everyday clown shoes. For a gig as important as the Harriman party, he would have worn his new red shoes.”

  Stottlemeyer sighed. “What new red shoes, Monk?”

  “The ones in the picture on top of the wicker hamper.”

  It turns out that in the framed photo Monk had never seen, the one Devlin had described to him over the phone, Dudley Smith was wearing shiny red twenty-twos, not the yellow ones. “It was a recent photo,” Monk added. “I called the hospital and found that his alter ego, J. P. Tatters, visited there just two months ago. His first visit.”

  “And this means something?” Devlin asked. But she knew it did.

  “It means,” Stottlemeyer said, “that Dudley Smith probably has a storage unit somewhere or an office or someplace we haven’t searched yet. Isn’t that right, Monk?”

  “Yes, sir. The man had a clown lair.”

  The captain scowled. “You weren’t going to mention this?”

  “I don’t want to go to a clown lair. Don’t make me go.”

  “Let me get this straight. You held back a vital piece of information because you don’t want to go to a clown lair?”

  “If you put it that way, yes. A thousand times yes.”

  “No, it can’t be,” Devlin protested. “I checked. There are no properties owned by a Dudley Smith. Or properties rented to him.”

  “Did you check J. P. Tatters?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “Damn.” Devlin felt like smacking herself on the forehead. Now that she thought about it, there had been a suspicious lack of business material at the clown’s home. No business cards. No promotional material. Only the appointment book.

  Devlin borrowed the CS lab’s computer and, after a few minutes on a real estate database, had located an office on Willow Street, three blocks away on the edge of Little Saigon. It had been leased to a Jackson Pollock Tatters.

  As you might imagine, Jackson Pollock was Monk’s least favorite artist of all time. We were once almost arrested at the San Francisco MOMA when he tried to clean a corner of Lucifer, one of Pollock’s most spectacular drip paintings. Another minute and it would have been ruined. We both had had nightmares after that experience. But for different reasons.

  “Jackson Pollock Tatters?” Monk said when they found the name on the lease. “Is this some sick kind of clown joke?”

  “Apparently so,” Stottlemeyer said as he led the way to the door. Then he turned back to the woman standing over the size twenty-twos. “Thank you, Ms. Patil. We look forward to reading your report.”

  It took them less than an hour to get a search warrant. And a key from the landlord wasn’t necessary. Dudley Smith had kept an unlabeled, unaccounted-for key on his key ring, which fit the lock perfectly.

  The clown’s lair was a narrow one-story office wedged between a Vietnamese restaurant and a fitne
ss center. It had probably been an alley once. The building had no storefront presence and no sign, and it was too small for any real business.

  The captain once more reverted to the “Julie method,” leaving Monk out on the street with a smartphone and sending Lieutenant Devlin inside, warrant in hand, to give the virtual tour. This time, wisely or not, Stottlemeyer joined her, perhaps to make sure that nothing was missed.

  If I had been with them, what happened next might have turned out differently. Maybe not.

  The first few minutes went smoothly. The lair, as suspected, was a combination office and storage space. One section of wall, as Devlin described it, held a pegboard covered in various noses, from big to small, from red to flesh-colored to a red, white and blue model for patriotic occasions. There was a clothes rack devoted to tattered, threadbare trousers, a few of them in dry-cleaning bags. The wigs had a low shelf to themselves, all on Styrofoam heads. And this time there were two with American flag motifs.

  Stottlemeyer kept Monk in constant contact, talking him through the space, working to keep his anxiety at a relatively low level of panic. All was going well. They had just inspected a helium tank and five boxes of red balloons. And then …

  “Mr. Smith? Dudley Smith?”

  Monk raised his eyes from the phone and immediately recognized the man. “Um,” Monk replied in an uncommitted voice that could have been interpreted as a yes.

  “You’re a hard man to contact, Mr. Smith. You’re not answering your phone. And I must have dropped by here three times. My name’s John Harriman.”

  “How did you find this place?” Monk was still holding the phone in front of him like a walkie-talkie.

  “The address was on your receipt.”

  “Oh, that makes sense.”

  On the other end of the line, Devlin and Stottlemeyer heard everything and were scrambling.

  “My wife says you were fantastic at Thaddeus’ birthday party. I was sorry I couldn’t be there.”

  John Harriman, according to Devlin, was in his midforties, of average height with thinning brown hair, and the thuggish features of a boxer. Even in a richly tailored suit, he wasn’t a man you would peg as a stockbroker.

  Monk recognized him from a photo. And while Harriman must have seen dozens of photos of Dudley Smith smiling alongside Thaddeus and his friends, it was easy to see how he could mistake Monk for the man behind J. P. Tatters.

  “It’s not easy having kids who are so close together in age,” Harriman said. “Celine’s birthday is coming up. You remember Celine.”

  “Celine is your six-year-old.”

  Harriman smiled fondly. “Turning seven next week. And everything Thaddeus does, she wants to do, right? Including a party. Including J. P. Tatters, Clown to the Stars.”

  Monk was aghast. “Are you asking me …”

  “Please? My wife’s been in Hong Kong for a month, so it’s been hard. I kind of let the ball drop. Celine is adamant about having you there.”

  “I hate clowns,” Monk said.

  Harriman stepped back and laughed. “You picked the wrong job, pal. But you gotta admit, kids love you. Now, I know it’s short notice. I’ve been trying to contact you for a week.”

  “Jackson Pollock Tatters is dead,” Monk announced.

  “Jackson Pollock? The artist? Yes, I think he died in the fifties.”

  “No, I mean …”

  “Dudley? Dudley, how are you?”

  Leland Stottlemeyer was just rounding the corner, followed a few seconds later by Amy Devlin, just putting away her phone. They’d found the rear exit and had raced around the block through a back alley.

  “Hello,” Monk said, which was about as much as he could improvise.

  “Sorry I’m late. But I had another client to deal with. You know this business. A bunch of Bozos, present company excepted.” The captain turned to Harriman and held out his hand. “My name is Randy Disher.” I guess it was the first name he could think of. “I’m J. P. Tatters’ booking agent. And you are—”

  “No,” I said, interrupting Devlin’s story right at the crucial moment. “They didn’t do what I think they just did.”

  “Yes,” said Devlin. “That’s why I need a pitcher of martinis.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Oh, how I wish I were.”

  I tried not to laugh. Poor Amy. I could see where this was heading. And I was amazed and tickled and horrified all at the same time.

  Adrian Monk was about to go undercover.

  As a clown.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mr. Monk and the Cliff-hanger

  That night I slept under a fluffy down comforter with the windows open.

  The next morning, in the fog of waking up, I felt like a kid again in Monterey, alone in my room facing the ocean view, a thin layer of dewy mist covering everything in the world. I snuggled under the covers and enjoyed the feeling, then started thinking about Monk and his predicament.

  Right now the investigation was at a standstill. The clown’s lair had produced nothing. The only chance for progress lay in the Harrimans’ garage. And Monk now had a chance to get in there and snoop around, with the owner’s permission, which was the only way that it could legally work. He could happen across something as big as another bottle of Cemedrin or as small as a milligram of cyanide residue on a shelf.

  The circumstances were almost eerily perfect. Alicia Harriman was away in Hong Kong for the month, while John, desperate to keep the kids happy, had never met the deceased clown. The kids had met him, of course. But that wasn’t such a big deal. If things went according to plan, Monk would be able to get in and out without ever having to blow up a balloon or honk a bike horn.

  All he had to do was arrive at the Sacramento Street home and ask John if he could use the garage to change. Monk would never even have to open his costume bag. At least that was the plan, as Devlin kept insisting. What could go wrong?

  The smell of apple-cured bacon finally roused me from my downy heaven. The breakfast room was directly below mine. It was late by the time I made it downstairs, and I was the only guest left unfed. A table for one by the window had been reset and was waiting.

  I placed my phone on the table and just stared at it. My arrangement with Ellen was that I wouldn’t initiate a call. She would call or text at certain prearranged times—after morning yoga, after lunch on the lawn. The report from yoga had been upbeat if unexciting.

  “So what are your plans for the day?” Darlene poured my orange juice and delivered a small carafe of coffee. She was probably the younger of my two hostesses, although it was hard to tell. Like many couples who’d been together forever, they’d wound up looking and dressing alike.

  “Just relaxing. Hiking. Maybe some bird-watching,” I added, remembering the binoculars in the car.

  “Well, you picked a good time. You should have seen this place two weeks ago. What a zoo.”

  “That’s right,” I said vaguely. “It was just down the road, wasn’t it?”

  Darlene nodded. “Every cubbyhole in town was booked after that. Soledad O’Brien, from CNN, she was in your room for two nights.”

  “Really? In my room?” I felt honored.

  “Lovely girl, although she doesn’t look Irish. Smaller than you’d think. And skinny. I guess they’re all skinny.”

  Darlene obviously like chatting with the guests. I suppose that comes with the dream of opening a B-and-B. “Did you know her?” I asked. “Miranda Bigley?”

  “Not well,” she had to admit. “The two of them used to show up at town meetings, but only when it was about zoning or beach access.”

  “What was she like? Was she as inspiring as they say?”

  “She was nice.” Darlene paused, perhaps torn between her need to be pleasant and her need to gossip. “When she was speaking or really interested, you could see her energy. It was just like watching her on TV. But at a town meeting, with all the local characters—you can imagine—there’s a lot of downti
me. If you looked at her then, it was like a lightbulb turned off. Seemed a little phony, if you know what I mean.”

  “You could say that about anyone,” I suggested.

  “You’re right,” Darlene said. “Who am I to judge? The poor woman had her demons.”

  I was all set to argue the point, a silly, pointless argument. But I was saved by a ding to my phone on the table. “Excuse me.”

  Okay, I hate it as much as you when someone interrupts a conversation to look at their phone. But this was different. This was a text. And it was Ellen. “I just have to see …”

  “By all means,” said Darlene.

  They were close-up photos, four of them. A row of vitamin bottles in a mirrored medicine cabinet. A hand towel, monogrammed MGB, on a bathroom rod. A close-up of a round pink pill on the white tile of the bathroom floor. At the end of the third was a caption. “From the Hers bathroom. Woo-hoo!!!!”

  “What the hell is she doing?”

  I didn’t mean to say it out loud. But now Darlene was eyeing me quizzically. “Sorry,” I said. “A friend of mine is actually at the Sanctuary this weekend. She just texted me some photos.”

  “Inappropriate photos?”

  “No,” I lied. They weren’t inappropriate in a sexual sense, only in a legal one.

  Darlene’s brow furrowed as she processed my situation. “So your friend is at the Sanctuary and you’re here, half a mile away? Without her? On a beautiful weekend like this? You don’t like the Sanctuary?”

  “No, I like it a lot. I’ve been there twice.”

  “Were they all booked up this weekend?” She frowned, and whispered. “Or is she with somebody else?”

  “No, she’s alone. We felt it would be better if she went alone.”

  “I understand,” Darlene said, and laid a comforting hand on my arm. “Relationships are complicated.”

  • • •

  It was maddening, being so near and yet so far away.