Mr. Monk Is a Mess

by Lee Goldberg

  “Then you did the right thing,” Monk said. “Let’s hope he will now, too. Between poisoning his customers with expired food and letting his parking lot devolve into anarchy, it’s a wonder that store is still in business.”

  “I’m sure he’ll remember this day as his epiphany,” I said and headed for the car.

  * * *

  As we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge on our way back into San Francisco, I called Ambrose, told him what little we knew, and had him arrange to have Yuki’s motorcycle towed back to his house for safekeeping.

  The call drew a scowl from Monk, who felt that having the motorcycle at the house would “attract a bad element to the neighborhood.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Yuki Nakamura,” Monk said. “And her biker friends.”

  “She lives there already,” I said. “And if she came back, it would make things a lot easier for us. We wouldn’t have to look for her anymore and you could tell Ambrose that you’re leaving, and dating a woman who sells crap, without feeling guilty.”

  “I am not dating Ellen Morse,” Monk said.

  “What would you call it?”

  “Altruism,” Monk said. “I’m trying to save her.”

  “From what?”

  “Disease, death, and eternal damnation. I am perhaps the only person who can get her to quit her outrageous occupation before it’s too late.”

  “She does what she does for the same reason you do what you do,” I said. “To maintain the natural balance. I was there when you told her that you understood that and that you would make an effort to accept it.”

  “I solve murders. That’s very different from peddling poo-poo.”

  “Murders are violent, bloody, unpleasant, and frequently very gory. How is a mutilated, decomposing corpse any less disgusting than dung?”

  “Corpses don’t come from anyone’s behind.”

  “That’s it? That’s what makes poop more disgusting and dangerous than murder, a crime so heinous that it merits the death penalty?”

  “Not murder,” Monk said. “Corpses.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “We can’t put a stop to excrement, though it’s certainly something we all wish for, but we can stop murder. Excrement is a disgusting fact of life best left unseen, and properly and sanitarily disposed of, not put to use in products.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s repulsive, unsanitary, and forces us to see and think about something that should be unseen and disregarded.”

  “But that’s just it, Mr. Monk. Poop is a fact of life. Hiding from it and not thinking about it doesn’t make it go away. That’s why Ellen is doing what she’s doing. She’s trying to make us accept that excrement is natural and recognize it as a potential resource.”

  “And that’s the insanity that I am trying to save her from,” Monk said. “The same way you’d try to talk a suicidal person off the roof of a building.”

  “You don’t see the balance that she’s trying to achieve? You told her that you did. Were you lying to her?”

  “No, I wasn’t. I see it,” Monk said and then cringed. “But I wish I didn’t.”

  “Then why not accept it?”

  “Because if she’d just change that one thing about herself, she’d be a very exceptional woman.”

  “What if she said she’d be willing to stop her excrement crusade if you agreed to stop solving murders?”

  “That’d be ridiculous,” he said. “Why would she ever propose something like that?”

  “Well, maybe she thinks if you changed that one thing about yourself, you’d be a very exceptional man. Then you could both be exceptional together.”

  “She’s never said anything like that.”

  “She might,” I said. “Of course, there’s a way to avoid the whole issue.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You could accept each other for who you are, imperfections and all. The same way Ambrose has accepted Yuki.”

  That shut him up all the way to police headquarters and right up the stairs to the homicide division.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mr. Monk and the Mob

  When we walked into the squad room, Stottlemeyer was standing in front of Devlin’s desk watching while she made notes on a file. He looked up at us as we came in.

  “I was wondering when you two would amble in here,” Stottlemeyer said. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about the corpse in Natalie’s house.”

  “Something came up,” I said and held out the plastic bag containing the 386 computer manual. “Ambrose’s girlfriend, Yuki, has disappeared. He’s distraught and he’s asked us to find her. So I need you to do me a favor and run the prints on this book.”

  Stottlemeyer looked at the bag. “Has a crime been committed?”

  “The tires on her motorcycle were slashed,” I said.

  “And you think the slasher’s prints are on that book?”

  “Yuki’s are,” I said. “I know she spent some time in prison, so I want whatever information her prints will kick back on her. It could point us in the right direction.”

  Monk cleared his throat. “Natalie, what the captain is trying to tell you is that your request would be an unlawful abuse of police resources. You should be ashamed of yourself for asking and imposing on your relationship with him.”

  Stottlemeyer snatched the bag from me. “Sure, we’ll run the prints for you.” He dropped the bag on Devlin’s desk. “Take this down to the lab when you get a chance.”

  “Monk is right,” Devlin said. “You’re just asking me to do this to stick it to him.”

  “And to you, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “So it’s a win-win for me. On top of that, I happen to owe Natalie a lot of favors and I’d like to do something nice for Ambrose.”

  “Then you’ll let Yuki remain unfound,” Monk said. “She’s a bad influence on him.”

  “Why’s that?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “You mean besides being an ex-convict biker chick?”

  “Yes,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “She’s a wanton woman with loose morals and tattoos who fornicates all over the house,” Monk said.

  “Okay, Captain, I’ll be glad to take the bag down to the lab,” Devlin said. “I’ll have them put a rush on it.”

  Monk looked at her with disapproval. “But I thought you agreed with me that it was a misuse of the police lab.”

  “That was before you criticized wanton women with loose morals and tattoos who like to fornicate all over the house,” Devlin said. “I’m one of those women and we have to stick together.”

  Monk looked at Stottlemeyer. “Did you know this about her?”

  “Nope,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Doesn’t it trouble you?”

  “I can’t say that it does,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned to Devlin. “Would you share with our esteemed colleagues from the Summit Police Department what we’ve learned about Goldilocks?”

  Devlin referred to the open file in front of her. “The ME confirms that Michelle Keeling’s wounds are consistent with suicide and that she bled to death.”

  “I already knew that,” Monk said.

  “You assumed that,” Devlin said.

  “What you call assumptions,” Monk said spitefully, “the rest of us call facts.”

  “There were no drugs and only trace amounts of alcohol in her system,” Devlin continued, “so she knew exactly what she was doing when she cut her own throat with your husband’s straight razor. In fact, she was very experienced when it came to cutting herself. The ME found old scars on her arms that he says were clearly self-inflicted. This was a seriously troubled woman on a downward spiral.”

  “What about those pills in her purse?” I asked.

  “They were Rohypnol, also known as roofies, also known as the date rape drug,” Stottlemeyer said. “They knock a person out and give them short-term amnesia.”

  Monk appeared confused. “Why wou
ld a woman have those?”

  “Keeling liked to let rich guys seduce her and take her back to their rooms,” Devlin said. “But before they could slip anything to her, she slipped them a few of those pills in their drinks.”

  I remembered when Devlin and I had done the same thing to a guy—though we were in pursuit of justice and trying to save lives—but that’s another story, one Stottlemeyer knew nothing about.

  “When they woke up, their memories weren’t the only thing they’d be missing,” Stottlemeyer said. “Their jewelry and their cash would be gone, too.”

  That explained where all that cash in her purse had come from, but it raised more questions than it answered, which I kept to myself for the moment to let Devlin continue with her briefing.

  “Keeling has only been arrested twice, but that’s probably because most of her victims were married businessmen from out of town.” Devlin closed the file. “The guys didn’t report the crime because they didn’t want their wives to find out that they’re picking up women. I’ll go down to the Belmont Hotel bar tonight and see what I can find out about her.”

  I spoke up. “I can give you a head start. The last time Michelle Keeling was at the Belmont, which was a couple of nights ago, she picked up a guy from Walla Walla, Washington. He looked like a bumpkin but he was spreading around a lot of cash. She left with him and hasn’t been back since.”

  Devlin looked at me with disdain. Now Monk wasn’t the only one trampling her turf. “You went to the bar last night?”

  I shrugged. “I had to sleep somewhere, so I figured I might as well go to the Belmont. Keeling wasn’t the only woman working that bar. There were a few other regulars. You might be able to get more from those women about her than I was able to squeeze from the bartender.”

  Stottlemeyer smiled. “You’re becoming quite the detective.”

  I reached into my pocket and showed him my badge like a kid presenting a good report card to their parents. “It’s my job.”

  Stottlemeyer looked it over as if he’d never seen anything quite like it.

  “I keep forgetting that,” he said and handed the badge back to me. “How did the bartender know the man was from Walla Walla?”

  “The man knew the zip code,” I said.

  “So do I,” Monk said. “And I’m not from Walla Walla. It’s 99362.”

  “Why do you know the zip code?” Devlin asked.

  “The same reason I keep up on all the area codes,” Monk said. “I am a good citizen.”

  “I’ll contact the hotel,” Devlin said, “track down the guy from Walla Walla, and see what he remembers about Keeling.”

  “That doesn’t explain what she was doing at my place,” I said. “Where does she live?”

  Devlin referred to the file. “Her last known address was an apartment in Potrero Hill, but that was three years ago.”

  “Do you think she’s been squatting in empty houses since then?” I asked.

  Monk shook his head. “Only your clothes were in the house. She was only there for a day, perhaps two, at the most.”

  “I’m sure you talked to all the neighbors,” I said to Devlin and Stottlemeyer. “Did anyone notice anything unusual?”

  “Nobody paid any attention to your house or even noticed you were gone,” Devlin said. “They only saw the usual folks on the street—the mailman, the paperboy, the gardeners, the regular cleaning ladies and nannies.”

  “So much for the neighborhood watch committee,” I said. “Do you have any idea how she got in my house?”

  “Forensics found signs that the front lock was picked,” Devlin said. “But we didn’t find any lock-picking tools in Keeling’s belongings or anywhere in the house.”

  “None of this makes any sense,” I said. “The woman had five thousand dollars in her purse. She didn’t have to break into empty houses for a place to sleep.”

  “Speaking of money,” Stottlemeyer said, “we found another five thousand dollars under your mattress.”

  “I am paying you way too much,” Monk said.

  “It’s not mine,” I said.

  “The bills were all numbered sequentially,” Devlin said.

  “As they should be,” Monk said. “When I get cash from the bank, I insist on that. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “No, they don’t,” Devlin said.

  “More evidence that civilization is crumbling all around us,” Monk said.

  “And it’s evidence that she got that cash from one place,” Stottlemeyer said. “So I had the lab check the bills out. They were marked with tiny numbers that could only be seen under ultraviolet light. We ran those numbers through all of our law enforcement databases. So far nothing’s come up.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” a voice said.

  We all turned to see a guy in a jacket and tie striding in as if he owned the building. He had an expression of smug superiority on his face and a pressed shirt as stiff as the stick up his butt.

  “It came up for us.” He took an ID out of his pocket and held it open in front of him. “Special Agent George Cardea, FBI. We marked the money.” He pocketed the badge and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, which he handed to the captain. “This is a court order, Captain, allowing me to take possession of the cash.”

  Stottlemeyer reviewed the order, handed it to Devlin, and faced Cardea again. “You mind telling us why the cash was marked and what Michelle Keeling was doing with it?”

  “In my house,” I added.

  Cardea gave me a cold look. “That’s what we’d like to know, Ms. Teeger. I’d advise you to tell us while there’s still an opportunity for you to make a deal and cut a few years off your prison time.”

  “You seem to be confused,” I said. “I just got back from New Jersey yesterday. I had nothing to do with any of this, whatever this is.”

  “You’re denying you had anything to do with the theft,” he said.

  “What theft?” I asked.

  “Don’t play dumb, Ms. Teeger. It’s unflattering to you and offensive to me.”

  “Hey,” Stottlemeyer said, taking a step toward Cardea and invading his space. “I’m the one you should be worried about offending. I’m used to unpleasant encounters with the FBI. I accept that as part of my job. But I draw the line at you walking into my house and attempting to intimidate my people. So here’s the deal. You’ve got one minute to explain yourself before I have you escorted out of the building with your cash shoved up your ass, assuming we can get it past your head.”

  But Cardea didn’t seem the least bit unnerved. “I’d dial down the outrage, Captain, because when all of this comes out, you’re going to want me on your side to do whatever is humanly possible to minimize the blowback on your career from your association with these two.”

  “These are two of the finest people I know, not to mention two of the best damn detectives I’ve ever worked with,” Stottlemeyer said. “There’s nothing you can say that would change that.”

  Cardea smiled as if he’d been told a mildly amusing joke. “The money you found in Natalie Teeger’s home is from a half a million dollars in marked bills that undercover FBI agents, posing as representatives of Mexican drug lords, used to purchase weapons from Salvatore Lucarelli.”

  I felt a pang of anxiety in the pit of my stomach at the mention of Lucarelli’s name. He’d been the leader of organized crime in San Francisco for decades.

  Not long before I became Monk’s assistant, there was a shooting in a barbershop that Lucarelli used as a front for his money-laundering operation. Lucarelli forced Monk and Sharona to help him find out who the shooter was. Monk wore a wire the whole time, trying to get incriminating information on Lucarelli for the FBI, but he failed. He did, however, catch the killer.

  Then, just a few years ago, during a period when we were unemployed, a private eye hired us to clear Lucarelli, who was then in prison, in the murder of the judge assigned to preside over the mobster’s trial.

  And we did. We proved Lucarelli had nothi
ng to do with the murder, which was totally unrelated to the trial.

  The new judge assigned to the case ultimately sided with the defense on most of the charges against Lucarelli. He was sentenced to the time he’d already served and was released . . . and then eventually was arrested again on this new set of charges arising from the sting.

  I had a bad, bad feeling about this.

  “We were finally able to bring Lucarelli down,” Cardea said. “And the marked cash is the key piece of evidence in our case.”

  “Wait a minute,” Devlin said. “Lucarelli has been in jail, awaiting trial, for a year now for trying to sell weapons to Mexican drug lords. How could any of that money still be in circulation?”

  “Because sometime in the last two months, all of it disappeared from the evidence room of the Federal Building,” Cardea said. “We’ve managed to keep it quiet until now. If we don’t have that money, Lucarelli walks and we’re out five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Four hundred ninety thousand,” Monk said.

  “That’s right, four hundred ninety thousand,” Cardea said. “For a moment, I forgot that we’ve just recovered ten thousand of that missing money in the home of a known Lucarelli associate.”

  The ache in my stomach got much worse.

  “Natalie never worked for the mob,” Monk said.

  “No, she works for a detective who worked for the mob,” Cardea said. “My thinking is, if she got ten grand for her part in all of this, you must have been paid five times that much for masterminding the theft. That’s why we’re searching your place for the money right now.”

  Monk paled. “There are strangers in my apartment?”

  “As we speak,” Cardea said. “Turning the place upside down and inside out.”

  “I hope they removed their shoes before they came in, and that they are wearing gloves, and that they don’t use my restroom under any circumstances, and that they refold my clothes, and that they put everything back in the exact spot where they found it, and that they remake my bed, and that they firmly close every drawer, and that they make sure every hanger is facing the same direction, and that they straighten any crooked pictures on the wall.”