by Lee Goldberg
“It’s a toilet running,” I said.
Monk glared at me. To him, saying the word “toilet” was the same as uttering a particularly ugly profanity.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I meant to say it sounds like a bathroom appliance isn’t operating properly.”
Monk headed down the hall, following the sound. The rest of us dutifully followed.
The bathroom was in the back corner of the first floor, just past the stairs, in what had probably been a closet when the home was originally built. It was narrow and cramped and would have been claustrophobic if not for the small window, which was open, the towel rack below it broken off the wall and lying on the floor in front of the toilet.
There was only room for one person in the bathroom, so Monk went in while we stood in the hall, peering through the doorway.
Monk examined the holes in the wall where the towel rack had once been affixed with screws. “Someone stepped on this and broke it off the wall.”
“Looks like you’ve found how the killer came in,” Chow said. “And made his escape after taking a whiz.”
Monk grimaced and stepped away from the toilet as if it might spontaneously combust.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Monk said.
“When you have to go, you have to go,” Chow said.
“Perhaps the anxiety, violence, and bloodshed of the killing made him sick and he had to vomit,” Jasper said. “It’s a common reaction to stress.”
“I’ll check the toilet for DNA,” Chow said, taking out one of her Q-tips. Monk stepped in front of her, blocking her access to the bathroom.
“Are you insane?” Monk said, practically shrieking. “If you open that lid, you could expose us all.”
“To what?” she asked.
“God only knows,” Monk said. “We’ll wait until the house has been evacuated and let the professionals deal with it.”
“You want to evacuate the house before lifting the toilet seat lid?” Chow said.
“This is no time for heroics,” Monk said.
Jasper’s thumbs flew over his PDA keypad. He’d found a new nut to write about.
Monk turned his attention back to the window and the broken towel bar.
“If he broke this on the way in, she would have heard it.”
“Maybe he broke it on his way out,” Chow said. “She was dead. He could make all the noise he wanted.”
“So why was he in such a hurry if the deed was done?” Monk said. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to use the front door, the back door, or one of the larger bedroom windows? This window must have been a tight squeeze.”
“He could have been very small,” Chow said. “They often are.”
“They?” Monk asked.
“Them,” Chow replied.
6
Mr. Monk and Madam Frost
“Something isn’t right,” Monk said as the two of us left Doucet’s house.
“Gee, you think?” I said. “What was your first clue? The aluminum foil or the radio taped to her head?”
“I’m talking about the murder. Why weren’t there any signs of forced entry?”
“Isn’t the window in the bathroom a sign of forced entry?”
“I don’t know what it is yet. The only thing I’m certain of is that Allegra Doucet knew her killer.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She was standing and facing her killer when he stabbed her,” Monk said. “There are no signs of a struggle and no defensive wounds on her body. She didn’t know her life was in danger until she’d already lost it.”
“I guess this means you haven’t solved the case yet,” I said.
“I’m having an off day,” Monk said.
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t,” Monk said, his attention shifting to a home across the street. “Maybe she can give us some insight.”
I followed his gaze and saw a shabby, faded-purple Victorian house, the dark curtains drawn behind a neon sign that read MADAM FROST—FORTUNE TELLER AND PSYCHIC. TAROT CARDS, PALM READING, ASTROLOGY. The curtains were decorated with half-moons and stars and a couple of yin-and-yang symbols thrown in for good measure.
“Are you going to ask her to look into her crystal ball for you?” I asked.
“Madam Frost might know something about her neighbor and fellow charlatan.”
We were heading for her front door when Madam Frost came hobbling around from the back of her house. I knew who she was because, unlike the late Allegra Doucet, Madam Frost looked every bit the part she was playing. She was in her sixties, or perhaps older, draped in a shawl that looked as if it were woven out of spiderwebs, and leaning on a knobby cane seemingly carved from an ancient tree limb. There were rings on every finger of her gnarled hands, and her teeth were as yellowed as the pages of a vintage paperback. Picture Yoda in drag and you’ve got her.
“Madam Frost?” Monk inquired, though he must have known who she was, too. Who else would dress like that?
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she said in a voice that sounded more like Angela Lansbury than Margaret Hamilton. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You looked into your crystal ball and saw us coming?” I asked.
“I peeked out my window. It’s often a lot more revealing,” she replied as she made her way to the front door. “I saw all the police cars in front of my driveway and the medical examiner going into Allegra’s house. I figured the police would show up at my door sometime. Come in, please.”
She unlocked her front door and beckoned us into her parlor, which, like the woman herself, was everything the sign out front advertised.
The room was lit by several stained-glass lamps that cast a dim glow on the walls, which were lined with sagging bookshelves filled with dusty, ancient books, the spines and jackets covered with strange symbols and unreadable script. The rest of the shelf space was cluttered with mystical ephemera: clay runes, shrunken heads, an Egyptian obelisk, voodoo mojo bones, crystals, Navajo dreamcatchers, unicorns, chakra medicine pouches, chicken feet, Buddhas, chalices and goblets, African fertility idols, scrolls, and a tiny model of the starship Enterprise.
She certainly covered all her mystical bases. If an Egyptian Navajo Buddhist Trekkie ever came in for a reading, she was prepared.
There was a round table in the center of the room with a crystal ball, a deck of tarot cards, and a yellow legal pad. She tossed her keys on the table and turned to us.
“So what can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Allegra Doucet, the astrologer across the street,” Monk said, twitching nervously, his eyes panning the room.
“She wasn’t an astrologer,” Madam Frost said. “She was an actress with a computer. She didn’t have the touch.”
“She had something,” I said. “She made enough money to shop at Prada.”
Madam Frost certainly didn’t shop there. She must have bought all her clothing at an Addams family garage sale.
“And yet she’s dead and I’m alive,” Madam Frost said. “Her bank account isn’t doing her much good now.”
“It doesn’t sound like you liked her much.” Monk was huffing as if he’d just run up a steep hill. I couldn’t figure out what his problem was.
“I’ve been advising, guiding, and supporting the people in this neighborhood for forty years. Janis Joplin sat at this table. So did Ken Kesey. I dropped acid with Timothy Leary. I read Allan Ginsberg’s palm while he read me his poetry,” Madam Frost said. “Who was she? A failed actress from LA who showed up here two years ago calling herself an ‘astrological counselor’ and charging clients two hundred dollars an hour.”
“Like a psychiatrist,” Monk gasped. His skin was pale. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow.
“It’s a comparison Allegra liked to make. But a psychologist has some knowledge, some genuine insight into the human mind. All she had was some off-the-shelf astrology software that could spit out a useless chart in seconds,” Mada
m Frost said, distracted for a moment by Monk’s wheezing. “I labor over an ephemeris for days, analyzing the complex movement and subtle influences of the planets and stars, to create a detailed personal chart for my clients.”
“Most of whom she was luring away,” I said.
“The younger generation was drawn to her,” Frost said. “They trust technology, and glory in eroticism. She was an irresistible combination of both. I couldn’t compete. The young are bored by books, believe anything done by hand is inferior, and are terrified of aging. But my longtime clients still relied on me for guidance, and the young eventually become old, despite their best efforts to fight it.”
It occurred to me that Allegra Doucet was upscaling and reimagining astrology the same way the neighborhood itself, as personified by Madam Frost, was being gentrified and remodeled. Madam Frost and Allegra Doucet were the conflict between the past and future of Haight-Ashbury made human. At least, they were until Allegra Doucet was killed.
Monk started to hyperventilate.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Monk said, and hurried outside. We went out after him.
He stood on the porch, swallowing air like a drowning man who’d finally reached the surface.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can get her to clean up that mess,” Monk said. “Nothing matches. There’s no organization. It’s anarchy.”
“I’m sorry my eclectic decor isn’t to your liking,” Madame Frost said. “It’s a reflection of my years of studying the mystical realms of our existence.”
“It’s insanity,” he said. “How can you live like that?”
“I’m told my home has character, something I find sorely lacking in the world these days.”
“Character is highly overrated,” Monk said. “Try cleanliness instead. You’ll thank me later.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Madam Frost said, an edge in her voice. I can’t say that I blamed her for being offended. Nobody likes to be told their house is a dump.
“Did Allegra Doucet have any enemies?” Monk asked. “Besides you?”
“Her biggest enemy was herself.”
“She didn’t stab herself to death,” I said.
“It was only a matter of time before someone discovered that the so-called personal chart and analysis they paid her so excessively for was only computer-generated gibberish,” Madam Frost said. “She was perpetuating a fraud. People don’t appreciate being suckered. The irony is, she could have prevented this. I warned her, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
“You knew someone wanted to kill her?” Monk said.
“I did her chart. I knew that whatever happened last night would determine her fate.”
“If her murder was in the stars,” I said, “what could she have done about it anyway?”
“Astrology is like a weather report; it tells you what conditions you’re likely to face in the future. If the weatherman says it’s probably going to rain, you bring an umbrella. If you follow that advice, you won’t get wet. But if you choose to ignore it, you will get soaked,” Madam Frost said. “She had a choice to make last night, and clearly she made the wrong one. We have free will, and, used wisely, that’s more powerful than any force in the heavens.”
“The stars and the planets move in a precise pattern of orbits according to the basic laws of physics,” Monk said. “Am I right?”
“Yes,” Madam Frost said.
“Then as an astrologer, don’t you think your belongings should be arranged in a precise pattern as well?”
“Since you seem to have such an obvious appreciation for the alignment of the stars, perhaps you will allow me to do your chart,” Madam Frost said. “I can reveal to you what obstacles lie ahead in your investigation as well as your personal life.”
“I don’t believe in astrology,” Monk said.
“What do you believe in?”
Monk thought about that for a long moment.
“Order,” he said, and then walked away.
Madam Frost looked at me. “What about you, dear? What do you believe in?”
“Myself,” I said.
“Does that work for you?”
“Some days more than others.” I said good-bye to Madam Frost, thanked her for her time, and joined Monk in the middle of the street.
“Where to now?” I asked.
“Back to the headquarters,” he said. “I was just wondering how we were going to get there.”
I turned to my car. Or, at least, where I thought my car would be. It wasn’t there. I looked around. It wasn’t anywhere. I approached the officer I’d given my keys to. With his square jaw, red cheeks, and flattop buzz cut, his head was like a moss-covered brick. His name tag read, KRUPP, and he was looking at us both with obvious amusement.
“Where is my car?” I demanded.
“You’ll have to ask the towing company,” Officer Krupp said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You had my car towed?”
“It was parked illegally and was impeding traffic,” he said. “Here’s your ticket.”
Krupp handed me the yellow ticket, which I promptly balled up and threw at his chest. He pretended not to notice, never taking his eyes off my face.
I pointed at Monk. “Do you know who he is?”
“Yeah, I do,” Krupp said. “He’s the wack-job who is costing me a decent pension.”
“He’s the wack-job who can fire you right now,” I said.
“With a critical shortage of cops on the street?” He smiled, full of smug satisfaction. “I don’t think so.”
“Fine,” I said. “Give me the keys.”
He gave me my car keys, but I kept my hand out. “I want the keys to your patrol car.”
“That’s an official police vehicle,” he said. “You’re a civilian.”
“He’s the captain,” I said, gesturing to Monk again. “Or maybe you’d like to argue that with the mayor? I happen to have Smitrovich on my speed dial.”
I started hunting in my purse for my cell phone, but the officer knew he was beaten. He handed over the keys to his patrol car.
“Thanks,” I said, and looked at Monk, who seemed startled. “Let’s go, Captain.”
We headed for the patrol car.
“You’re serious?” Monk said.
“Would you prefer to ride in the backseat of a taxicab that has served a thousand people?” I saw Monk shiver with revulsion. “That’s what I thought.”
We reached the patrol car and got in. There was a laptop computer, a rifle, and a mike mounted in front of the center console, but otherwise it wasn’t so different from any other car. I stuck the key in the ignition and started the car up. The engine roared with a ferocity that made my Jeep Cherokee sound like a golf cart. I had the feeling that if I pressed the accelerator, flames would shoot out of the exhaust.
This was going to be fun.
My cell phone rang. I took it out of my purse and answered it. It was Officer Curtis at headquarters, calling to report that another citizen of the city of San Francisco had met a violent end. She gave me the address of the crime scene, and I told her which patrol car we were in so she could reach us on the radio. I also asked her to track down the towing company that had my car.
Officer Curtis was about to hang up when Frank Porter asked for the phone. He had checked the credit card statements of the Golden Gate Strangler’s victims for any running-shoe purchases in the last three months. There weren’t any; nor did any of the victims shop at the same stores.
I hung up. The first thing I did was tell Monk what Porter had found out. Monk sulked. Then I told him what Officer Curtis had called about.
“You’ve got a fresh homicide,” I said.
“It’s not another Strangler victim, is it?”
I shook my head. “It’s a hit-and-run in the Mission District.”
He sighed wearily. “That doesn’t sound like a particularly difficult ca
se. You interview the witnesses, track down the car that matches the license plate or the description of the vehicle, and then check it for blood or other evidence from the scene.”
In other words, solving this case would depend more on grueling legwork than brilliant deductions. Monk didn’t like putting in that much effort, not unless it involved removing a stain from something.
“There’s a detective on the scene. I’m sure it’s not necessary for you to be there,” I said, trying hard to sound uninterested. “After all, you’re the captain. You’ve got important administrative work to do.”
I admit it, I was manipulating him. I wanted to drive the car. And I wanted to drive it fast.
“Do you know how to get to the crime scene?” Monk said.
I nodded and tried to suppress my smile. “Can we use the siren?”
“That what it’s there for.”
7
Mr. Monk and the Scum on the Street
The godlike power that a simple siren gives you is amazing. Cars moved out of my path, and the streets opened up in front of me. I knew a freedom few drivers in the city will ever experience, unless they happen to be on the street at three a.m. Even so, I wished the crime scene were on the other side of one of San Francisco’s notoriously steep hills so I could fly over the rise and land hard, the undercarriage of the car spraying sparks as it shaved the asphalt on the way down.
Unfortunately, the speedometer never topped thirty miles per hour, and there were no hills between us and our destination, an area made up of boxy 1950s-era apartment buildings and struggling small businesses—minimarts, florists, Laundromats, and nail salons—behind aging, neglected storefronts.
There were police cars parked on the street. Several uniformed officers kept a few dozen curious pedestrians on the sidewalk and behind the yellow caution tape that sealed off the intersection, where a body lay covered with a bloodstained white sheet.
But nobody was paying much attention to the dead guy. Everyone was staring at the billowing smoke coming from a building around the corner. I could understand that. A raging fire is a lot more interesting to look at than a covered-up corpse.