Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out

by Lee Goldberg

“It’s a very good indication of trustworthiness,” Monk said. “Did you know his wife is named Anna?”

  “It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “I also looked at his client list. It included major institutions and very wealthy individuals.”

  “He wiped them all out,” I said.

  “I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding.” Monk stood up. “I want to see him.”

  “He’s under house arrest, Mr. Monk, and there’s a mob of reporters and angry investors camped outside his door. He won’t see you.”

  “He will,” Monk said and walked away.

  It took me a moment to get to my feet. I was feeling a little weak-kneed. It might as well have been me who’d invested my life savings with Bob Sebes. Because if Monk was broke, then it meant I was, too.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mr. Monk Visits His Money

  There was a line of satellite trucks, news vans, and motor homes parked along the street outside of Sebes’ Pacific Heights mansion. Reporters, cameramen, and photographers sat around on folding camp chairs and chaise longues. They were waiting for Bob Sebes to emerge and, in the meantime, using the house as a backdrop for their daily live news updates on the scandal.

  Sebes had come out only once since being released on bail with a GPS tracker strapped to his ankle, and that was to attend another court hearing. He’d barely made it to his Mercedes before the pack surrounded his car, trying to get a picture or a sound bite from the unrepentant swindler.

  But Anna left the house almost every day. The press followed her around at first, on the off chance they could catch her making some lavish purchase or that she’d slip up and say something stupid to them. She was too smart for that, so they soon lost interest in her.

  There were lots of uniformed police officers, sheriff’s deputies, and even a couple of FBI agents outside the house, too, just in case Sebes tried to make a break for it or his victims decided to form a lynch mob.

  No one paid any attention to us as we walked up to the house. Bob Sebes’ Tudor-style mansion had become a tourist attraction. People came from all over to pose for pictures in front of the big iron gate with his initials written in gold lettering in the center.

  Since the scandal broke, the golden B.S. had taken on an entirely new meaning.

  I was surprised to see two familiar faces on the other side of the gate, walking up the front path to the door. And they were equally surprised to see me.

  Stottlemeyer and Disher turned around and came back to the gate.

  “What are the two of you doing here?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “I’ve come to see Bob Sebes,” Monk replied.

  “Sebes isn’t going to talk to you.”

  “He will.”

  “Why would he want to do that?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “Because the bank says that he took all of my money,” Monk replied. “And I want an explanation.”

  Stottlemeyer stared in shock at Monk. “You invested with Sebes?”

  Monk nodded.

  “He’s been cleaned out,” I said.

  “Oh my God,” the captain said.

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” Monk said. “Swindling people out of their money or besmirching a sacred word like cleaned.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “This is terrible news,” Disher said. “Which I hope you received after you bought my birthday gift.”

  “Show a little sensitivity, Randy,” I said.

  “You’re right. That was a terrible thing to say. I’m so sorry,” Disher said. “I want you to know that you can exchange whatever you bought for me from my Nordstrom registry for something less expensive on the list. It will be our secret.” He motioned to me and the captain. “And theirs, too. But the surprise party is still on, right?”

  Stottlemeyer rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I think what Randy is trying to say is that we both feel awful about this, Monk. I know it couldn’t come at a worse time for you.”

  “There’s never a good time to lose everything,” I said.

  “The timing doesn’t matter, Natalie,” Monk said. “It’s always the worst time for me. It has been since birth, which is a horrible way to enter the world. I still haven’t gotten over it.”

  He grimaced with disgust and shivered from head to toe.

  “I don’t understand why you invested with Sebes,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re not the kind of guy who takes risks with his money. Or with anything.”

  “I had faith in his good name,” Monk said.

  “It’s a palindrome,” I said.

  Stottlemeyer nodded. So did Disher.

  “That was a great movie,” Disher said. “I wonder why Tina Turner didn’t act again after that.”

  “Palindrome,” Stottlemeyer said. “Not Thunderdome.”

  Disher nodded again. “Is that also a huge cage where you fight to the death with chainsaws?”

  “A palindrome is something that reads the same forward as it does backward,” Stottlemeyer said. “Like the word level.”

  “That’s not nearly as exciting as a Thunderdome,” Disher said. “I’m not surprised that they didn’t make a movie about it.”

  Stottlemeyer turned to Monk. “You gave the guy everything you had because you liked his name?”

  “When something is level, it inspires confidence and security,” Monk said. “Everything about Bob and Anna Sebes and the Reinier Fund was level.”

  “Apparently not,” Disher said.

  “That’s why I need to talk to him,” Monk said.

  “You and a few thousand other people,” Stottlemeyer said. “But he’s not talking to anyone.”

  “He’ll talk to me,” Monk said.

  “I can’t think of a reason why he would,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Because I’ll be going in with you, and you’re here to talk with him about a murder,” Monk said. “And I will prove he did it.”

  Stottlemeyer looked around to make sure nobody heard Monk, then stepped close to the bars, speaking in a very low, conspiratorial voice.

  “We’re investigating a suspicious death. We don’t know yet whether it was an accident or a murder. But one thing we do know, without question, is that Bob Sebes didn’t do it, though it could have some connection to his fraud case, which is why the Tiburon police brought us into it.”

  “Who was killed?” I asked.

  “Russell Haxby, Reinier’s chief compliance officer,” Disher replied. “He was electrocuted in his hot tub last night at his home in Tiburon. His gardener found him this morning. The press hasn’t picked up the story yet but it won’t stay a secret for long.”

  “How was he electrocuted?”

  “The bug zapper on his overhang fell into the water,” Disher said. “And he got zapped.”

  “If Haxby was the compliance officer, he was in a good position to testify against Sebes,” Monk said. “That’s a strong motive for murder.”

  “Yes, it is,” Stottlemeyer said. “But if it was a murder, Sebes could not have done it.”

  “You can’t rule anyone out,” Monk said.

  “Haxby was killed in Tiburon at around eight p.m. and Sebes was right here in his house across the bay.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Sebes is wearing a tamperproof ankle bracelet with a built-in GPS tracking system that is constantly monitored. On top of that, his house is surrounded, and under twenty-four-hour surveillance by the police, the FBI, the sheriff, and the national news media.”

  Monk rolled his shoulders and cocked his head from side to side.

  “He’s the guy,” Monk said.

  “We don’t even know it was murder,” Stottlemeyer said, the veins in his neck bulging as he tried to control both his exasperation and his voice from rising.

  “He’s the guy,” Monk said.

  “Sebes has an airtight, ironclad, irrefutable alibi.”

  “That proves he’s the guy,” Monk said.

  “Because he couldn’t be
the guy,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Monk said. “Plus he took all of my money and besmirched the word clean for eternity.”

  Stottlemeyer got so close to the gate that his face was practically up against the bars, his nose poking through the space between the slats.

  “You’re not a consultant with the police anymore, you’re not here to investigate a murder, and you’re crippled by a staggering conflict of interest that makes you incapable of being objective about any of this. But I’m going to let you in to see him anyway.”

  “You are?” Disher said. “Why?”

  “Because Monk is my friend and this son of a bitch took all of his money. Monk deserves the chance to confront him.”

  “Thank you, Leland,” Monk said.

  “Just don’t make me regret it,” the captain said, opening the gate and ushering us in.

  “You will,” I said as I passed him.

  “I know,” he replied with a sorrowful nod, and we trooped up to Bob Sebes’ front door.

  Anna Sebes greeted us at the door. She was expecting Captain Stottlemeyer, but she still asked to see his badge as a formality. She didn’t ask the rest of us who we were and motioned us inside with a sweep of her gloved hands.

  The marbled entry hall was ringed by two grand curving staircases that framed a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling over a sculpture of a generously endowed naked man on a pedestal.

  Monk shielded his eyes from the sculpture as we followed Anna into the great room, which was filled with paintings, sculptures, and knickknacks that I’m sure were all hugely expensive masterpieces.

  A massive window framed a spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge, making it appear as if the span and the bay were just two more works of art in Sebes’ possession.

  Bob Sebes was standing in front of the window, his back to us as he admired his view. He was wearing a Tommy Bahama aloha shirt, long shorts, and leather flip-flops.

  “Smile, everybody,” he said. “I’m sure there’s some jerk with a telephoto lens on a boat out there, taking pictures of us right now for some sleazy Web site. But I don’t care. The view is the only thing that makes me feel free.”

  I groaned. “Oh, boo-hoo. You’re lucky you’re not living in a homeless shelter like some of the retirees that you’ve left penniless.”

  Bob Sebes turned around and looked at me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the woman who is going to vomit all over your hundred-thousand-dollar rug if I hear you whine any more about how rough life is for you now that your Ponzi scheme has collapsed.”

  “It’s a nine-hundred-thousand-dollar rug and I’m as victimized as any of my investors, perhaps more so, because I have been abused by the courts and demonized by the media.”

  “Careful, Bob. I feel breakfast coming up,” I said.

  Stottlemeyer gave me a sharp look. “That’s enough, Natalie.” He turned to Bob. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Russell Haxby.”

  “Finally. He’s the man who should be wearing this.” Bob pointed to the ankle bracelet on his right leg. It looked like a laptop power adaptor attached to a tiny dog collar. “He’s one of the key players who orchestrated the fraud, exploited my trust, and ruined the lives of so many people.”

  “You should have two,” Monk said, still using his hands like visors, hiding most of his face.

  “Two of what?” Bob asked him.

  “Ankle bracelets. One for each leg.”

  “One is enough,” Disher said.

  “Only if you have one leg,” Monk said. “But even then the right thing to do would be to get an artificial leg and put a GPS ankle bracelet around that, too, so you would still need two.”

  “Adrian?” Bob cocked his head and stepped toward us. “Is that you?”

  I nudged Monk. “You can lower your hands now. We’re past the naked man.”

  “He’s got blisters,” Monk said.

  “The naked man?” I asked.

  “Bob. On his heels. He’s also got rampaging tinea pedis between his toes.”

  “You mean athlete’s foot?”

  “It’s hideous,” Monk said.

  Bob stepped up close, peered at Monk, and broke into a big grin.

  “It is you,” Bob said. “Adrian Monk! I am so glad to see you.”

  “You disgust me,” Monk said, turning away.

  “I didn’t take your money, Adrian. You have to believe me. I’d hire you to prove it, but these jackals have frozen my assets. I’m telling you, I’m innocent.”

  “You have oozing blisters and virulent fungus on your feet,” Monk said with disgust. “You’ve lost your innocence.”

  Stottlemeyer cleared his throat to direct everyone’s attention back to him. I suppose it was more polite than shooting his gun in the air.

  “If you didn’t rip off everyone, Sebes, who did?”

  “Russell Haxby was the ringleader of the scheme, but I’m sure there were others involved. There had to be. It’s too big for one man to have pulled off on his own.”

  “No one believes that there aren’t other people in your office who are guilty, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “But they were taking orders from you. It was your fund. You were running it.”

  “Yes, I was the visionary, the big-picture guy. But I worked at the macro level of the business, not the micro level, not on the sales and trading floors. I wasn’t the one who dealt with regulators or the accountants. I left those day-to-day details to Russell and others. I thought my directives were being carried out, but they weren’t. They were ripping everybody off, me included. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  Stottlemeyer shook his head. “Russell Haxby is dead. He was electrocuted in his hot tub last night.”

  “Oh, God, no,” Anna gasped, holding a gloved hand to her mouth. Bob went to her and they held each other for a long moment.

  “You seem pretty broken up over a guy you just accused of masterminding the scheme to rip off your investors and frame you for the crime,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “That’s because he’s one of the few people who could have proved my innocence,” Bob said, breaking away from his wife, but taking her hand.

  “Haxby was cooperating with the prosecutors,” Stottlemeyer said. “He was going to plead guilty to conspiracy this week and agree to testify against you in exchange for a lesser sentence.”

  “Of course he was,” Anna hissed, “to focus attention away from himself and heap all the blame on poor Bob. Now that Russell is dead, we’re screwed.”

  “Or saved,” I said. “Depending on how you look at it.”

  “Did you come here to accuse us of something?” Bob said. “If so, get it over with already.”

  “You’re filth,” Monk yelled, stabbing a finger at Bob. “Putrid, disgusting, horrific primordial slime that isn’t fit to walk among civilized men. You’re a blight on humanity, Bob Sebes.”

  I’d seen Monk confront a hundred murderers but I’d never seen anything approaching this level of moral outrage from him. He was shaking. Then again, nobody had ever stripped him of every penny he had to his name. I didn’t blame him for losing control.

  “I didn’t take your money,” Bob said.

  “Forget about the money,” Monk said. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It doesn’t?” I said.

  “Look at yourself, Bob. Your feet are being devoured by a parasitic fungus,” Monk said. “They look like Chia Pets. In the name of all that’s holy, wash your disgusting feet before the fungus spreads and the entire city is infested with your wanton pestilence.”

  We all stared at Monk for a long moment.

  “Okay,” Bob said softly, carefully. “I’ll soak my feet in some baking soda.”

  “Acid would be better,” Monk said. “Or amputation.”

  “We didn’t come here to criticize his personal hygiene,” Stottlemeyer said to Monk.

  “Perhaps if somebody did a long time ago, he wouldn’t have committed his heinous crimes,”
Monk said. “The fungus has probably gone to his brain and rotted it away. He’s got fungal foot brain. That’s what happens when you engage in wanton pestilence!”

  There it was again, wanton pestilence. Monk really liked that phrase. I was waiting for him to throw the word feculence, another of his favorites, into the discussion, too.

  “Thanks a lot, Monk,” Disher said. “You’ve just handed Bob Sebes his entire defense strategy on a silver platter.”

  Stottlemeyer turned to Disher. “What’s he going to say? ‘I’m innocent, Your Honor. I had athlete’s foot’ ? ”

  “It’s the fungal-foot brain defense,” Disher said.

  “It’s absurd,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Oh, really?” Disher said. “Thirty years ago, Dan White assassinated the mayor of San Francisco and a city supervisor and his defense was that he ate too many Twinkies. That got him off with voluntary manslaughter instead of premeditated murder.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Stottlemeyer said. “I stand corrected.”

  Bob looked at Monk. “Could athlete’s foot fungus really spread to the brain?”

  “It can spread everywhere,” Monk replied. “It’s probably creeping toward us right now.”

  Monk took a big step back. So did Disher.

  Stottlemeyer rubbed his temples. “Let’s forget about the foot fungus for a moment and talk instead about Russell Haxby. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead?”

  “Are you saying he was murdered?” Anna asked.

  “I’m saying it’s a possibility. It looks like he died in an accident, but until we’re sure, we’re treating it as a homicide.”

  “Any of his coconspirators in the fraud could have done it,” Bob said. “Or any of the victims of his crime.”

  “Or you,” Disher said.

  “I couldn’t have killed Haxby. Maybe you haven’t noticed, Detective, but I can’t even go outside and pick up my morning newspaper without it being broadcast live on CNN. Besides, even if I could leave the house, this ankle bracelet tracks my every move. You can probably tell me the last time I walked from the kitchen to my bedroom. So how could I possibly have killed anyone?”

  “You could have hired someone to do it for you,” Disher said.