Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants

by Goldberg, Lee

  “Or to Ellen Cole’s murder,” Sharona said, “which is all I really care about.”

  “There’s more,” Monk said. “Show them, Sharona.”

  “Show them what?” she said.

  “The picture I asked you to take last night in Ellen Cole’s house,” Monk said.

  Sharona took out her cell phone, which had a camera feature on it, and pulled up a close-up image of a row of books. She showed it to us. We looked over her shoulder. I recognized the titles on the spines of the books. They were Ian Ludlow mysteries.

  “Ellen Cole owned almost all of Ian Ludlow’s books,” Monk said. “So did Ronald Webster.”

  “I do, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “So do millions of other people.”

  “That’s your link between the two murders?” Sharona said angrily. “That’s nothing, Adrian!”

  “You aren’t much of a detective. You said so yourself and I must agree,” Monk said. “You’re obviously missing the intricate ways these clues fit together.”

  “I’m a detective,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I think she’s right. Worse, I think you’re having some kind of mental meltdown.”

  I was inclined to agree.

  “There’s more,” Monk said.

  “You keep saying that,” Stottlemeyer said. “And there really isn’t.”

  “Ludlow confessed to us,” Monk said. “Three times.”

  “I don’t remember that,” I said.

  “Neither do I,” Sharona said.

  “He only confessed to you once,” Monk said to her.

  “If he confessed to killing Ellen Cole,” Sharona said, “I would remember it.”

  “Ludlow writes four books a year,” Monk said. “When we were at his book signing in Los Angeles, a fan asked him if he was ever afraid of running out of ideas. Ludlow said no, saying he gets his stories from real people.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with Ellen Cole,” Sharona said.

  “When he finishes a book, he does book signings, then hangs out with Lieutenant Dozier, waiting until a murder comes along that interests him. But I don’t think he waits.”

  “You believe he killed Ellen Cole for a book?” Sharona said.

  “He picked her at random, maybe from a crowd at one of his book signings, followed her for a time, then killed her,” Monk said. “He hung around with the police, watched how the case developed and who the people were in her life, then created his own ending by framing Trevor, the least likely suspect, for the crime.”

  “You came up with all of this just from Ludlow saying he was inspired by real cases?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “There’s more,” Monk said.

  “I wish you’d stop saying that,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “That’s how he gets his stories. He said he couldn’t make up anything as good as the real conflicts in Cole’s life. And then yesterday, at the morgue, Ludlow said virtually the same thing again,” Monk said. “Later, at Webster’s house, he said he’s always amazed at what he finds when he scratches the surface of an ordinary person’s life. He had no idea that an ordinary shoe salesman’s life could be so complicated.”

  “Not as complicated as the way he was killed,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Monk said, turning to Stottlemeyer. “You said Ronald Webster’s murder was a case that cried out for me. You were right. That was the whole point.”

  “You were the point,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Ludlow murdered Webster in this outrageous way for two reasons,” Monk said. “To make sure you’d bring me in to investigate and so Disher would see the similarity to Ludlow’s book and call the author in to help.”

  “So this is all about you,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Yes, yes, now you’re getting it,” Monk said. “When I showed up to investigate Ellen’s murder, Ludlow saw a way to add a twist to his story. So he came up here and murdered Ronald Webster, another one of his fans.”

  “All so you could be the star of his new book,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Not necessarily the star,” Monk said, “but certainly a major character.”

  “Certainly,” Stottlemeyer said. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He sighed wearily and headed for the door.

  “Are you leaving to arrest Ludlow?” Monk said.

  “Nope,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m just leaving.”

  And that was that. The captain walked out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mr. Monk and the Big Arrest

  Monk stared at the door for a long moment after Stottlemeyer left, then turned to the two of us.

  “What is his problem?” he said.

  “You, Adrian,” Sharona said.

  “I just solved two murders,” Monk said. “He should be thanking me and arresting that phony.”

  “You’re selfish, self-centered, and completely self-involved, ” Sharona said. “The whole world has to revolve around you, and when it doesn’t, you freak out.”

  He looked at me. “What’s her problem?”

  “Mr. Monk, you know that I have enormous faith in your abilities as a detective,” I said.

  “As you should,” Monk said. “I’m always right.”

  Sharona groaned. I tried not to do the same myself.

  “But it looks to me like your thinking on this case is heavily influenced by your animosity toward Ian Ludlow,” I said. “Listening to you today, it seems that you’re determined to put yourself front and center, even if it means twisting things to make Ludlow the villain.”

  “Do you really think that about me?”

  I double-checked with myself. Monk was never wrong about murder, but there was always a first time, and this seemed like it could be it. His conclusions required a bigger jump than any conclusions he’d ever jumped to before.

  “Yes, Mr. Monk, I do,” I said. “I don’t think you’re doing it intentionally. It’s just how you’re choosing to interpret the facts.”

  “The facts are what they are,” Monk said. “There is only one way to interpret them.”

  “That’s your problem, Adrian. It’s always got to be your way,” Sharona said. “Everybody has to see things the way you do, arrange things the way you do, act the way you do, or they’re committing a crime against nature. God forbid that you should ever change for anyone.”

  “Ian Ludlow is a fraud. Can’t you see that? A know-nothing blowhard,” Monk said. “He’s the murderer who framed your husband.”

  “What hurts the most isn’t that you’re wrong and that the real murderer is still out there. It’s that you can’t see past your own selfishness to help me,” Sharona said. “I needed you, Adrian, more than I’ve ever needed anyone. You let me down.” She walked out, slamming the door behind her, and leaving me alone with Monk.

  “I’m right,” Monk said. “You know that I am. In your heart of hearts, you know.”

  “If you’re right, Mr. Monk, why does Ludlow care so much about you?”

  “Because I’m brilliant,” Monk said. “And he’s not.”

  I was glad that Sharona wasn’t there to hear him say that. “I rest my case,” I said.

  “You haven’t made a case to rest,” Monk said.

  “You’re letting your ego and insecurity blind you to other possible explanations.”

  “I don’t think so,” Monk said.

  “Of course you don’t,” I said.

  Arguing with him was pointless. Sharona was right. He would never change. I turned to leave.

  “You can’t go,” Monk said.

  “It’s my day off,” I said.

  “But I need you,” he said quietly.

  “Now you know how Sharona feels,” I said. I was almost at the door when Captain Stottlemeyer walked in, a grim look on his face.

  Monk burst into a big smile. “I knew you’d see reason. You’ve come to get me for the big arrest.”

  “I’m afraid not, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Natalie, you need to come with me.”

  I felt a pang of terr
or. “Is Julie okay? Has something happened to Julie?”

  “No, she’s fine,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’d better come, too, Monk.”

  “What’s going on, Captain?” I asked as we followed him outside. “Where are we going?”

  “Back to your house,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Why?”

  But just as I asked that question, I noticed to my great surprise that my Jeep Cherokee wasn’t parked in front of Monk’s place anymore. It was gone. Stottlemeyer’s car was parked right where my car used to be.

  “Somebody stole my car,” I said.

  “It wasn’t stolen,” Stottlemeyer said. “It was towed away.”

  “Who towed it?” I said. “I wasn’t parked illegally and I don’t have any unpaid parking tickets.”

  “That’s not why we towed it,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “We?” I said.

  But Stottlemeyer didn’t say another word. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  The street in front of my house was clogged with official police vehicles—black-and-white cruisers, unmarked detective sedans and a couple vans from the crime-scene investigation unit.

  The last time I had a party like that at my house was when I killed an intruder who tried to kill me. That was how I met Monk.

  Now my house was a crime scene again. That meant that a crime had been committed in the house or items related to a crime could be found there. I didn’t like the implications of either scenario. Regardless of the explanation, I was sure my neighbors were already circulating a petition demanding that I move.

  Captain Stottlemeyer had remained silent during the short drive but when we pulled up to the curb in front of my house, he looked over his shoulder at me in the backseat and finally spoke.

  “I didn’t know anything about this,” Stottlemeyer said. “Neither did Randy. I heard about it after I left Monk’s place. Ludlow went over our heads.”

  “Ludlow?” Monk said. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  “It’s his show,” Stottlemeyer said as we all got out of the car.

  Ian Ludlow, Disher and Sharona were waiting for us in my living room. There were other uniformed cops, plainclothes detectives and forensics guys scurrying around. I didn’t know what they were doing that was keeping them so busy or why they were doing it.

  I’d left the house locked. Now all these people were in my house, going through my stuff, without asking me first. It pissed me off. I was sure they had a warrant, but that still didn’t make it right.

  Disher looked as grim as his boss, and Sharona was radiating anger. I couldn’t figure out why she’d been dragged to my place. Then again, I didn’t know why I was there, either.

  “Thanks for coming down,” Ludlow said.

  “I live here,” I said testily.

  “Indeed you do,” Ludlow said.

  “Another brilliant deduction,” Monk said.

  “What are we doing here?” Sharona asked.

  “I thought you’d like to know who killed Ellen Cole,” Ludlow said.

  “You were the one who said it was my husband,” Sharona said.

  “I was wrong,” Ludlow said. “When I heard what Monk told Lieutenant Dozier, I realized I’d been misled by the evidence and I immediately resolved to let nothing stop me from getting to the truth.”

  “And you’ve found the truth in my living room?” I said.

  “As a matter of fact,” Ludlow said, “I have.”

  “So spit it out,” Sharona asked. “Who killed Ellen Cole?”

  Ludlow smiled at Sharona. “You already know the answer to that.”

  “If I did,” Sharona said, “I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “You killed Ellen Cole,” Ludlow said to her.

  I glanced at Monk. He seemed perplexed, his features all scrunched up as he grappled with this new concept.

  Stottlemeyer and Disher were both looking at Sharona.

  “You’re lucky there are two cops standing here,” Sharona said, glaring furiously at Ludlow. “Or you’d be flat on the floor, looking for your teeth.”

  “That’s your best argument?” Ludlow said. “More violence?”

  “First you say my husband killed her,” Sharona said. “Now you’re saying that I did. What have you got against us? Did we run over your cat or something?”

  “I’ve known Sharona for years,” Stottlemeyer said. “I just don’t believe she’s capable of murder.”

  “It’s exactly that predisposition that provoked me to go over your head to the deputy commissioner to arrange for this search warrant and for Captain Toplyn to serve it,” Ludlow said, motioning across the room to a stocky man, who I presumed was Toplyn.

  Toplyn acknowledged our glances with an expressionless nod. He was within earshot but outside our circle, standing beside a cardboard box full of bags of collected evidence.

  But evidence of what?

  “I knew that you’d be too biased to see things in an objective light,” Ludlow said.

  “Convince me that I’m wrong,” Stottlemeyer said.

  If Ludlow thought Sharona was a killer, why were the cops crawling all over my house and my car instead of hers? What did I have to do with any of this?

  “Sharona killed Ellen Cole and framed her husband for the murder,” Ludlow said. “She did it to get out of an abusive marriage.”

  “If I wanted out of my marriage, I wouldn’t have had to kill anyone,” Sharona said. “I would have just walked out. I’ve done it before.”

  “Yes, you have. You did it because Trevor is a creep, a loser and a lousy father. But what happened? He came back. You got sucked into the marriage again, even though you know he’s the same loser that he’s always been,” Ludlow said. “You are helpless against his charms and you know it.”

  Monk nodded in agreement. Sharona glared at him.

  “What are you nodding for, Adrian? He’s accusing me of murder here,” Sharona said. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

  “I’m listening,” Monk said.

  “You’re listening and nodding,” Sharona said.

  “Only to the part about Trevor,” Monk said, “not the part about you murdering someone.”

  “I didn’t murder anyone,” Sharona said. “That’s the point, Adrian. You have to tell him he’s wrong.”

  “You knew that there was only one way to save yourself and your son,” Ludlow said. “You had to find a way to get Trevor out of your life for good.”

  “So why wouldn’t she just kill him?” Stottlemeyer said.