Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants

by Goldberg, Lee

  “That’s his way,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mr. Monk and the Third Summation

  It was late Monday morning when the guards came to our cell, put Sharona and me in handcuffs and led us out to see some visitors. I hoped that meant my parents had arrived with a high-powered criminal lawyer who’d make Perry Mason look incompetent by comparison.

  We were led into a windowless conference room, where Stottlemeyer, Disher, Ludlow and Monk were waiting for us. I would have preferred to see my parents and the lawyer.

  “You can remove the cuffs,” Stottlemeyer said to the guards.

  “That’s against policy,” the stockiest of the guards said.

  “I’ll take responsibility,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “You’re putting yourselves in danger,” the guard said.

  “I don’t think so,” Stottlemeyer said.

  The guards unlocked our cuffs.

  “We’ll be right outside the door,” the stocky guard said.

  “I feel safer already,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “What do you want, Leland?” Sharona said. “Because unless it’s an apology, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Monk called this meeting,” Stottlemeyer said. “He says there are some new developments.”

  I looked at Monk, who was standing at the end of the table, a grocery bag in his hand. He broke into a happy grin. No, it was more than that. He was practically breaking out in song.

  I knew what that meant. Either he’d finally found two perfectly identical potato chips (a freak occurrence rarely found in nature, or so he’d told me) or he’d solved the murders.

  I glanced at Sharona, Stottlemeyer and Disher, and I could see that they knew it, too. The only one who wasn’t getting the message was Ludlow. But he would soon.

  “So what’s the news that’s got you so excited?” Ludlow asked him. “Have you found some leverage to make one of these two turn against the other?”

  “It won’t happen,” Monk said.

  “You’d be surprised what people will do when they’re looking at life in prison,” Ludlow said.

  “They’re innocent,” Monk said.

  “I think I’ve proved quite conclusively that they aren’t,” Ludlow said.

  “You proved the opposite,” Monk said, setting the grocery bag on the tabletop. “But I couldn’t demonstrate that yesterday. It was a Sunday.”

  “You were taking the day off?” Sharona said.

  “I couldn’t get the final piece of evidence until today. I could have found it a lot earlier if I’d only seen what was right in front of me all along,” Monk said. “If I hadn’t been so self-absorbed, I would have realized what was going on in time to stop this from happening. I owe you both an apology.”

  “What is he talking about?” Ludlow asked Stottlemeyer.

  “I think he’s getting ready to tell us who killed Ellen Cole and Ronald Webster,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “We already know,” Ludlow said, tipping his head toward Sharona and me. “It was the two of them.”

  “It was you,” Monk said.

  Ludlow laughed. Stottlemeyer groaned.

  “It sure would be nice if you and Monk could expand your list of suspects beyond the people in this room,” Stottlemeyer said. “There’s a whole city of possible killers out there. Pick one of them.”

  “At least Monk didn’t say it was you or me, sir,” Disher said. “Isn’t it our turn?”

  “The day is just getting started,” Stottlemeyer said. “There’s still time.”

  I wanted to believe that it was Ludlow because I needed it to be true. But I have to admit my heart sank just a little. What if I had been right before? What if this was the first time that Monk was wrong? I glanced at Sharona, who was expressionless, so I assumed she felt the same ambivalence that I did.

  “Monk is joking, Captain,” Ludlow said. “Don’t you have a sense of humor?”

  “I do,” Stottlemeyer said. “But Monk doesn’t.”

  “It’s just that my sense of humor is very refined,” Monk said. “Almost antiseptic.”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” Ludlow said.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to think about it in prison,” Monk said.

  Ludlow laughed again. “Okay, I get it now. It’s a very dry wit.”

  “I really mean it. You killed Ellen Cole and Ronald Webster,” Monk said. “You can’t come up with stories to meet all your deadlines, so you murder someone you’ve met at a book signing, observe how events unfold, then pick the least likely suspect to frame for the crime.”

  Monk detailed the evidence again, laying it out exactly as he had for us at his house on Sunday. I could be mistaken, but I think he even used the same words.

  Ludlow listened to it all with amusement.

  “That could make a pretty good plot in a novel. In fact, I might use it,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ll be sure to credit you in the acknowledgments.”

  “So far, Monk, you haven’t told us anything you didn’t tell us yesterday,” Stottlemeyer said. “And it hasn’t become any more convincing since then.”

  I hated to admit it to myself, but the captain was right. My hopes were fading fast, and from the look on Sharona’s face, so were hers.

  “The only thing I got wrong yesterday was thinking that Ludlow’s scheme was all about me,” Monk said. “It never was. I’m not sure he even knew I was involved until we showed up at his book signing in Los Angeles. But at that moment, he set out to frame Natalie and add another twist to the plot of his book.”

  “How can you say that?” Disher said.

  “Because all the events leading up to Ronald Webster’s murder began at that point,” Monk said. “That’s when Natalie used her credit card to buy Ludlow’s book, the one with the fake alligator killing in it.”

  “Death Is the Last Word,” Disher said, “which, if I may say, is destined to enter the pantheon of classic crime novels.”

  “Thank you,” Ludlow said.

  “Stop sucking up, Randy,” Sharona said. “It’s revolting.”

  “Here’s what happened,” Monk said. “Ludlow looked over her shoulder and got her credit card number and, for good measure, stole her credit-card receipt when he signed her book. He used the number to order the alligator jaws and have them sent overnight to her in San Francisco.”

  “Let’s say you’re right about that,” Stottlemeyer said. “How did he know about Natalie and her relationship with the firefighter?”

  “He didn’t,” Monk said.

  “He didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “Doesn’t that pretty much torpedo your whole theory?”

  “Ludlow was teaching in Berkeley when I solved the Golden Gate Strangler case,” Monk said. “He told us that he’d thought about turning it into a book.”

  “Too late,” Disher said. “I’m already into the first draft. Only I’ve made some changes.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Now the foot-crazy killer is caught single-handedly by a dashing lieutenant on the San Francisco police force.”

  “And the killer is called the Foot Fiend,” Disher said, “as he should have been all along.”

  “Ludlow must have done some preliminary research into me and probably learned about the firehouse-dog murder investigation,” Monk said. “Natalie’s relationship with Joe was one of those nice surprises that Ludlow hopes for when he does these random killings.”

  “Meaning you can’t prove that Ludlow knew anything at all about Natalie and the firefighter,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “The proof is that she’s accused of murder,” Monk said. “If Ludlow didn’t know about them, then she wouldn’t be here.”

  Stottlemeyer sighed wearily. “He told you how he knew about them. Ludlow found out after she got the phone call from the guy.”

  “That’s not how he knew,” Monk said. “Forget his story. Follow mine.”

  “Your story is inventive,” Ludlow said. “But the plotting is
weak. It’s simply not believable.”

  “Don’t take the criticism personally, Monk,” Disher said. “He gave me the same notes on my first story.”

  “I’m having a hard time following the plot myself,” Stottlemeyer said. “What’s missing is evidence.”

  “On the contrary, there’s evidence all over the place,” Monk said. “The streaks on Webster’s bathroom floor. The salt in the bathtub. The drop of blood in the grout. The drop of hydraulic fluid on the floor. The pizza box. The FedEx packaging. The drops of steering fluid in the parking lot and Natalie’s driveway. Joe’s fire department T-shirt. It’s way over the top.”

  I raised my hand. “The T-shirt was me.”

  “It was all you,” Ludlow said.

  “Why would a killer who’d supposedly concocted such a clever and complicated method of murdering someone suddenly become so sloppy?” Monk asked.

  “Killers make mistakes,” Ludlow said.

  “Not this many,” Monk said. “You left an obvious trail of clues that would lead straight to Natalie and, by extension, incriminate Sharona.”

  “Let’s forget for the moment that your imaginative scenario lacks evidence to support it,” Ludlow said.

  “I haven’t,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “There’s one glaringly fatal flaw in your creative thinking, ” Ludlow said. “Everything you described had to happen on Wednesday and Thursday. But Randy didn’t call me until Friday.”

  “He’s right,” Disher said.

  “I was in Los Angeles all that time,” Ludlow said. “I didn’t get here until Saturday. I couldn’t have done any of the things you’ve suggested.”

  Monk smiled.

  And what a smile it was. It was the grin you’d get if you came up with three cherries in a row on a slot machine.

  It was a winning smile.

  Sharona looked at me and I could see the excitement in her eyes.

  “You called Ludlow on his cell phone, didn’t you?” Monk asked Disher.

  “Yes,” Disher said. “So?”

  “So you don’t actually know where he was when he got the call,” Monk said. “He could have been anywhere.”

  “I was in Los Angeles,” Ludlow said.

  “I can prove that you weren’t. Like most bad mystery writers, you have your murderers dropping clues all over the place so that your detective can wrap everything up nice and tight,” Monk said. “And you did the same thing when you framed Natalie. But you added one clue too many.”

  Monk reached into the grocery bag on the table and pulled out a piece of paper.

  “This is a copy of the register receipt that was conveniently taped to the Sorrento’s pizza box in Webster’s kitchen,” Monk said.

  “The one that shows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Natalie was in the restaurant on Thursday night,” Ludlow said.

  “That’s right,” Monk said. “Why is that again?”

  “Because of the ten-percent discount Webster got for mentioning the advertising on Julie’s cast,” Ludlow said. “That proves he was there at the same time that she was.”

  “How do you know?” Monk said.

  “It’s right there on the receipt,” Ludlow said, pointing at it.

  “Yes, it is,” Monk said. “But how do you know?”

  “Because I can see it,” Ludlow said.

  “But you had to have seen Julie to know about the discount advertised on her cast,” Monk said. “And you’ve never met her. So how would you know about the discount unless you were here and saw them go into the restaurant?”

  Ludlow sighed. “Someone at the pizza place told me about it during my investigation. I’m very thorough.”

  “That explanation might have worked, but like the killers in your books, you’ve been betrayed by a personality quirk,” Monk said. “There’s a bookstore across the street from Sorrento’s. Unfortunately, it’s closed on Sundays, so I had to wait until it opened this morning to buy this.”

  Monk reached into the grocery bag again and pulled out a copy of Death Is the Last Word.

  “Would you like me to sign it for you?” Ludlow said.

  “It’s already signed,” Monk said. “And dated.”

  Monk opened the book to reveal Ludlow’s signature on the title page and the date below it.

  October nineteenth.

  Wednesday.

  “The bookseller in Los Angeles told us that you had a compulsion,” Monk said. “You can’t pass a bookstore without signing your books. She was right.”

  Disher stared at Ludlow in stunned disbelief. Stottlemeyer looked pretty stunned, too.

  I had to stop myself from raising my fists into the air and yelling “Yes” at the top of my lungs.

  It was only a moment later that I realized that I hadn’t stopped myself.

  I’d done it.

  Sharona broke into a big grin and gave me a hug.

  Ludlow took a deep breath, let it out slowly and took a seat.

  “You were watching Natalie and waiting to pick just the right person to kill,” Monk said. “You saw Ronald Webster go into the pizza parlor while they were there. You befriended him afterward and, well, we know what happened next, don’t we?”

  Ludlow had lost and he knew it.

  “This is going to make a much better ending for my book,” Ludlow said with a rueful grin. “No one will ever suspect the author.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Mr. Monk and the Happy Ending

  Monk, Sharona and I walked out of the jail together. I took a deep breath. San Francisco had never smelled so good. I couldn’t wait to get home and give my daughter a great big hug. And then I wanted a hot, bubbly bath and a long nap in my own bed.

  Stottlemeyer and Disher both apologized to us. Disher almost got on his knees to beg forgiveness, but it didn’t seem good enough, at least not the way I was feeling.

  Monk apologized and he’d saved us. But there was still one thing neither Sharona nor I understood about the way he’d acted on Sunday.

  “Why didn’t you say anything yesterday when Ludlow was making his case against us?” Sharona asked him.

  “At first, it was because I was ashamed of myself for my mistakes,” Monk said. “Later it was because I didn’t want to say anything that might tip him off that I was on to him. I didn’t want him going back and buying all of his signed books. But it turns out that I shouldn’t have worried.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Monk showed me what else was in his grocery bag. It was full of Ludlow books.

  “It wasn’t the only bookstore where he signed stock on Wednesday and Thursday,” Monk said. “He also stopped at bookstores in Union Square and out near Baker Beach.”