Mr. Monk Gets Even (5 page)

“I could see the crumbs from the sourdough toast that he had for breakfast, too.”

“Not even Superman could see that,” Devlin said.

“That’s why Clark Kent wears glasses,” Monk said. “The killer got a fresh lightbulb from the closet, turned out the lights in the apartment, and went out on the deck. The killer wanted the apartment dark so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone in the building across the way.”

Monk went on to explain that the killer set the new bulb on the table and stood on the wicker chair to reach the light fixture above. But he was too heavy for the chair and his foot went through the worn wicker seat. So he went back into the apartment, banging his shin on the coffee table in the darkness, and carried out one of the dining room chairs, which he stood on to remove the bulb from the light fixture. He purposely dropped the old bulb on the ground, brought the chair back in, then picked up Zuzelo and threw him over the railing to the street below.

“That’s quite an elaborate story, almost bordering on slapstick,” Devlin said. She glanced around the apartment and then looked back into her iPhone camera. “But I don’t see any evidence to back up a word of it.”

“Then you need to see an optometrist right away,” Monk said. “Because the evidence is everywhere.”

“Like what?” Devlin said.

“There’s the hole in the wicker chair,” Monk said.

“Yes, I can see that. How do you know Zuzelo didn’t put his foot through it standing on the chair himself to change the bulb?”

“There are four reasons. One, his shoe size. Whoever made that hole wears a size twelve shoe. Second, his height. Although I didn’t see his body, I saw his jackets in the closet. He was five foot six. Even if he stood on that chair, he would not have been tall enough to reach the fixture. Third, the lightbulbs. The old bulb is a sixty-five watt and the fixture has a seventy-five-watt capacity, but the new bulb is one hundred watts, the kind used in the lamp beside the couch. The killer grabbed the wrong bulb. Fourth, everything on the coffee table is in disarray.”

She looked at the table. “It looks fine to me.”

“I’m surprised you’re allowed to drive,” Monk said. “The sunlight pours into the apartment and, over the years, has bleached the tabletop. When the killer banged the edge of the table with his shin, he shifted all the items that were on top of it, exposing the darker wood underneath them.”

Devlin turned to look, pointing her camera at the table at the same time. Sure enough, Julie could see the outline of the bowl of seashells was burned onto the tabletop. It looked like a shadow.

Julie hadn’t seen that the first time. Then again, she hadn’t been paying any attention. It wasn’t her job to look for clues. There were plenty of cops around for that. So she didn’t feel dumb for missing it the way Devlin had and, to a lesser degree, Stottlemeyer had as well.

“You’ll also find bits of wicker on the seat of the dining room chair,” Monk added, “the one that is not pushed all the way under the table the way it should be.”

Devlin turned the iPhone camera back on her and Stottlemeyer, who was shaking his head.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Monk. You got all that without even coming up here. That’s a first.”

“I think he’s making half this stuff up,” Devlin said. “It’s guesswork.”

“Maybe so,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I’ll bet my pension that forensics will prove he’s right about what’s on the floor and on the chair. I’m pretty sure Monk can spot pollen with his naked eye.”

“There’s no reason to be pornographic,” Monk said.

“I meant you could see it without glasses or a microscope,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Then that’s what you should have said instead of being unnecessarily crude.”

“You’re right,” Stottlemeyer said. “I apologize.”

“You do?” Devlin said.

Stottlemeyer shrugged. “It doesn’t cost me anything.”

“Only a measure of your pride.”

“Pride is grossly overrated,” Stottlemeyer said.

Julie turned the phone so it was just on her. “Are we done here, Leland?”

“Yes, you are,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d hang around for a minute. I need to come down and talk with Monk about something.”

Julie clicked out of FaceTime, then sent a quick text to her boyfriend, Ricky, letting him know she’d be home in about an hour.

Monk kept his eye on the tarp-covered Mercedes, as if it might come alive and attack them both.

“The car hasn’t been towed yet,” Monk said.

“That’s because I haven’t had a chance to mention it to any officers,” she said. “But rest assured, it’s on the top of my to-do list.”

“I don’t see the list,” he said.

She held up her iPhone. “I keep it on here. Asking the police to tow the car is item number one, right above getting you to your tuxedo fitting tomorrow at Ambrose’s house. The wedding is only a week away.”

Both Monk and his brother were buying tuxedos, even though they would probably never wear them again. Renting tuxedos was not an option because both of the Monk brothers were repulsed by the idea of wearing clothes that had been worn by others. (In fact, Monk felt that the whole business of renting formal wear should be outlawed. He was also vehemently opposed to the sale of vintage clothing, which Julie bought from stores in the Haight all the time and had to keep secret from him, but I digress.)

Since Ambrose wouldn’t leave the house for a fitting, the tailor was coming to him. So it made sense for Monk to have his fitting done at the same time.

“I’m not looking forward to the wedding,” Monk said with a shudder. “The noise, the confusion, and all those people, crowded together in one place.”

“There’s only going to be eight of us, and that’s counting the bride, the groom, and the judge,” Julie said. “It’s just you, me, Mom, Ellen, and the mailman.”

Monk’s father had been invited, but hadn’t responded to the invitation, so Ambrose invited the mailman to be sure that there would be an even number of guests. Before Yuki came along, the mailman was one of the most important people in Ambrose’s life.

“Yes, but the mailman handles thousands of letters, some of them sealed with drool, and he doesn’t wear gloves,” Monk said. “His mailbag is a sack of plague.”

“I don’t think he’s bringing it to the wedding,” Julie said. “There are more people at this crime scene right now than will be at the wedding next week.”

“You don’t have to dress up, embrace people, or kiss anyone at a crime scene.”

“Who are you planning on embracing and kissing?”

“Absolutely no one,” Monk said. “And I am counting on you to prevent anyone from doing it to me.”

“Does that include Ellen Morse?”

Before Monk could answer that question, Stottlemeyer emerged from the building and joined them.

Monk nudged Julie. “Tell him.”

“Leland, that Mercedes over there, the one covered with a tarp, needs to be towed,” Julie said.

He glanced at it. “What for?”

“The front seats and the headrests are not identically aligned,” Julie said.

“How can you tell with a tarp over the car?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“I put the tarp over it,” Julie said.

“Doesn’t that solve the problem?”

Monk shook his head. “The seats and headrests are still not equally adjusted.”

“But you’re the only one who knows it,” Stottlemeyer said.

“You can’t see radioactivity, sarin gas, or bubonic plague, either,” Monk said. “But they are still deadly.”

Stottlemeyer gave him a long look, then sighed. “I’ll have the car towed.”

“Really?” Monk asked.

“No,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m humoring you.”

Julie was startled by the remark, but not half as much as Monk was.

Now Monk gave him a long look. “Is that true?”

“You’ve come a long way in the last year, Monk. You only need an assistant part-time, you rarely see your shrink anymore, and you’re dating a woman who sells actual crap. I think you can handle a little more honesty and a little less patronizing now.”

Julie smiled. She liked that approach and had been toying with it herself, until she realized that Monk could fire her and then she’d have to join the hordes of unemployed scrambling for good jobs in the Bay Area.

Monk tipped his head from side to side, rolled his shoulders, and shifted his weight as if his body were out of alignment and needed to be set right. “So in the past you’d say you’d take care of a problem like this, but actually you’d do nothing about it.”

“Pretty much,” Stottlemeyer said.

“You’ve betrayed my trust.”

“I watched your back,” he said.

“You put a knife in it.”

Stottlemeyer sighed. “The car isn’t parked in a red zone or impeding traffic or presenting any kind of danger. I can’t tow the car, or even ticket it, because no laws have been broken. So if I were to do what you asked, in this instance and all the times before, I’d actually be abusing my authority and jeopardizing my badge, and by extension my house and my pension. Then you’d be out of a job, too, because I created this consulting gig and I’m the guy who fights to keep you on the payroll despite massive budget cuts. So I’ve ignored some of your demands for your own good. That’s the reality of the situation, Monk, whether you like it or not.”

“Wow,” Julie said. “That’s some tough love you’re dishing out tonight.”

“I felt it was time I contributed to Monk’s personal growth.”

“Is that what you came down here to tell me?” Monk said. “Because if it is, I could have lived without it.”

“No, I have something else to tell you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I was adopted.”

“No,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I have six months to live.”

“No,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I have gum under my shoe.”

Stottlemeyer raised an eyebrow. “Tell me those questions weren’t asked in order of importance to you.”

“Please just tell me what it is and get it over with.”

“Dale the Whale is getting out of prison tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Mr. Monk and the Fitting

D
ale Biederback, aka Dale the Whale, was an outrageously obese and extremely wealthy businessman that Monk’s late wife, Trudy, an investigative reporter, revealed to be a criminal through a series of scathing newspaper articles that aroused the interest of the FTC, the SEC, and the FBI.

In the wake of that humiliating scandal, Dale made it his personal mission to destroy her and her husband. From his bed, which he was too fat to ever leave, he filed one lawsuit after another against Trudy. The legal fees alone cost Monk his house, which Dale bought from the bank and used to store his massive collection of pornography.

Not long afterward, Trudy was killed by a car bomb and Monk suffered a devastating mental breakdown.

For years Monk suspected Dale of her murder. It turned out Dale had nothing to do with it, but Monk later proved him guilty of another murder, and got the fat lunatic sent to prison for life.

But even behind bars, Dale was able to continue harassing Monk. In fact, he almost succeeded in framing Monk for murder, but that’s another story.

Suffice it to say that the news that Dale the Whale was getting out of prison was something Stottlemeyer knew Monk would not take lightly, so he was quick to qualify his remark.

“Don’t worry, Monk. He’s not being set free.”

“I don’t understand,” Monk said.

“Because of Dale’s enormous weight, he’s been treated in prison by licensed caregivers, who keep him on a special diet, bathe him, and give him physical therapy to keep his muscles from atrophying. It’s very expensive.”

“He can afford it,” Monk said. “He owns half the real estate this city is built on.”

“All his holdings are tied up in lawsuits that could drag on for decades,” Stottlemeyer said. “So in the meantime the state has had to pay the bills. And, befitting a guy who weighs more than five hundred pounds, they have been huge.”

“He’s lost weight,” Monk said. “He was close to eight hundred pounds when he was arrested.”

“Dale lost three hundred pounds?” Julie said. “That’s amazing. I have a hard time losing three pounds. If word gets out about his weight loss, there will be women lining up outside San Quentin just to go on the prison diet. The Department of Corrections could make a fortune.”

“They could use it,” Stottlemeyer said. “You may have noticed California is in the midst of a crippling financial crisis.”

“I’m a student at UC Berkeley,” Julie said. “Tuition has skyrocketed. At the same time, they’ve cut classes, enrollment, professors, and services. Why do you think I’m still in this temporary job?”

“Is that the only reason?” Monk said.

“And I love it,” Julie quickly added.

“The prisons are feeling the pinch, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “They are overcrowded, understaffed, and their funding has been slashed. They simply can’t afford to pay what it costs to imprison Dale the Whale anymore. So the state has opted to take a radical approach to the problem, one that Dale has agreed to.”

“Let me guess,” Monk said. “He’s graciously accepted house arrest in the comfort of his mansion.”

“He’s being transferred tomorrow afternoon to San Francisco General Hospital, where he will undergo massive liposuction, gastric bypass surgery, and the removal of all his excess flab,” Stottlemeyer said. “And after his recovery, assuming he doesn’t die on the table, he will go right back to prison, where he will be integrated into the general population and won’t cost the state any more to support than any other lifer.”