Mr. Monk Gets on Board (19 page)

   C
HAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mr. Monk Files a Report

T
hat same night, before Monk and I even knew we were about to solve the ship’s vandalism case, Lieutenant Amy Devlin had left the warmth of her rotisserie chicken and driven to a duplex apartment on Lexington Street in the Mission District, no doubt cursing me all the way.

Devlin was not subtle by nature. As a detective, she’d done some undercover work. But her hard-nose attitude was more attuned to throwing herself into a situation and getting it done, especially when it was late and she was hungry.

A more subtle detective might have knocked, politely introduced herself to Professor Gretchen Wilder, and made up some excuse to ask Gretchen’s old friend and houseguest, Portia Braun, what she’d been up to today. Instead, Devlin made her visit short and unsweet. The fact that the women were about to sit down to a great-smelling dinner probably didn’t help.

While Gretchen went back to set the table, Portia outlined her alibi. She had driven to Oakland that morning, she said, gone browsing at a few secondhand boutiques, driven back into the city for lunch, then out to Berkeley in the afternoon to catch a German-language film at an art house near the university. Her whole day. Alone in a crowd.

“You went back and forth across the bay twice that day?”

“Yes,” Portia said. “I was feeling sort of aimless. Driving helps me cope. Is there a law against that?”

“Not yet,” said Devlin. She thought about asking Portia to describe the plot of the movie, but Devlin had once seen a German art house film and knew there probably wasn’t much to describe.

On her way back to her car, Devlin stopped to peer inside Portia’s car, the one she’d been leasing during her California stay. Suctioned onto the windshield was a FasTrak pass, which gave the lieutenant an idea.

Back home, while chewing on her tough, warmed-up chicken, Devlin used her police ID to check the secure section of the Bay Area Toll Authority Web site. Portia’s story seemed to check out. According to her FasTrak, she had traveled across the Bay Bridge at 9:05 a.m., then again at 11:39 and 1:47, and finally back home at 5:57 p.m.

Early the next morning, Monk was standing over my shoulder, reading Devlin’s lengthy, poorly typed e-mail. No one else was in the business center at this time of day, so we felt free to speak.

“Did you really think she flew down to Mexico, killed Malcolm, and flew back?”

“It’s less than a two-hour flight,” said Monk. “And, given the fact that she was planning the theft of a six-million-dollar-book, the woman probably has a fake passport.”

“But why?” I asked. “Why would she fly all that way to run down the guy who helped get her arrested? If she’s that vindictive, she should have run you down.” But I guess I already knew the answer. “You think they were in on it together, don’t you?”

Monk shrugged, his way of saying yes. “It’s not unreasonable they would have met, two rare book experts in a city the size of San Francisco. She would have told him about the Shakespeare folio, and it would have been tempting. But their plan went wrong. Melrose died and Mr. Leeds was brought in by the police to authenticate the volume.”

“That’s just a theory,” I said. I couldn’t help feeling defensive.

“But it explains why Malcolm Leeds never responded to Devlin’s calls, and why he took his toothbrush, and why someone in a rental car would run him down in Mexico.”

“Except she didn’t,” I said.

“I didn’t say it was a perfect theory,” said Monk, and led the way out of the business center.

Today would be a day and night at sea, as the
Golden Sun
raced north toward Pier 35 in San Francisco. The salt air was already a little cooler, or so it seemed.

I had scheduled a meeting late in the morning with Captain Sheffield and his wife in their quarters on the navigation deck. We had only a few minutes to spare, so I avoided taking Monk through all the distractions of the pool area. Instead, we cut through the lobby to the main staircase, where we happened to see Darby McGinnis slumped at the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of coffee. My eyes met his for just a second. I felt so guilty—and curious—about last night that I had to stop and say hello.

“Natalie. Monk,” he murmured. You could see from the way he sat that the man was in pain. His face seemed to have a few new bruises.

“Darby,” I said. “What happened? You look . . .”

“Terrible,” Monk said, completing my thought. “Like you had an alcoholic blackout and woke up on the deck this morning without remembering how you got there or anything. Am I right?”

“Pretty much,” said Darby in a feeble chuckle.

“Good,” I said. “I mean, it’s good that nothing worse happened. I mean, you could have fallen over a railing.” Shut up, Natalie! “But you didn’t.”

“It’s the second time this week,” Darby moaned. “First time, I felt like I was suffocating. This time, I felt all these hands. . . . I’m thinking it may be time to do something. About my drinking.”

That was good to hear. Finally. “They have meetings on the ship,” I said, pointing across to the meeting room by the T-shirt boutique. “Friends of Bill W. Every day at four. I’m sure they’d be glad to talk to you.”

“You mean AA?” He laughed. “Jeez, I’m not desperate. Just thought maybe I’d stick to beer for a while.”

•   •   •

I had spent an hour that morning writing up a short, evasive report. I knew it would be a thankless job. But writing useless reports is one of the obligations of running a business.

Monk and I sat across from Dennis and Sylvia Sheffield at the coffee table in their little suite. Each was reading a printed copy. Neither looked pleased.

“You’re saying you solved the case,” said the captain, indicating the lead bullet point on page one. “And yet”—he flipped to page two—“you don’t state what happened or who was behind the various acts. People could have died.”

“People did die,” Sylvia pointed out.

“Yes,” I allowed. “The good news is that neither death had anything to do with the vandalism.” That’s one of the things I learned from
Business Management for Idiots
, page forty-seven. Always mention the good news, even when there isn’t any. “The Mexican police ruled Mr. Leeds’ death an accident. Miss Linkletter’s death looks like an accident, too.”

“It looks like one,” interjected Monk.

“You’re obviously protecting someone,” Sheffield said. “Who?”

I ignored the question. “Would you prosecute the vandals if we told you their names?”

“Are they employees?” asked Sylvia.

“No,” I said.

Sylvia frowned. “Then no. Probably not. Publicity in this sort of thing is never good.”

“And we can assure you that those events were unique to this cruise. The motive didn’t involve the
Golden Sun
company, and it won’t be repeated on future trips.”

“Then why won’t you tell us?” asked Sylvia. “We said we’re not going to prosecute.”

“Was it teenage kids?” asked the captain. “A disgruntled employee? No, you said it wasn’t an employee.”

“Sorry,” I said.

Monk and I had thought it over. We agreed that a killer isn’t the best person to trust with anyone’s secret, especially the secret of four rich, vulnerable women who’d made a horrible mistake.

“So we’re exactly where we were before,” said Sheffield. “If we hadn’t hired you, the results would be the same. In fact, there’s no proof you did any investigating at all.”

“But we did,” I assured him. “And you have the peace of mind of knowing it’s over. It won’t happen again. Guaranteed.”

Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have used the word
guaranteed
.

“Guaranteed? Fine. So where are the results?” Sheffield shook the flimsy three-pager. “Don’t you think we have a right to hear your results?”

The whole meeting had been a long shot. Necessary, yes, since we’d agreed to report back. But I was all set to walk away empty-handed. Until Monk interrupted Sheffield’s latest little rant.

“There are a few things we did figure out that aren’t in the report,” said Monk. “For example, the wooden leg . . .”

“Wooden leg?” said Sylvia.

“Page two,” said Sheffield, shaking his head in disgust. “Some passenger didn’t return a pirate costume.”

“We know what happened to the leg,” continued Monk. “And the chunk from the ice sculpture.”

“What?’ Sheffield snorted. “That damn ice sculpture? Is this how you were wasting your time?”

Monk was smiling, as close to smiling as he got. More like a smirk. “We know who chipped it off and why he did it. This happened an hour or so before Mariah Linkletter went overboard. It has nothing to do with your case. But if you really want to know . . . about the leg and the ice?” He paused dramatically. “Mrs. Sheffield?”

Sylvia Sheffield glanced over to her husband.

“What do you say we pay half?” Dennis Sheffield said. “Half the agreed-upon fee. It’s worth it just to get rid of them.”

“Darling?” Sylvia looked confused. “Why should we pay them anything?”

I never saw a checkbook come out of a drawer so fast in my life. “Well, we did hire them,” Sheffield explained as he reached into his pocket for a pen. “And their time is worth money.”

Two minutes later, I was following Monk down to the Calypso deck, waving a check and watching the ink dry. “Did you just blackmail him?” I asked, trying to keep up with him. “Because it sounds like you just blackmailed him.”

“Nonsense. I had no idea he would offer us money. I just wanted him to realize we’re not dumb. Well, I’m not dumb.”

“I’m not dumb, either.”

“Really? Then tell me, Ms. Teeger, why is he afraid every time we mention the ice?”

“For the same reason you’re afraid of milk.” Okay, that was a silly answer. But I had to say something.

Monk had led me to the Calypso deck, past the
CREW ONLY
chain, to the spot where the man overboard alarm rang three days ago. Together we stared at the red bell and the little red hammer poised an inch and a half away. “Ice,” he said simply, expecting me to fill in the blanks.

I did my best.

“Okay. Sheffield slipped a chunk of ice between the hammer and the bell. Then he pulled the alarm. When the ice melted, the bell rang and the electrical contact was made.”

Monk nodded. “Very good. Remember the bird drinking from the puddle on the deck? How else would freshwater wind up here?”

“But how did Sheffield time it?” I asked. “There’s no way he could know how long it would take for the ice to melt.”

“He didn’t know,” Monk admitted. “He just had to make sure he was around people every moment for the next few hours.”

“And how did he dump the body?”

This was the big problem, you see. The ringing of the bell and the dumping of Mariah’s body had to be coordinated. The two couldn’t have happened more than a minute or so apart.

“I don’t know,” said Monk. “How much time do I have? Three or four days?” He knew better. If anyone was counting the hours until he hit dry land, it was him.

“The trouble is Sheffield knows the ship,” I said. “And he controls it, from the top of the smokestack to every inch below deck.”

Monk looked puzzled. “What do you mean, below deck? This place has a basement?”

“Yes, Adrian. This place has a basement.”

   CH
APTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Monk Goes Deep

“W
hy are you still wearing a life vest?”

“Am I wearing a life vest?” Monk answered the man, tightening the straps on the piece of orange vinyl. “I didn’t realize. It feels so comfortable.”

“He’s joking,” I said.

First Officer Lao pretended to laugh. “That’s the cleanest vest I’ve ever seen. How did you get it so . . . ?” He went in for a closer look. “Wait. You had your name printed on the back?”

“It’s not printed,” I explained. “It’s indelible marker. He just has very precise handwriting.”

“You realize, Mr. Monk, that you’re going to have to return that.”

“Or I could just buy it,” said Monk. “My vest back home isn’t nearly as nice. For one thing, it doesn’t have a whistle.” He touched the red whistle hanging from his shoulder. He had disinfected it and wrapped it in two layers of clear plastic.

“Why do you need a vest back home?”

“Don’t ask,” I said. That’s my explanation for a lot of things with Monk. Personally, I’ve seen him use his home vest only once, in the midst of a monthlong drought, standing on the roof of his little apartment building on Pine Street. As I said, don’t ask.

We were with Solomon Lao in his bachelor quarters below deck, just a few turns of the hallway from where I’d spent two memorable nights. He had just rummaged through his drawers and come upon a green key card. “This opens everything,” he said, “even the captain’s quarters. But please don’t.”

“We won’t,” I said, not quite sure if I meant it. “We’re interested mainly in below deck. Right?”

“Right,” said Monk.

“Good. Because if the captain knew, I’d be thrown in the brig, lose my job, and probably be prosecuted.”

“A cruise ship has a brig?” Monk asked.

“A cruise ship needs a brig,” Lao answered.

“Good to know,” said Monk. “What else does the ship have?”

“Do you have a map?” I asked.

“For the crew areas? No. But there are two levels below this one. The first has the engine room, laundry, anchor access, electrical room, and desalination plant. The one below is basically ballast, water storage, and the stabilizers. I wouldn’t go down that far if I were you. There’s nothing to see, and it can be dangerous.”

“We’ve been in a ballast tank on a submarine,” I told him. “It wasn’t fun.”

“What were you doing in a ballast tank on a submarine?”

“Drowning,” said Monk.

“We were dealing with another homicidal captain,” I said. “He’s now serving life at the naval station prison in San Diego.”

Lao chuckled until a second later when he realized that we were serious. “Holy Mother Mary. Believe it or not, that makes me feel better.” He checked his watch. “I have to get back on top for my shift. Be careful.”

•   •   •

Monk and I began on the crew level. There wasn’t much to see, just a lot of tight corridors and cabins, interspersed with the lounge and cafeteria and a small disco bar that always seemed to be full and noisy. Monk kept his arms folded across his vest to avoid contact with anything.

“What are we looking for?” I asked as we started our second loop around the ship.

“I’ll know when I see it,” he said, then headed toward the down staircase.

On the lower level, the lights were dimmer and the throb of the engines louder. I could see Monk tensing and drawing himself even more tightly in. It was hard enough for me. And I’m not claustrophobic.

The laundry room was toward the stern, full of steel industrial-sized machines and the smallest, most compact workforce I’d ever seen. Four of them were working nonstop and no one looked over five feet two. Like a factory of overheated Oompa Loompas producing clean sheets and towels instead of chocolate.

The electrical room was small and not much to look at. Hundreds of switchboxes lined the walls, all with labels. Here, I walked behind Monk, keeping a careful eye on his hands. If there was one switch facing down when Monk felt it should be facing up, the temptation might prove irresistible. The last thing I wanted was to be stranded at sea with no electricity and five hundred people blaming me for the short circuit.

Next was the engine room. It was huge and high-ceilinged and hot with the friction of moving parts that were hidden under the light green housing of six engines, each the size of a Mini Cooper. A low, perforated steel catwalk ran between the two rows of three. Monk stood right inside the steel door, frozen. I could see the panic forming in his eyes. I was surprised he’d made it this far.

The engine room was too loud for us to hear each other, so Monk motioned me up to the catwalk and mimed for me to look around. And I did.

What was he expecting me to see? What could Mariah’s death possibly have to do with the engine room? But we knew that Sheffield’s advantage was linked to his knowledge of the ship. And Monk’s OCD made him determined to check out everything.

I was concerned about letting him out of my sight. Between the noise and the claustrophobia, he was barely holding on. But I focused on the six engines, found nothing unusual, and walked down the six steps on the far side of the catwalk—only to find Monk gone.

I didn’t blame him for fleeing this mechanical chaos. I blamed myself. But I wasn’t really nervous until I stepped back into the hall and saw that he wasn’t there waiting for me.

“Adrian?” I shouted into the dim, metallic subbasement. “Adrian? Adrian? Mr. Monk?” I felt in my pocket for the key card, then realized that he had it, not me.

I don’t know how long it took. Long enough to look everywhere I could. Back to the switchboxes. Back to the Oompa Loompas. The engine room had been locked behind me, but I slammed my fist on the door and called. Next, I headed down to the lowest level and the locked stabilizer room and the tanks. “Mr. Monk?” I didn’t want him refusing to answer me on a technicality. “Adrian? Mr. Monk?”

After that, it was two levels up to the crew quarters. That wasted five more minutes. Then down to the engine level. Then back down to the ballast level and another full circuit. Had he fled to the passenger area? Had he accidentally locked himself away? Was he catatonic in a corner? I made one more circuit, listening for the whistle from his life vest. If he was in danger, he would unwrap and blow the whistle. I knew him. Why wasn’t he blowing the whistle?

Finally I collapsed near the stern of the crew level, by a wall of critical-looking pipes and gauges. When the phone above me on the wall rang, I knew it had to be him. But it wasn’t.

“Natalie.” It was First Officer Lao, calling from the bridge.

“Is Monk there?” I asked.

“No. Listen to me.”

“How did you know I was here?” Then I glanced up to the camera winking in the corner. “Oh, okay.”

“Natalie.” There was an urgency in Lao’s voice. “Captain Sheffield was in the communications room. He must have seen you on the monitor.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, that’s what I’m saying. Sheffield raced right out and down the stairs. I caught a glimpse of him on a monitor, entering the crew area. He must be after you. Have you seen him?”

“No,” I said. “Wait. Are you by the monitors now? Do you see Adrian? Where is he?”

“I don’t know. But when I saw you, I knew there was a phone.”

“Go check the other cameras,” I told him. “Where’s Adrian?”

There was a slight, nervous pause. “They’re not working. When I got into the communications room, the cameras on the engine level and the ballast level were turned off. I can’t turn them back on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sheffield must have done something. Natalie, I’m sorry. But we’re blind down there.”

I was still adjusting to the news that Captain Sheffield had seen Monk on the monitor, sneaking around. He knew where Monk was—which was more than I knew—and had gone running off to do something about it. That’s when I heard the alarm bell. It was a familiar sound to me now.

Man overboard!

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“It’s the pool deck,” Lao informed me before hanging up and starting his list of emergency procedures.

Except for the time of day, midafternoon, this was almost exactly the same situation as three days ago. First Officer Lao was at the helm. I was in the crew quarters again, maybe thirty yards from where I’d been before.

The other alarm bells joined the fray, and once again the six Mini Cooper–sized engines ground to a halt. Three stewards came running out of their quarters, pulled on their life jackets, and scrambled up to their stations.

Once again the engines went into reverse as I scrambled up the stairs myself, this time heading up to the pool deck toward the rear of the ship. By the time I made it to the pool, the engines had stopped. By the time I’d pushed my way through the crowd, the massive anchor chain was rolling off its spool.

“I did it,” Gifford Gilchrist shouted for everyone to hear. “This time I really did.” The thirteen-year-old stood by the red alarm, in the middle of the crowd, beaming at his father.

I was one of fifty passengers at the starboard railing, staring into the choppy ocean swell. Unlike the others, I knew what to look for. An orange life vest. Thank God for the life vest. And sure enough, there it was, bobbing down the length of the ship.

Empty.

At first I couldn’t believe it. How could anyone or anything have gotten that off him? He’d been wearing the damn thing 24/7 since the lifeboat drill. My second thought was
Maybe it’s not Monk.
Maybe all of this fuss was because some eager, desperate-for-attention teenager saw a floating vest and wanted to cement his reputation. King of the alarm bells.

“There he is,” the women beside me said. I followed her pointing finger to a man in a brown wool jacket, barely floating on the waves. He was facedown in the water. And he was Monk.

Two decks below, a trio of stewards was already swinging a lifeboat into the water.

“You see?” Young Gifford was at my side, staring straight up at me. “I am a hero.”

“Thank you” was all I could say. I just stood there and said thank you, like he had just passed the salt or held open a door for me. Like nothing I had just seen could possibly be real. Then a sense of panic suddenly gripped my chest and I bolted, scampering down to the lower deck.

Dr. Aaglan was standing by when Monk’s motionless body was finally lifted out of the lifeboat. “Three?” he mumbled, shaking his head. “I don’t think we have room for three.”

“He’s not dead,” I snarled, not knowing if it was true or not. “He can’t be.”