Mr. Monk on Patrol Read online

  I knew what she meant. It was often hard for me to see Randy as anything but comical. But she was right, part of it was how hard he tried to be tough, only to be undone by his boyish good nature. Oddly enough, it was his likability, not his toughness, that made him such a good cop.

  Captain Stottlemeyer often said that people opened up to Disher in ways they never would to any other cop, perhaps because they sensed, on some level, his inherent decency.

  “He’s the sweetest, most attentive and honest man I have ever known,” Sharona said. “But his good nature gets him into trouble.”

  “He’s too trusting,” I said.

  “He always wants to see the best in people, which is strange for a cop. Most of the cops I know assume everyone is a dirtbag, and they are usually right.”

  “So how has Randy changed now that he has you?”

  “He’s calmed down. He’s less eager to please, more willing to take charge, even if that means alienating people.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “Have you changed?”

  “I used to come on strong. I’d get into people’s faces before they could get into mine. But I’m a pussycat now.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” I said.

  “Don’t judge me by how I handle Adrian,” she said. “That’s different. Now that I’m with Randy, I’m trying really hard to be more aware of other people’s feelings and work not to piss everybody off. We’re living in a small town, Randy has a high-profile job, and I know what I do reflects on him.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Well, now that I’m with him, I’ve got a lot less to be angry about.”

  “So he wasn’t the only one acting out because he didn’t have somebody to love.”

  She gave me a look. “When did you become a junior shrink?”

  “About the same time I became a junior detective,” I said. “It’s required when you’re working with Mr. Monk, but I don’t need to tell you that. How does Randy like being the chief?”

  “He loves it. It’s a small force, only six officers, so he’s really been able to make it his own. There isn’t much crime in Summit, nothing compared to what he dealt with in San Francisco, so he’s been able to relax a little but still wow everybody with what a good cop he is. Then the scandal hit and changed everything. Now I’m afraid everyone is expecting way too much from him. And that he’s expecting too much from himself.”

  “Enough about Randy,” I said. “What about you?”

  “I’m happier than I’ve ever been,” she said. “Randy is a real calming influence.”

  I glanced over at Monk, snoozing away. It was a shame he hadn’t heard Sharona’s remark.

  “It’s called being in love,” I said.

  “Which used to feel like the flu until Randy came along. He’s the first man in my life who didn’t give me headaches and cramps from the stress and a sore throat from the yelling.”

  “Are you working?”

  “Yeah, as a private nurse for some people in town, dropping in on them each day, administering their meds and checking their vitals, that kind of thing. And I get to come home each night to a good man who treats me like a queen.”

  “You can’t beat that,” I said.

  “No, I can’t. I don’t want to lose this life, Natalie, not after it took me so long to get it. That’s why it’s so important to me that Randy emerges from this scandal on top. It’s why we need Adrian.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Randy doesn’t need to be concerned about neglecting the police department while he’s running the local government. No crime will go unsolved while Mr. Monk is in town. He’ll keep Summit clean.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “By the time we leave, Mr. Monk will have the birds cleaning up their own droppings.”

  “Oh God,” she said in mock horror, “what have I done?”

  6

  Mr. Monk Arrives in New Jersey

  We touched down hard in Newark at two a.m. and the jolt awakened Monk, who sat up straight in his seat and gripped his armrests for dear life.

  “Taking off is the part I hate most,” Monk said.

  “Then you can relax,” I said, “because we’ve just landed.”

  Monk looked out the window and saw for himself that we were heading toward the terminal, not away from it. When he turned back to us, he saw Sharona smiling at him.

  “Welcome to New Jersey,” she said. “You slept the whole way.”

  “You slipped me a mickey,” he said.

  “I did,” she said. “Do you feel an overpowering desire to score some crack?”

  “I used to trust you,” Monk said, then shifted his gaze to me. “Were you aware of what she was doing?”

  “No,” I said. “But I think you’re treating Sharona unfairly.”

  “She drugged me,” Monk said. “That’s an unforgivable betrayal.”

  “You didn’t feel that way when you drugged your brother with sleeping pills, kidnapped him, and dragged him across state lines in a motor home,” I said.

  “Adrian did that?” Sharona said.

  “He did,” I said. “It was a birthday present for Ambrose.”

  “Some present,” Sharona said.

  “That was an entirely different situation,” Monk said.

  “No, it wasn’t. You did it to get Ambrose from one place to another with as little drama and discomfort as possible,” I said. “In fact, what you did was worse. You took him away against his will.”

  Monk squirmed a little in his seat. “I did it for his own good, to get him out of the house so he could experience new places he’d never been to before.”

  “Have you ever been to New Jersey?” I asked.

  “Hell no,” Monk said.

  “I rest my case,” I said.

  “For the remainder of this trip, you’re tasting all of my food and water before I do,” Monk said.

  “I’d be glad to, but we both know that you’re not going to eat or drink anything that I’ve tasted first. So you’ll just have to take your chances. Or starve.”

  The stewardess announced that we’d arrived, told everybody they could make calls on their cell phones while we taxied for a few minutes, and relayed some information about connecting flights.

  “Look at the bright side, Adrian,” Sharona said. “We didn’t crash. You’re alive.”

  “In New Jersey,” Monk said. “I might have been better off dead.”

  “How can you say that?” she said. “You don’t know anything about New Jersey.”

  “I know it’s so poisonous that there are over one hundred and twelve New Jersey locations on the EPA’s priority cleanup list of the most toxic sites in the nation,” Monk said. “With another twenty-nine under consideration to be added.”

  “How many does California have?”

  “Ninety-six,” Monk said. “But the only one near San Francisco is the Treasure Island Naval Shipyard, and it’s out in the middle of the bay, far from me. Beyond that, the closest highly toxic site is across the bay in Alameda. The odds of me ever being in either place are infinitesimal. But in New Jersey, you can barely step outside your door without your foot landing in a steaming pile of toxic waste.”

  “Is Summit on that list?” Sharona asked.

  “No,” Monk said.

  “So what are you whining about?”

  “The town isn’t hermetically sealed. People in Summit are coming and going from elsewhere in New Jersey, bringing their toxic waste with them.”

  “And people come to San Francisco from all over the world,” she said. “You’re in no more danger here than you are there.”

  “At least in San Francisco, the odds of someone walking across a toxic waste site are substantially less,” Monk said. “And nobody puts drugs in my drinks.”

  “As far as you know,” I said and grinned mischievously.

  “You’re joking, right?” Monk asked.

  I shrugged. Before he could pursue the matter any further, th
e plane came to a halt at the terminal and everyone got to their feet.

  Summit Police Chief Randy Disher was waiting for us in the baggage claim area. He wore a crisply pressed, dark blue police uniform and a trooper’s flat-brimmed hat, his silver badge sparkling in the fluorescent light of the drab terminal. Instead of evoking authority, the uniform only underscored his natural boyishness. He looked like an excited kid on his way to a costume party.

  Sharona picked up speed, ready to run into his arms, but he held up his palm in a halting motion.

  “I’m on duty,” he said.

  “Your duty is to kiss me,” she said and embraced him, planting a big kiss on his face. Disher immediately blushed with embarrassment.

  “She has no respect for authority,” Monk whispered to me and looked away. He hated displays of affection.

  As soon as Sharona let go of Disher, I gave him a hug, too, only deepening his blush and Monk’s discomfort.

  “It’s so good to see you,” I said. “How does it feel to be back in uniform?”

  “It’s not the same thing at all,” he said. “This is a chief’s uniform. It feels very different from a patrolman’s uniform.”

  “It looks the same to me,” I said.

  “It’s not,” he said. “I wear it to show solidarity with the men.”

  “And because it’s a small department, so the chief has to roll on calls, too,” Sharona said.

  “In a strictly supervisory, chiefly capacity,” Disher said, correcting her, then turned to us. “Thank you both so much for coming. I really, really appreciate this. It’s almost like having family coming to visit.”

  “It is,” I said.

  Monk rolled his shoulders. “I’m not comfortable here.”

  “You’re not comfortable anywhere, Adrian,” Sharona said, “so that’s like saying that you already feel right at home.”

  “I’ve got you set up at the best hotel in town,” Disher said, “and it will be just the way you like it.”

  “Is it in San Francisco?” Monk said.

  “No,” Disher said.

  “Then I won’t like it,” he said.

  “I know this was hard for you, Monk, but I want you to know that it means a lot to me that you came here anyway. It speaks to the bond we forged in battle, fighting crime on the mean streets of Frisco.”

  “I was drugged,” Monk said.

  Sharona spotted our luggage on the baggage carousel, so we quickly gathered it up and lugged it to the Summit Police patrol car that was parked right outside the door. There were definitely some perks to being a cop.

  Monk hesitated on the curb.

  “Don’t worry, Monk, I had it cleaned by a crime scene cleaning crew and completely detailed before coming here,” Disher said, tossing our bags in the trunk. “It’s the cleanest car you could possibly sit in.”

  That seemed to brighten Monk’s mood considerably. He motioned to me for a wipe. I gave him one, which he used to open the door to the backseat. He sniffed the air inside and smiled.

  “It’s redolent of disinfectant,” he said.

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “If only the whole world could smell like this,” he said and slid inside. Disher nodded, pleased with himself. I winked at him and got in, too.

  Within a minute of leaving the airport, the motion of the car and the stress of the long journey caught up with me and I fell asleep. Either that, or I blacked out from inhaling all the Lysol.

  I awoke when the car stopped. I was briefly disoriented, but then remembered our flight and realized we were outside a hotel. I got out of the car and stretched my legs while Disher unloaded our bags.

  I didn’t know anything about the Claremont Hotel at that moment, and yet its entire past was evident in its architecture, each of its wings representing a distinct period in America’s history.

  The main structure, facing the street, was the original rustic hunting lodge built in the early 1900s. There was the stately and Romanesque 1930s wing, the space-age lines, cinder-block walls, and lava-rock accents of the 1960s expansion, and the cold, tinted glass and marble cladding of the 1980s section.

  Monk and I followed Disher and Sharona inside. The lobby was dominated by a massive stone fireplace and had a high ceiling with lots of exposed, hand-hewed beams.

  As we admired our surroundings, Disher got our keys from the waiflike woman at the front desk and came up to us.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of checking you both into even-numbered rooms on the second floor of the newest wing, constructed in 1982,” he said.

  Carrying our bags, he led the way down a long, narrow hallway in the old wing and into a wider, more spacious one in the new extension. “I have to warn you, they say the place is haunted.”

  “There are no such things as ghosts,” Monk said. “Only delusional people.”

  I agreed with Monk on that point, but I also liked a good ghost story.

  “Is there a legend to go along with it?” I asked.

  “Of course there is. They say a woman was robbed and murdered on this spot on a foggy night in the 1800s. Now her ghost roams the halls in a swirl of fog, searching for her killer,” Disher said. “Supposedly, if you look into her eyes and don’t turn away, you’re doomed to die the next day. So if you see her, be sure not to look at her face.”

  “Do you believe that story?” Monk asked.

  “No, but we’ve had a few tourists call us about it over the years,” Disher said. “Not since I’ve been here, though.”

  Monk rolled his shoulders. “What are the facts surrounding the murder?”

  “Oh God,” Sharona said. “It was two hundred years ago, Adrian. Do you really think you can solve it?”

  “Someone should,” he said. “It’s long overdue.”

  “If it even happened,” Sharona said. “It could just be a scary story people tell to add some character to this place.”

  “That’s why I’m telling it,” Disher said. “Forget about it, Monk. I’ve got more pressing cases for you to solve.”

  He led us up a set of stairs to the second floor, stopped in front of room 204, and handed Monk two key cards.

  “I got you two adjoining rooms,” Disher said.

  “I don’t need two rooms,” Monk said.

  “Yes, you do. Because if you open the door between them, you will have two of everything and will be occupying a symmetrical space.”

  It was brilliant.

  “Rooms should be symmetrical,” Monk agreed.

  “The two rooms are identical, one the mirror image of the other. I’ve had the rooms thoroughly cleaned by a team of crime scene cleaners and inspected by the health department,” Disher said. “You’ll find the signed certificate from the inspector on the desk inside.”

  Monk opened the door to his room. It smelled like an overchlorinated pool and looked like any other basic hotel room, but he gazed upon it with wide-eyed appreciation, as if it were a penthouse suite. He picked up the certificate and admired it.

  “May I keep this as a souvenir?” Monk asked.

  “It’s all yours,” Disher said.

  “And suitable for framing,” Monk said.

  “The refrigerator is full of Fiji water and there are four cases of it in the closet.”

  “Thank you, Randy.”

  “My pleasure, Monk. By the way, it’s okay to call me Randy here, between us, but I’d appreciate it if you’d call me chief in public.”

  “Of course, Chief,” Monk said. “Where is Natalie going to be?”

  “I’ve got her down the hall in room 208,” Disher said.

  Monk nodded, impressed. “Another fine room.”

  “You haven’t seen it yet,” I said.

  “The number is good, and if it’s anything like this one, it’s top drawer.”

  “Get some rest, Monk. I’ll be seeing you at ten a.m.,” Disher said. “The police station is one block away. Just take a right out the lobby door.”

  Disher closed Monk’s door a
nd Sharona gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “That was amazing,” Sharona said.

  “What was?”

  “How you handled Adrian,” Sharona said.

  “I’ve known him for years. It wasn’t so hard,” Disher said, then looked at me. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t require any special treatment,” I said. “My needs are very simple.”

  “I know.” He led me down to room 208 and handed me the key. “In addition to the usual treats and assortment of spirits in the minibar, I’ve also stocked the room with Pop-Tarts, Oreo cookies, Nacho Cheese Doritos, and cashew nuts. You’ll find DVDs of every movie Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig have ever made, the latest issues of Esquire, Vanity Fair, Cosmo, and People, and lots of bubble bath soap.”

  I was wowed. If he’d been this attentive to me a few years earlier, I might have snagged him for myself before Sharona ever got the chance.

  “Hold on to him, Sharona,” I said. “Hold on tight.”

  She took his arm. “I will.”

  I dragged my suitcase into my room, regarded the stack of DVDs, the magazines, and all the junk food, and flopped down on the comfy bed.

  We’d only just arrived, and despite the very late hour, it was already beginning to feel like a vacation.

  But that feeling wouldn’t last long. About two hours, to be exact.

  7

  Mr. Monk Is Haunted

  I was so tired when I went to bed that I didn’t think a hand grenade going off outside the window could have awakened me. But it was something much quieter and more insidious that pulled me out of my deep sleep.…

  It was a feeling, nagging and persistent at the edges of my consciousness, and a chill that made my skin tingle. Both sensations sent a message that was unmistakable.

  There’s someone else in the room.

  I opened my eyes and saw a swirling, ethereal mist beside my bed. At first I thought I was still dreaming. I blinked hard and not only did the mist remain, but I could see something moving inside it.

  No, not something.