Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

CHAPTER TEN

Intertect was located on the twentieth floor of a high-rise in the financial district. I stopped by to fill out all the paperwork required to get us on the payroll and the health plan as soon as possible.

As I walked down the hall, I saw that each office had a window with a commanding view of the window of the building next door, but I guess that was better than no view at all. By my count, Intertect had at least thirty operatives-and those were just the ones with offices.

I was led to a vacant office that was set aside for Monk if he ever needed it, though I doubted that he would make the long climb up the stairs to see it unless there was a dead body there, too.

The office came with a sleek computer, sleek furniture, and an even sleeker assistant in her early twenties named Danielle Hossack.

She informed me that she’d graduated from McGill University in Montréal with a degree in psychology, spoke three languages, and had a black belt in tae kwon do. She was also blessed with the body of a lingerie model. She didn’t tell me that. It was obvious from what she was wearing, which qualified more as underwear than clothes.

In fact, all the women I saw at Intertect were young, gorgeous, and scantily clad.

Slade was in for a big disappointment if he expected me to dress that way.

He hadn’t mentioned what my salary would be and I’d forgotten to ask. When I saw the figure on one of the forms, I blinked hard, hoping it wasn’t a mirage. It wasn’t.

I could almost hear Ricardo Montalban whispering in my ear. Welcome to Fantasy Island.

“Is there something wrong?” Danielle asked. I’d been so mesmerized by my salary figure that I hadn’t realized that she was still standing beside the desk.

“No, no, everything is wonderful,” I said, and I meant it. “Have you worked here long?”

“Two years,” she said.

I wondered if she made as much as, or more than, I did, but I didn’t ask.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she said. “I have learned so much. Nick is an amazing man.”

“He must be,” I said. “Lots of detectives leave the force to become private detectives but few are as successful as he is. What’s his secret?”

“Substantial capitalization and abundant charm,” she said. “He made some wise investments in the stock market ten years ago and used his profits to start the company. I’ve learned that successful detection is a combination of determination, intuition, and getting people to give you what you want. Nick is a real people person. He can win over anybody he meets.”

“That’s for sure,” I said.

She gave me a knowing look. “If you’re thinking about hooking up with him, I should warn you that he’s very sweet and a great lover, but he’s a free spirit. Monogamy is not part of his personality. He wants to enjoy the buffet of life’s opportunities.”

That sounded like a direct quote. “Does that philosophy factor into his hiring practices?”

“Is that your way of asking if he sleeps with every woman he hires?”

I shrugged. “They all seem to be young and attractive.”

“And smart,” Danielle said. “There isn’t a woman here, whether it’s a secretary or an operative, who doesn’t have a degree or two under her garter belt.”

“They wear garter belts?”

She politely ignored my comment. “Sleeping with him won’t get you hired or get you promoted or get you any special treatment, beyond what he does for you in bed, of course, which is pretty exceptional.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So you give him two thumbs-up in the sack-a-roo.”

“If you get into bed with him, you won’t be sorry.”

“I’m not big on buffets. I always feel bloated afterwards,” I said. “But I appreciate the information. To be honest, I’m surprised by your candor.”

“Because I’m not shy about discussing sex?”

“Because you’re so open with intimate, and potentially unflattering, details about your boss with someone you just met,” I said. “Aren’t you being indiscreet?”

She smiled. “I’m an employee of Intertect but I am working for you and Mr. Monk now. You deserve my full honesty if we’re going to establish any kind of trust. And besides, Nick doesn’t mind my talking about his love life or I wouldn’t do it. He’s a very open guy.”

“In more ways than one,” I said.

“You don’t need to worry about me breaking any confidences as far as you and Mr. Monk are concerned,” she said. “My first loyalty now is to you both. Nick made that very clear and that’s fine with me. I consider it an honor to be working with you. I am a big admirer of your accomplishments.”

“You mean Mr. Monk’s,” I said, handing her the sheaf of completed forms.

“Mr. Monk couldn’t have done it without you,” she said. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Just what I needed: advice on self-esteem from a twentysomething with a college degree and a body that could melt the statue of David. What did she know about insecurity?

Danielle went on to tell me that she was at our beck and call any hour of the day or night, seven days a week, for anything we might need.

In other words, I was getting my own Natalie.

I didn’t want her to run away screaming on day one, so I decided to give her a quick briefing on Monk’s phobias and his obsessive-compulsive disorder.

It turned out that she’d already studied up on his “special needs” and was not the least bit put off by them. She said that one of the reasons that Slade handpicked her to work with us was because of her psychological background.

Danielle went out to her desk, dropped my completed forms in her out-box, and wheeled in what looked like a rolling file drawer.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Open cases for Mr. Monk to review,” she said. “Any insights he can give the detectives working on them would be welcomed. Or, if he likes, he can take over any of the cases himself.”

It looked like a huge amount of work, but considering what they were paying him, I couldn’t blame them for burying him in cases his first week.

Danielle wheeled the cart to the elevator and down to my car in the parking garage for me. Actually, she took it to a brand-new Lexus SUV parked next to my car.

The wheels of the cart collapsed like an ambulance gurney and it slid right into the back of the Lexus. She dangled a set of keys in front of me.

“This is your company car,” she said, dropping the keys into my hand. Then she offered me a credit card. “You can use this card for gasoline and any other expenses.”

“What about my car?” I asked, tipping my head towards my Buick Lucerne, a sheet-metal catfish that you have to be a card-carrying member of the AARP to drive. It was gift to me from my clueless father, who also threw in a Ferrante and Teicher CD so I could, and I quote, “crank up the hi-fi and give the stereophonics a real workout.”

“You can drive your car back and I can follow in the Lexus,” she said, “Or vice versa. Whatever you like.”

“I think we are going to be very happy at Intertect,” I said, and handed her the keys to my Buick.

I hoped she enjoyed listening to Ferrante and Teicher’s rockin’ piano version of the theme from You Light Up My Life while she drove. It was one of Monk’s favorites.

Monk got right to work that afternoon and so did Danielle, who stuck around after she delivered the car. They sat on opposite ends of his dining room table. While he went through the files, she read his indexed lists of personal phobias and made copious notes. I read the Lexus owner’s manual and People magazine.

“The case of the missing diamonds was an inside job,” Monk said, closing a file and sliding it down the table to Danielle, who looked up, stunned.

“Was it the cleaning lady, the pool man, their son with the online gambling problem, her sneaky ex-husband, his bitter ex-wife, or the contractor who was building their home theater?”

“It was none of them,” Monk said.

I didn’t know any of the facts of the case but I didn’t need to. I was more interested in Danielle’s reaction to her first experience with Monk’s process, which has less to do with deduction and more to do with noticing the mess.

“Who else is left?” she asked.

“The dog trainer.”

“But the trainer worked with the dog in the backyard,” Danielle said. “He didn’t have any access to the house.”

“The dog did,” Monk said. “The trainer taught the dog to steal the diamonds and bury them in the backyard.”

“The dog?” she said incredulously.

“That explains why there was dirt in the house,” he said. “The dirt really bothered me.”

“That’s a surprise,” I said.

“I don’t remember seeing any dirt,” Danielle said.

“There were some grains,” he said.

“Grains?” she said.

“Mr. Monk can detect dirt that isn’t visible to the naked eye,” I said. “Or even the most powerful electron microscopes.”

“The trainer plans to retrieve the diamonds the next time he works with the dog,” Monk said, and checked his watch. “Which is in two hours.”

“Incredible,” she said, reaching for her phone. “I need to call Nick so we can catch the trainer in the act.”

“While you’re at it, you should tell Mr. Slade that the insurance company is right: The tennis pro is faking his arm injury,” Monk said, sliding her another file. “His sling is on his right arm.”

“That’s because that’s the arm he injured when he tripped over the crack in the country club’s parking lot,” she said. “He can’t bend or extend it. His doctors say his arm is locked at a ninety-degree angle.”

“And yet in the surveillance photos, you can clearly see his keys are in his right pocket,” Monk said. “How does he get them out if he can’t straighten his arm?”

She opened the file and squinted at the picture. We both did. If I had a bionic eye, I might have seen the keys, too.

“How could we have missed that?” she asked.

“You’ll find yourself asking that question a lot around Mr. Monk,” I said. “But there’s another question you’ll be asking even more often…”

Monk picked up another file. “And you can tell Mr. Slade that the spy at Joha Helicopters who is selling trade secrets to the competition is Ulrich Sommerlik, the disabled engineer.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“That’s the one,” I said to her. “I’m thinking of putting the question on a little sign that we can just hold up.”

Monk opened the file and held up a photograph of a slender man in a cardigan sweater sitting in a manual wheelchair.

“He claims that he’s been in a wheelchair since a cop ter accident four years ago. But in this picture taken for his photo ID when he was hired six months ago, he has blisters on his hands. If he’d been pushing himself in his wheelchair all that time, he’d have calluses by now.”

We both squinted at that photo, too. I couldn’t see the blisters, but I knew that when it comes to open sores, Monk has an eagle eye.

“My guess is that he’s using secret compartments in the wheelchair to smuggle out drawings, disks, and anything else he can get his blistered hands on,” Monk said, putting the photo back into the file.

“I’ll call the security chief at Joha Helicopters and have Sommerlik detained and his wheelchair seized,” she said. “We’ll take it apart.”

“Notify them that the entire facility needs to be evacuated and decontaminated,” Monk said.

“Why?”

“Because Sommerlik’s hands are blistered,” Monk said. “God knows what else he’s touched. The whole place is probably dripping with his bodily fluids.”

Danielle stared at him, not quite sure what to say. I couldn’t blame her. I probably looked the same way the first few days I’d worked with Monk.

“You are amazing, Mr. Monk,” she said. “You catch details that nobody else sees. You’ll have to teach me how you do that.”

“It’s a gift,” Monk said. “And a curse.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she said with a smile, flirting ever so slightly. It was cute and probably calculated to be. The flirtation was wasted on him but not the flattery.

He gave her the file and she added it to the stack in her arms. She took the files and went off to call Slade. Monk turned to me.

“I think we’re going to be very happy at Intertect,” he said.