Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The row of houses on the Carnegies’ street and on the next street and the one after that were virtually identical, the uniformity broken only slightly by flip-flopped floor plans or tweaks to the facades to evoke various architectural styles, like French provincial or space-age contemporary.

The homes sold for $4,000 when they were built in the 1930s and were now going for $800,000 or more if they were in good shape. The Carnegies’ home was mint, literally in its color and figuratively in its condition.

There was something cartoonish about the houses and their vibrant colors. The ceramic squirrels, bunnies, deer, and garden gnomes that dotted the Carnegies’ front yard landscaping only added to the storybook effect.

Stottlemeyer knocked on the front door. Almost immediately we heard barking, growling, and scratching and then the sound of claws being dragged along the floor as someone tried to restrain the dog. I hoped the Carnegies didn’t have hardwood floors in their entry hall.

After a moment, the barking sounded more muffled and distant and the door was opened by a woman who’d obviously been crying. She was wearing jeans and a button-down sweater that she clutched tightly closed over her shirt. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Her hair was the same unnatural shade of brown as her husband’s. They must have shared the same bottle of hair coloring. That’s real marital intimacy.

I heard the dog barking and scratching behind some door deep inside the house and I couldn’t resist glancing at the floor. The entry hall tile was covered with claw marks.

“Mrs. Carnegie,” Stottlemeyer said. “I am very, very sorry to disturb you right now. I hope you can forgive me. We have one more question that can’t wait.”

She nodded and sniffled. “It’s no problem, Captain. I want to do whatever I can to catch the bastards who took my husband from me.”

“Does your dog always bark like that?” Monk asked.

“Only around strangers. He’s really a sweetheart with people he’s learned to trust,” she said, her lower lip beginning to tremble. “Thank God he was spared. He’s like our child. I don’t think I could survive losing both Alan and Sweetie.”

Mrs. Carnegie started to shake and cry, her shoulders heaving.

Stottlemeyer looked back at Monk. “Hurry up and ask your question.”

“I just did,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer glared at him. “You had us rush over here and intrude on Mrs. Carnegie’s privacy just to ask her about her dog?”

“I also thought it would be a good idea to arrest her now and secure the scene before she had a chance to get rid of any more evidence.”

Mrs. Carnegie stood up straight, her eyes going wide.

Slade turned to Monk in shock. “You’re saying that she killed the judges?”

“She’s the one,” Monk said.

Mrs. Carnegie started to slam the door in fury but Stottlemeyer threw his shoulder against it, preventing it from closing.

“I don’t think you want to do that, Mrs. Carnegie,” Stottlemeyer said, his tone of voice no longer so solicitous. “Perhaps it would be better if you stepped outside.”

It wasn’t really a suggestion and she knew it. She reluctantly stepped out onto the stoop.

“My husband, the love of my life, was just slaughtered outside my door,” she said. “And you want me to submit myself to this abuse? Who is this horrible man?”

“Someone who has never been wrong about murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “Why did she kill her husband?”

“I have no idea,” Monk said.

“That’s helpful,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Can I go back inside now?” Mrs. Carnegie said. “Or do you want to torture me some more?”

“But I know why she killed Judge Stanton,” Monk said. “She knew that her husband was the designated alternate to hear the case against Salvatore Lucarelli if anything happened to Stanton. She wanted Judge Carnegie’s murder to look like a mob hit.”

“You’re insane,” she said, then turned to Stottlemeyer. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I assume you have some strong evidence,” Stottlemeyer said to Monk.

“You mean besides the fact that she’s a woman, that her height matches the dimensions of the bicycle, and that she’s wearing the Nike running shoes that match the footprint left in the dirt?”

We all gave her the once-over. Not only did I notice that everything Monk said was true, but her tears seemed to dry up and her expression of mourning had turned to one of barely contained rage.

“There are thousands of women in San Francisco who are my same height, and who own a pair of these shoes,” she said. “You pathetic little man.”

“That’s true,” Monk said. “But we also have an eyewitness.”

“Who?” Disher asked.

“Sweetie,” Monk said. “The neighbors reported hearing the gunshots but didn’t say anything about a dog barking.”

“Don’t call me Sweetie,” Disher said. “I’m a grizzled, battle-scarred hard-ass.”

“He’s referring to her dog,” I said.

“If the dog always barks around people he doesn’t know,” Monk said, “why wasn’t he barking when Judge Carnegie was confronted and shot by a stranger?”

“Because it wasn’t a stranger,” Stottlemeyer said, and looked at Mrs. Carnegie. “The dog wasn’t trying to drag his master away after the shooting; he was trying to follow you back home.”

“The dog didn’t start barking until you fled and other people began to approach him,” Monk said. “And the dog didn’t stop barking until you returned.”

She snorted derisively. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“You’re under arrest,” Stottlemeyer said. “Read this woman her rights, Lieutenant.”

Disher did and took out his handcuffs.

“I’ve been a judge’s wife for twenty-three years, Captain. I know how they think,” she said as Disher cuffed her hands behind her back. “This isn’t evidence. It’s unfounded speculation. You don’t have enough to hold me for more than a few hours.”

“But it’s enough probable cause to get us a search warrant,” Stottlemeyer said. “The bike and the hooded jacket may be gone but you haven’t had the opportunity to ditch the gun yet. That should keep you in a cell while we uncover your motive.”

Her wide-eyed reaction was as good as a confession. Stottlemeyer would find the gun.

Disher led her away. Slade motioned Monk and me off to one side, leaving Stottlemeyer by himself at the front door.

“You really are incredible, Mr. Monk,” Slade said. “I’m going to make sure that you get all the credit you deserve for this.”

“So you can whip up some publicity for yourself,” I said.

“For Intertect, your employer. We are a business and publicity brings clients.” Slade addressed Monk again. “There are a lot of reporters standing around the corner. The timing couldn’t be better. How would you feel about joining me in an impromptu press conference to capitalize on your shining moment?”

“I’d rather not,” Monk said, glancing back at Stottlemeyer, who was still standing on Mrs. Carnegie’s stoop.

Slade followed his gaze. “I completely understand. I’ll try not to embarrass Leland or the department too much. But they have no one to blame for this but themselves for letting you go.”

I agreed with Slade on that point but there was no way he could spin this story that wouldn’t end up humiliating Stottlemeyer in front of the media.

Sure, the outcome of this case proved once again how wrong and petty the captain was to fire Monk, but I still felt lousy about hurting him. Maybe our new jobs, fancy car, and comprehensive health plan had softened my anger a bit and made me more sympathetic towards the captain.

Slade hurried off after Disher and his prisoner. I’m sure that Slade wanted to make sure all three of them got in the newspaper photos and TV news footage together.

I couldn’t really blame Slade for that and I owed him an apology for what I’d said. He was right. It was smart to take advantage of the opportunity and it only helped burnish Monk’s reputation along with Intertect’s.

Even so, I couldn’t help feeling that Monk was being exploited, which was stupid, considering how generously we were both being compensated for his detecting services.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Monk said.

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Monk,” he said. “Nick was right: That was some amazing detective work. We were fortunate that you showed up.”

“It was just a lucky guess,” Monk said.

“One that I wouldn’t have made, at least not today and not for the reasons that you did,” Stottlemeyer said. “It would have come after I exhausted every possible connection to Lucarelli, which might have been weeks from now. And by then, Mrs. Carnegie could have destroyed all the evidence and run off to some tropical island.”

“You would have figured it out before that happened,” Monk said.

“Or received an anonymous tip,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Are you reconsidering letting Monk go?” I asked. “Not that he would come back if you did.”

“I would,” Monk said. I elbowed him hard, eliciting a pained yelp. I don’t think he fully appreciated yet all the benefits of his new job. He was too sleepy.

Stottlemeyer shook his head. “I didn’t have a choice then and I don’t now.”

“That might change after the chief sees the evening news,” I said.

“There might be changes,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I don’t think they will involve Monk. They might involve me.”

The captain walked off, his shoulders slumped.

Monk and I watched him go.

“He’s a good detective,” Monk said.

I nodded. “Just not a great one and he knows it.” “Maybe I should retire,” Monk said.

“And do what?” I said.

“Spread the good word about Diaper Genies.”

“You’d be wasting your natural talent and Stottlemeyer wouldn’t want that.”

“But I’d be making the world a better place.”

“That’s what you are doing now,” I said.

“You think so?”

“You give people closure and justice,” I said, and thought of my husband and the unanswered questions surrounding his death in Kosovo. “I could use some of that.”

“Me, too,” he said, undoubtedly thinking about the unsolved murder of his wife. “So who can we go to?”

Just as Stottlemeyer was about to turn the corner, he stopped and answered his cell phone. The call was short and we couldn’t hear what was said, but his body language told us it wasn’t good news. His shoulders slumped even more and he lowered his head.

Monk and I shared a look and caught up with the captain.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“That was Carol Atwater,” Stottlemeyer said. “Bill Peschel is dead.”