“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I think it’s time to have another chat with Lucas Breen,” Stottlemeyer said. He made some calls and found out that Breen was still at his office, just a few blocks away.
When we got to the building, Stottlemeyer used the guard’s phone to call up to Breen’s office. He spoke to the secretary and asked if Breen would come down to the lobby to meet with us. When the secretary said that Breen refused, Stottlemeyer smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “Tell him we can have the conversation about Lizzie Draper at his house in front of his wife.”
Stottlemeyer hung up, then motioned to the Boudin Bakery. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee while we’re waiting for Breen to come down?”
I took Stottlemeyer up on his offer and convinced him to sweeten the deal with a fresh sourdough baguette. Monk settled for a warm bottle of Sierra Springs water from my bag.
Five minutes later Lucas Breen emerged from the elevator alone and joined us at our table.
“What’s so important you had to drag me out of my office?” Breen said.
“You didn’t have to come down,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I guess you didn’t want the missus hearing about your affair with Lizzie Draper.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“She’s your mistress,” Stottlemeyer said.
Breen grinned with smug self-confidence and tugged at the cuffs of his monogrammed shirt. “Is that what she says?”
Stottlemeyer shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Breen said.
“We know you bought her a bouquet of flowers from the florist in this lobby,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Do you? I buy lots of flowers from Flo. I buy them for my wife, my secretary, my clients, and to beautify my office. How do you know her bouquet came from me? It could have come from anybody in this building. The woman could even have bought the bouquet here herself.”
“You bought it for her,” Monk said. “Probably the same time you left her your shirt. She was wearing it when we met her. The buttons are monogrammed with your initials.”
“My wife donated some old clothes to Goodwill,” Breen said. “She always hated that denim shirt. Perhaps this woman you talked to enjoys shopping for bargains at secondhand clothing stores.”
“How did you know it was denim?” Monk asked. “We didn’t tell you what kind of shirt she was wearing.”
“The buttons,” Breen said quickly. “Only my denim shirts and short-sleeved sportswear have my initials on the buttons instead of the cuffs.”
“How do you know we weren’t talking about one of your short-sleeved shirts?”
“I’m a happily married man and faithful to my wife, but even if I weren’t, adultery isn’t a crime.”
“But murder is,” Monk said. “You killed Esther Stoval.”
“That’s laughable,” Breen said. “I had no reason to want her dead.”
“Esther knew about your affair and was blackmailing you,” Monk said. “On Friday night you slipped away from the fund-raiser, smothered Esther, and set fire to her house.”
“You’re forgetting that I didn’t leave the Excelsior hotel until midnight,” Breen said.
“Yes, you did, and we can prove it,” Stottlemeyer said. “You were mugged on the street a block away from the hotel. We have the mugger, and we know you reported your stolen credit cards to your bank. But here’s the odd thing: You didn’t report the mugging to the police. Gee, I wonder why.”
Breen sighed wearily. “I briefly stepped out of the hotel for a smoke, and that’s when I was mugged. It hardly qualifies as ‘leaving.’ ”
“Then why didn’t you tell anybody about it?” Stottlemeyer said.
“Because I promised my wife I’d quit smoking. If she knew I was still smoking cigars, she’d have my head.”
“
That’s
why you didn’t report the mugging? Because you were afraid your wife would find out that you were still smoking?” Stottlemeyer said, incredulity dripping from every word.
Breen absently tugged again at the cuffs of his handmade shirt. I don’t know if it was a nervous habit, or if he just wanted us all to admire his cuff links.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Captain. I didn’t tell the police because I knew the press would pick up on it and the mugging would be all over the news. The last thing I want to do is create the impression that the neighborhood is a hotbed of crime. I have an ownership interest in the Excelsior. We’d lose room bookings, weddings, and convention business. But it’s more than that. I love San Francisco. I don’t want to do anything that might hurt the city’s image or cause a decline in tourism.”
“That’s a good story, and we’re all moved by your civic pride,” Monk said. “But here’s what really happened. You left something behind in Esther’s house. So you stole a firefighter’s coat and helmet in order to go back into the house and get it. But you didn’t know the firehouse had a dog, and when he came at you barking and growling, you killed him with a pickax.”
“Now you’re accusing me of murdering a dog, too?” Breen said. “This is outrageous. Do you have any proof to back up this fantasy of yours?”
“The mugger said you reeked of smoke,” I said.
“
Reeked?
He sounds like my wife. My God, everybody is antismoking now, even the muggers. Like I said before, I was having a cigar. That’s what he smelled. The wonderful aroma of a Partagas Salamones.”
Breen looked past me, something outside catching his eye. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a bum walking past the window. It was the same bum whom Monk had gifted with a couple dozen Wet Ones, shuffling by in his overcoat, pushing a rickety grocery cart overflowing with garbage. He saw me watching him and flipped me off.
Breen turned to Stottlemeyer, and when he spoke, his tone was much harder than before. “You’ve taxed my patience long enough with this inane inquiry. Make your point and get it over with.”
“Monk is right. You killed the lady and the dog, and you’re going down for it. All four of us sitting here know that,” Stottlemeyer said. “The thing is, since you’re such a booster of the police department and all, I thought I’d give you the chance to cut a deal before we both spend a lot of needless time and expense on this.”
“I heard you were a rising star in the department, Captain, and that you, Mr. Monk, were a brilliant detective. Obviously I was misinformed. I’m deeply disappointed in both of you. We’re done here.”
Breen rose from his seat, acknowledged me with a tip of his head, and walked back to the elevator.
“He’s disappointed in us, Monk.” Stottlemeyer finished his coffee. “I’m crushed; how about you?”
“He’s going to make life hard for you, Captain,” Monk said.
“Not as hard as I’m going to make it for him,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ll get search warrants tonight, and we’ll ransack his home and office for that little item he went back to Esther’s house to get—just as soon as you tell me what that little item is.”
“Something very, very incriminating.”
“Which is . . . ?” Stottlemeyer said.
“Something that points directly, irrefutably, and conclusively to him as the killer.”
“Yes, I get the concept of incriminating,” Stottlemeyer said. “But what is it, exactly, that I should tell the judge that we’re looking for?”
Monk shrugged.
Stottlemeyer looked at Monk, then at me, then back to Monk. “You don’t know?”
“Something so unbelievably damaging to him that he’d literally walk through the red-hot flames of hell to get it back.”
“Well, there go my search warrants,” Stottlemeyer said. “So what you’re basically saying is, we’ve got bupkis.”
“Actually,” Monk said. “It’s probably less than that.”
13
Mr. Monk Does His Homework
Stottlemeyer drove us back to the Excelsior and used his badge to get my car out of the parking lot for free. It must be nice to have a badge and be able to park wherever you want without worrying about fees or tickets.
I made Monk promise not to say anything to Julie about the attempted mugging. She’d lost her father, and I didn’t want her worrying every time I left the house with Monk that she might lose me next. If Monk had a problem with my lie of omission, he didn’t say anything.
When we got home, lugging in our Pottery Barn purchases, Julie was at the table working on her homework, and Mrs. Throphamner was on the couch watching TV. Mrs. Throphamner’s dentures were on a napkin on the coffee table, facing the TV so they, too, could enjoy
Diagnosis Murder
.
I introduced Monk to Mrs. Throphamner. “He’s staying with us for a few days.”
She popped her teeth back into her mouth and offered her hand to Monk. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Monk took one look at her hand, which was covered with blisters, and shook the air between them instead.
“Yes, it certainly is,” Monk said, shaking the air enthusiastically. “What happened to your hands?”
“I’ve been tending my roses,” she said. “It’s hard work, but I love it.”
I paid Mrs. Throphamner twelve dollars for babysitting. She stuffed the bills in her cleavage, blew a kiss to Julie, and went home in a hurry so she wouldn’t miss a second of Dick Van Dyke’s sleuthing.
“Mrs. Throphamner’s such a sweet woman,” I said after she left.
“She’s a witch,” Monk said. “Did you see those gnarled hands and her puckered, toothless face?”
Julie giggled happily. She happened to share Monk’s opinion. I thought they were both being cruel.
“She’s old and lonely; that’s all. Her husband spends most of his time lately at their fishing cabin up near Sacramento. She’s had nothing to do the last few months except tend her garden and watch TV.”
Of course, that was also very good for me, because it coincided with my newfound employment with Monk and made her available almost anytime for babysitting. I liked to believe that Mrs. Throphamner and I were doing each other a favor.
I heated up a frozen pizza for dinner, set the table with paper plates, and talked to Julie about her day at school while Monk disposed of the napkin Mrs. Throphamner had rested her teeth on. He put on rubber dish gloves and used a pair of barbecue tongs to pick up the napkin and take it to the fireplace, where he incinerated it. Then he disinfected the coffee table and the air around it with enough Lysol to eradicate every germ within a square mile. I had to open the window in the kitchen so we wouldn’t be eradicated, too. Julie watched him closely, amused and fascinated at the same time.
“I can still smell her,” Monk said.
“It’s her flowers you’re smelling,” I said. “I opened the kitchen window. She spends so much time tending her garden that she picks up the fragrance of her roses.”
He studied me, trying to discern whether I was telling the truth or not, then decided to believe me and put away the Lysol and threw out the gloves. I would have washed the gloves and used them again, but I’m not Adrian Monk.
As soon as the pizza was ready, Monk cut it into eight even slices. We sat down to eat, and I gave Julie an edited account of our day, leaving out the mugging and the identity of Sparky’s killer, but said we were close to getting the culprit. I know that was being overly optimistic, but I had a lot of faith in Monk.
After dinner, Julie went back to her homework while I unpacked and washed all the new dishes and silverware. I know Monk would have been glad to do the washing for me, but Julie had other plans. She asked him if he’d help her with her homework.
“That’s very nice of you,” Monk said. “But I don’t want to intrude on your fun.”
“You think homework is fun?” Julie said.
“Homework was my second favorite thing about school.”
“What was your favorite?” Julie asked.
“The tests, of course. You know what was almost as much fun? Deducing days in advance exactly when the next surprise ‘pop’ quiz was coming up. The teachers pretended like this irritated them, but it was really their clever way of encouraging me to challenge myself. Boy, does this bring back memories. I used to love aligning the rows of desks each day. Do you ever do that?”
“No,” Julie said.
“You aren’t being aggressive enough,” Monk said.
“I don’t think that’s what it is.”
“The trick is getting to school an hour early, before some other enterprising student beats you to it. Not that anyone ever beat me to it.”
“Are you sure anyone wanted to?”
“Yeah, right. Next thing you’ll tell me nobody competes to get an even-numbered locker. You’re such a kidder.” Monk turned to me. “Isn’t she a kidder?”
“She’s a kidder,” I said. “And a josher.”
“So,” Monk asked her, “what are you studying tonight?”
“A bunch of stuff. But there’s something I thought you might know a few things about,” Julie said. “In Life Sciences, we’re learning about infectious diseases.”
“You’re talking to the right man,” Monk said, reaching for her Life Sciences textbook. “When I was in junior high, I taught the teacher a few things about the subject.”
“I’m not surprised.” She opened the book and pointed to a page. “We’re doing this project tomorrow.”
Monk read it aloud. “ ‘Everyone in class should shake hands with two people and record their names—’ ” He stopped midsentence. “How can they put children through this? Don’t they realize how dangerous it is? Didn’t they send home permission slips for this?”
“Uh, no,” Julie said. “Why should they?”
“Why?
Why?”
Monk turned to me. “Tell her.”
“It sounds innocent enough to me,” I said.
“It does? Well, you won’t think so after you hear this.” Monk read again from the textbook: “ ‘Now shake hands with two different people, take their names, then shake hands with two more.’ What kind of teachers are these? Are they insane? I suppose they tell the kids to run around the classroom with scissors, too.”
“It’s just a practical exercise that teaches kids how diseases are spread,” I said.