Mr. Monk Is Open for Business (10 page)

“You didn’t have any contact with him?” asked Monk. “This man was your financial manager.”

“E-mails and phone calls,” Todd said. “That’s how most business gets done.”

“Did he have an accent on the phone?” Monk asked. “What kind?”

“An accent?” Todd had to think for a second. “Hell, yes,” he said, treating it like a victory. “A Southern accent. Very pronounced. Does that mean anything?”

“The Southern accent was fake,” Monk explained. “That’s the go-to accent for fakeness, for some reason. I suppose it’s easy to do, at least a bad one. And it changes the tone of your voice.”

“It’s funny you didn’t mention a Southern accent,” I said to Sarabeth, “when you were describing Wyatt to us earlier.”

“Didn’t I?” She looked confused. “Well, I suppose it’s because you didn’t ask me.”

“It’s because we didn’t ask her,” said Monk. “My fault.” Then he turned his attention to Todd. “It’s hard to believe you never met him. How about the office Christmas party? We have a picture of him. Weren’t you at the party?”

“Wyatt was gone by the time I came upstairs,” said Todd.

“It’s true,” Sarabeth confirmed. “Wyatt left early. Said he had a headache.”

Wow, I thought. Whoever this Wyatt was, he was good. I turned to Helena. “What do you know about him? Your husband must have had stories. Everyone brings home gossip from the office.”

“Sure,” said Helena. “Mel talked about him all the time. Where to begin?”

But the stories they told, Sarabeth included, seemed perfectly ordinary. The cheap gift Wyatt gave for the Secret
Santa exchange. Wyatt’s taste for classic country music, especially Dolly Parton. A bottle of cranberry-prune juice he kept in the company refrigerator because he thought it would help with his new diet. He drank it religiously and wound up spending hours in the bathroom, even though no one noticed him ever losing an ounce.

“He scrawled his name on the bottles,” said Sarabeth with a chuckle, “as if anyone would try to steal this concoction. Can you imagine the taste?”

“Wyatt was quite the character,” agreed Helena. “From what I’ve heard.”

“I wonder why your husband hired him in the first place,” Monk said.

“I wish he hadn’t. Believe me.”

“Did Wyatt and your husband know each other from before?”

She thought about his question for a second. “Mel never mentioned him. No. He just showed up for the interview, I guess.”

“And you’re sure you never met him?”

“Outside of a few pictures, I’ve never even seen him.”

“And Todd.” Monk looked him in the eyes. “As far as you know, your ex-wife and Wyatt were never romantically involved?”

Todd tensed, as if the idea of Katrina even looking at another man was impossible. “No way. Katrina hated him. I don’t know how many times she told me Wyatt never should have come, that he was more trouble than he was worth.”

“More trouble than he was worth,” said Monk. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

He continued to ask questions, first to Helena, then to Todd. I knew better than to interrupt. There had been a subtle change in his tone, as if the investigation was growing more focused in his mind.

When we finally said our good-byes, Todd and Helena were still there, unmoved from their chairs. Monk and I headed toward the nurses’ station and the stairwell at the end of the elevator bank. He prefers using the stairs, and I only insist on the elevator when it’s more than six flights or I’m wearing heels. The ICU was on the third floor, so the stairs it was.

“People can’t take a hint,” Monk muttered, still thinking about Sarabeth’s visitors. “Now I’m going to have to come back.”

“Why were you asking questions like that?” I had to ask. “I know you, Adrian. You were treating Todd and Helena like suspects. How can they be suspects?”

“Well, it was suspicious of them staying so long and monopolizing the chairs.”

“No, it wasn’t. Come on. Is there something I’m not getting?”

Monk cricked his neck and rolled his shoulders. “Devlin may have been right. I know how strange that sounds. But even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“I’m sure Devlin will feel honored being compared to a broken clock.”

“I didn’t say that she is right, just that she may be. Wyatt Noone may have had outside help.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mr. Monk and Mr. Monk

I
instantly changed our trajectory, guiding Monk away from the stairwell and toward the little sitting area that served as the ICU’s lounge. I took a few sanitary wipes and cleaned off one plastic chair for him and another for myself. I didn’t care for myself, but by now it was a habit.

The nurses’ station was a good distance away and we were the only ones there, but still I lowered my voice. “What do you mean, outside help?”

“I mean what the words normally mean. Noone managed to stay off everyone’s radar. Even people working in the same building. He got hired without any verifiable references, which seems impossible for an accountant. There’s nothing of any consequence in his employee file, meaning either no one demanded references or they’ve been removed. The man was either brilliantly lucky or luckily brilliant. Or he had an accomplice.”

“And you’re thinking it’s Todd or Helena.”

“Well, besides the fact that neither of them can take a hint . . .” Monk faced me in his chair and leaned in. “We could be dealing with a double motive: two million dollars in embezzlement plus the getting rid of a spouse. Spouse killing is a
very popular motive in this screwed-up world. For instance, Helena could have talked her husband into hiring Noone in the first place. Or Todd could have facilitated Noone’s escape from the warehouse. We still don’t know how Noone got out of there.”

I took his reasoning a step further. “Or Todd and Helena could have been working together. Two accomplices. I mean, people who don’t take a hint are probably capable of anything.”

“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or agreeing with me.”

“I’m not sure myself. It could go either way.”

“I wonder how much longer those two are going to be here.”

I found Monk’s theory about an accomplice fascinating—not because I really believed Todd or Helena were part of Noone’s conspiracy, but because he was purposely ignoring the one real possibility—Sarabeth, the sole survivor, a woman who had worked every day with Wyatt Noone for a year. But I knew better than to bring up that subject right now.

We were back on our feet, heading for the stairs, when the elevator doors opened and Takumi Ito stepped out. The businessman seemed to have aged a year since we’d seen him this morning. His slim-cut suit fell wrinkled and limp over his shoulders and an unnatural stoop made him look a good three inches shorter. “Mr. Monk. Ms. Teeger.” He bowed ever so slightly. “You are here to see Miss Willow?”

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” said Monk. “If you want any time with her, you’re going to have to get in line. It’s a zoo in there.”

“She has visitors,” I translated. “Helena Lubarsky and Todd Avery.”

“Ah,” said Ito. “I visited Mrs. Lubarsky after leaving the police station. Then I paid a call on Caleb Smith’s roommate. They were not romantically involved it seems, just sharing the rent. Very nice man. After this I was going to visit Mr. Avery. I’m glad he’s here.”

“It will save you a trip,” I agreed. I felt so sorry for him, having to deal with eight hours of jet lag, plus a two-million-dollar loss, plus spending all day shuttling between the police and the relatives of the victims. “Is there anything we can do to help?” I asked.

“Thank you, no. You’re very kind.” But then he thought. “Would either of you know of a good Japanese restaurant? After a day like today, I could use the comfort of home.”

“There’s a neighborhood called Japantown,” I offered. “It’s not very far. I don’t have any favorite restaurants there myself. . . .”

“Would you care to join me for dinner, Ms. Teeger? Mr. Monk?”

“We’d love to, but I’m afraid we have plans.” I was sorry to have to say it. The man looked so traumatized.

“You should have dinner with us,” Monk said. “My brother’s wife is cooking Japanese, partly because she is Japanese. I’m sure they’d love another guest. It will be no bother at all.”

Huh? This was very un-Monk behavior. I actually looked behind him just to see if anyone was sticking a gun in his back. No one was, so I played along. “Yes, that would be
lovely. Yuki is such a good cook.” I had no firsthand proof, but I said it anyway.

“No, that would be imposing,” Ito said. I could sense that he wanted to say yes.

“Not a problem,” Monk said. “Please join us.” I had to look again. Still no gun.

“Well . . .” Ito smiled. “To tell the truth, I was not looking forward to an empty table. I would be honored to join you, if that’s okay.”

“If you want wasabi, you have to order it in advance,” said Monk.

“Whatever you have I’m sure will be wonderful.”

I took out another of our business cards and wrote on the back the time and the address. I also asked him please not to bring anything. The pleasure of his company would be enough. After he disappeared down the hall to Sarabeth’s room, I got on the phone to Yuki. It was fine with her, just as I’d thought. And she would break the news gently to Ambrose.

Only after it was all settled did I turn to Monk. I’m always saying how Monk cocks his head to one side when he’s puzzled. Now it was my turn. “What was that about?”

“What? You mean asking him to join us? For one thing, he’s Japanese, so he might actually like the food. Plus he might mention this to Sarabeth, and I want her to think I’m a nice person.”

“You won’t do it for me, but you’ll do it for a woman you just met?”

Monk sighed dramatically and headed for the stairs. “Well, excuse me for trying to be empathetic.”

“No, no,” I said, chasing behind. “I’ll take it where I can get it. Good for Sarabeth.”

* * *

Dinner that night was quite pleasant. I might even say lovely. And despite instructions to the contrary, Takumi Ito brought a gift for his hostess, an expensive bottle of saki that needed to be chilled.

We hadn’t seen Ambrose and Yuki for almost a year. For most of that time, we didn’t hear a word, just the occasional call saying they were still alive and in love. Sometimes a mysterious package would arrive in the mail, something they’d bought on their travels and sent home so it wouldn’t crowd up the RV. Monk kept them all in the storage unit in his building’s basement. One of the first things he did on arriving at the house was to set up a time for Yuki to come over and retrieve them.

“We can make a game out of it,” he told her. “Empty the storage unit and wash it down with bleach. Ambrose and I used to play games like that as kids.”

“Teenage high jinks.” Ambrose sighed. “Those were the days. Ooh, remember bassoon Wednesdays?” He turned to the rest of us, beaming with the memory. “Every Wednesday we used to sit around the living room, listening to Mother play the bassoon.”

“We don’t want to bore people,” Monk said. “I’m sure every family has its bassoon stories.”

“In our family it was tympani Tuesday,” I said, trying to repress a grin. “We all had our own set of tympanis. You could hear us for miles.”

“Well, I’m sure you rich folk could afford tympanis,”
huffed Ambrose. “Some of us had to make do with bassoons. By the way, did you get the chain saw we sent?”

“We did,” I said.

“Chain saw.” Takumi Ito burst into laughter. “Now I know you’re all joking.”

“Actually, the bassoon and the chain saw are true,” I informed him.

Monk nodded. “Luckily we knew the chain saw had come from Ambrose and not from some horror-film kook sending me a message. What do you want with a chain saw? Isn’t it illegal to send them through the mail?”

“That’s a story worth telling,” said Ambrose.

Yuki smiled and reached up to clasp her husband’s hand. “We were in Oregon,” she explained, “driving by the edge of a national forest. That night we happened to park the RV right by an antilogging protest. Well, one thing led to another and my hero Ambrose wound up saving a thousand-year-old sequoia from being slaughtered.”

“You mean he actually got out of the RV?” Monk asked.

“Only for a minute,” Yuki said. “It was after the chase with the logging truck.”

“You were being chased by a logging truck?” I asked.

“No, no. Yuki exaggerates,” said Ambrose. “We were chasing the logging truck. But even that’s not technically true. We were chasing the ambulance that was chasing the logging truck. Accuracy is very important when you’re telling a story.”

“But you’re missing the point, sweetie,” said Yuki. “They were asking about you getting out of the RV.”

“You’re right. That was the most exciting part. You should have seen the pine needles. They stuck to everything. My left
shoe and my right shoe. Even my trouser cuffs, if you can believe it. At first I didn’t notice the needles, maybe because of all the sirens and the explosion. But once I got back into the RV . . . Boy, oh boy. For the next two days, I was picking out needles—”

“Forget the needles,” I demanded. “What about the chain saw?”

“Oh.” Yuki patted Ambrose’s hand and they shared a secret little grin. “Let’s just say, that is one chain saw that’s not going to be cutting down any more sequoias, thanks to the U.S. Postal Service.”

“I hope you didn’t mail me evidence in a criminal case,” Monk said. He regarded his older brother, the rebel, with wary eyes.

“No, no,” Yuki assured us. “Just a civil case.”

There were maybe a dozen stories like this. And even though we only heard a few details of each, I was amazed that Ambrose could have such adventures all within a few arm’s lengths of the safety of his movable home.

Takumi Ito didn’t say much. He seemed happy just listening as the Monk family caught up. It must have been a nice break for him, I thought, not having to talk about the senseless tragedy his company had been through, although I’m sure it was never far from his mind.

The meal itself was as promised. The salmon was perfectly cooked and lightly seasoned. The white rice was in separate bowls. And the broccoli rabe was stir-fried, with the chaos of sesame seeds kept on the side for the more adventurous eaters. Yuki had to be one of the best Japanese biker-chick chefs in the world, although I’m sure the list wasn’t very long.

When it came time for second helpings, I joined Mr. Ito out in the living room where the soy sauce and other exotic spices had been set up on a sideboard. The white porcelain saki bottle was also on the sideboard cradled in a soup bowl full of ice. He poured for both of us, filling up the little handleless cups.

“Thank you again, Ms. Teeger. This evening is just what I needed.” There was exhaustion in his voice, but not the tension I’d heard earlier in the day.

“I’m glad,” I said. “I was a little worried. It’s not everyone who can get enjoyment out of the Monk brothers.”

“They are absolutely splendid. In the United States, I think you make reality TV stars out of your eccentrics. In Japan, we call them national treasures.”

“It probably amounts to the same thing. And please don’t suggest a reality show about Adrian. I can’t imagine where that would lead. No place good.”

It was nice to hear him laugh and it gave me a warm feeling to be at least partly responsible. “Tomorrow will be easier,” I promised, and toasted with my cup of chilled saki.

Ito toasted back but didn’t drink. “I was the one who made them hire an accountant,” he confessed. “They would have been happier doing the work themselves and getting a raise. But our company rules prohibit them getting paid more than their Japanese counterparts. I thought I was doing them a favor. Instead, three of them are dead and I’ve placed my whole company in jeopardy.”

“It’s not your fault. You had no idea who they would hire.” I toasted again, deliberately, like a mom trying to force her kid to take his medicine, and this time he sipped.

I brought the bottle of saki back to the table with an extra cup for Yuki. The three of us settled in while Adrian and Ambrose began arguing over the proper way to catalogue a collection of maps. Adrian said alphabetically. Ambrose said it had to be by continent, north to south, west to east. Yuki suggested burning the maps and using Google Earth instead. We all agreed to vote on it, and the result was three to one to one. Adrian and Ambrose both lodged formal protests.

At exactly ten, Ambrose and Yuki said good night and ushered us out the door. It seems that Ambrose had read somewhere that a dinner party should last somewhere between three and four hours, making the ideal length exactly three and a half. Since we had all arrived punctually at six thirty, he had no choice.

“A wonderful evening,” Ambrose called out from the safety of the doorway, arm in arm with his smiling wife. “I wish you could have stayed longer. I really do. But I don’t make the rules.”

I was home well before eleven and checked my phone for the first time since I left. There was a message from Julie and I called back without bothering to check it.

“I just wanted to apologize,” she began. “Again. I shouldn’t have broken in.”

“That’s all right, sweetie. I understand.”

Call me cynical. But when my daughter calls to apologize—again—it usually means there’s something else in play. I accepted the apology and went on to tell her about my evening with the Monks.

Julie knew Ambrose and Yuki well. She sounded a little disappointed that she hadn’t been there for the fun. “Maybe
when I’m your intern, I can snag those invitations, too.” Okay, so that’s what this was about. “What’s happening on the Pickler case?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.