Mr. Monk on Patrol (7 page)

“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, the 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 and 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.

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.

Someone
.

A woman.

And that’s when her pale face burst through the haze, her yellow eyes blazing with fury, her sharp fangs bared and moist.

I shrieked, pulled the sheets up over my head, and
buried my face in my pillow. I heard her heavy footsteps move away from the bed and I thanked God for sparing me.

And then I thought…

Footsteps? From a ghost?

It was possible. Some ghosts even drag chains behind them or ride headless on horseback.

But then I thought…

What the hell am I doing?

I was a grown woman, one who had stared down vicious killers, genuine flesh-and-blood, homicidal monsters, and yet there I was, cowering from something that didn’t exist.

Except that I’d seen it. I’d stared into her yellow eyes, seen her pointy fangs.

Yellow eyes? Fangs?

What kind of ghost was that?

Disgusted with myself, I whipped back my sheets and got up, but my heart continued to pound with fear.

The room was still dark and heavy with mist. I staggered into the entryway just as the ghost burst out of my closet, went straight to the door, and began struggling with my dead bolt.

I grabbed for her. Instead of my hand passing through her noncorporeal presence, I caught part of her arm.

She elbowed me hard in the chest, opened the door, and dashed out.

The blow knocked the wind out of me for a moment, and as I gasped for breath I heard a voice behind me.

“Don’t worry, Natalie, she won’t get far.”

I turned around and saw something even more extraordinary than a yellow-eyed, fanged ghost standing in a cloud of cemetery fog beside my bed.

Adrian Monk was peering down at me from an opening in the ceiling of my closet.

“Mr. Monk? What are you doing up there?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Monk said.

“So you decided to crawl around in the rafters?”

I peeked out the doorway into the hall. The ghost was running in her gossamer gown right toward two uniformed police officers who were emerging from the stairwell.

She spun around and came my way again. I ducked back into my room, waited until she was passing my open door, and then tackled her, straddling her back and pinning her facedown on the floor until the cops came running up.