That didn’t make a damn bit of sense to me. It was also one of the saddest things I’d ever heard.
“How can you put that burden on yourself, Mr. Monk? Those killings have nothing to do with what happened to Trudy.”
“Everything in life is linked. That’s how you can spot the things that don’t fit.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t believe that. You really think that if you solve some magic number of cases, you will have done your penance and God will tell you who killed your wife?”
Monk shook his head. “There’s nothing magic or spiritual about it. I’m not skilled enough yet to figure out who murdered my wife. If I solve enough cases, maybe someday I will be.”
“Mr. Monk,” I said softly, “you’re the best detective there is.”
“That’s not good enough,” Monk said. “Because whoever killed Trudy is still free, and so is Lucas Breen.”
Monk turned another page in the book.
“You can’t do this to yourself, Mr. Monk. You’re holding yourself to a standard of perfection no person could ever meet.”
“That wacky dog gets into one mishap after another.” Monk smiled and pointed at the page.
Marmaduke chases a cat up a tree and manages to uproot the tall pine, much to the dismay of several children who are lugging planks of wood, hammers, and nails. I guess we won’t be building our treehouse today.
“He sure does.” I patted Monk on the back and left the room.
Adrian Monk was, without a doubt, the most complex man I’d ever met, and perhaps the most tragic. I wished he could let go of some of that guilt he carried around.
Of course, I was a fine one to talk. How many nights did I stare at the ceiling and wonder if Mitch died because of me? If I had loved him more, he wouldn’t have been able to leave us. He wouldn’t have been half a world away. He wouldn’t have been shot out of the sky. If I loved him more, Mitch wouldn’t have needed to fly; he wouldn’t have needed anything but me. But I obviously didn’t love him enough, because he had to go. And now he was dead.
I knew it was foolish and irrational to blame myself for his death, but even so, I can’t deny that the guilt was there and still is.
Were Monk and I really so different?
But he was luckier than I. He knew what he had to do to set his world right again. I didn’t have a clue. What penance could I pay to restore order in my world?
I went into the kitchen, looked out the window, and saw Mrs. Throphamner in her backyard, tending her roses, the strong scent of those flowers filling my house. I hoped what happened last night wouldn’t scare her away from watching Julie for me. I’d come to depend on Mrs. Throphamner. The first step toward keeping her happy was probably paying her what I owed her.
I was heading back into the living room in search of my purse, and the cash to pay Mrs. Throphamner, when Monk came charging out of his room, holding open his book, a big smile on his face.
“He’s done it,” Monk said jubilantly.
“Who’s done what?”
“Marmaduke,” Monk said, tapping the open page and the strip about the uprooted tree. “He’s figured out how to get Lucas Breen!”
Stottlemeyer was in his office looking glum. Monk’s Marmaduke book was open on the desk in front of him. Disher stood behind the captain and looked over his shoulder.
“This is the solution to the case,” Monk said.
We sat in chairs facing Stottlemeyer’s desk and waited for his reaction. Stottlemeyer glanced at the comic, then back at Monk.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Stottlemeyer said.
That probably wasn’t the reaction Monk was expecting. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was the same reaction I had.
“I agree with the captain on this. I don’t think a dog could really uproot a tree like that,” Disher said. “Even one Marmaduke’s size.”
“Sure he could,” Monk said.
“That’s not my problem with it,” Stottlemeyer said.
“But trees that size have very deep roots,” Disher said. “A car could crash into a tree like that one and it wouldn’t move.”
“Marmaduke is full of rambunctious energy,” Monk said. “Cars aren’t.”
“Would you both stop it?” Stottlemeyer snapped. “I’m not sure you grasp the gravity of this situation, Monk. This morning I was officially reprimanded by the chief over what happened last night. I have to go in front of an administrative review board next week and explain my actions. They could demote me.”
“They won’t once you arrest Lucas Breen,” Monk said.
“You mean after I confront him with this Marmaduke comic and he confesses?”
“Basically, yes,” Monk said, tapping the book. “This ties Breen irrefutably to all three murders.”
“Frankly, Monk, I don’t see how,” Stottlemeyer said.
So Monk explained it, sharing with us the realization he had had while reading the comic and his simple plan for acting on it. I could only smile to myself and marvel, once again, at the mysterious way Monk’s mind worked. But I knew he was right. It was our only hope of bringing down Lucas Breen.
Stottlemeyer was quiet for a moment, mulling over what Monk had told him.
“If I go up against Breen again and I lose, they will take my badge,” Stottlemeyer said. “I need to know you’re right about this.”
“I am,” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay, then, let’s do it.”
He rose from his seat and put on his coat.
“What about me?” Disher asked. “What would you like me to do?”
“Stay right here, Randy, and see that those tests that Monk suggested are run on the homeless man and his possessions,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I could do that with a phone call,” Disher said. “I want to back you up on this, Captain.”
“I know you do,” Stottlemeyer said. “But if this goes wrong and my career blows up, I don’t want you to get hit with the shrapnel. I’m only willing to gamble one badge on Monk and Marmaduke, and it’s mine.”
Disher nodded. Stottlemeyer squeezed his shoulder and we walked out.
“Marmaduke,” Stottlemeyer muttered. “He’s one big dog.”
“The biggest,” Monk said.
22
Mr. Monk and the Clam Chowder
The ride in the elevator up to Lucas Breen’s thirtieth-floor office went a lot faster without Monk. Stottlemeyer had his arms folded across his chest and tapped his foot nervously. I carried Lucas Breen’s surprise in my half-open bag and listened to a horrendous instrumental version of Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Out of My Head,” which, of course, lived up to its name. The bad elevator music was still stuck in my head when we stepped out into the waiting area.
The beautiful Asian receptionist greeted us with her best approximation of a smile. She wore a thin headset that connected her to the phone system. Several flat-screen monitors built into the desk showed security-camera views of the lobby, the garage, and other areas of the building. On one of the screens I spotted Monk sitting at a table outside of the Boudin Bakery in the lobby. He’d covered the seat bottom with napkins before sitting down.
“As our guard informed you downstairs,” she said to Stottlemeyer, “Mr. Breen is very busy and would prefer that you return at another time.”
She opened her calendar and ran a sharp, red-polished fingernail down the page. “I believe he can accommodate you in March of next year, assuming you’re still engaged in your present position on the police force.”