said. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Adrian.”
“Not only that—he’s wrong,” Dozier said. “We found Ellen Cole’s jewelry in Trevor’s truck. He was stealing jewelry from his landscaping clients and auctioning it off on eBay. The payments for those sales went directly into his personal checking account. If he’s innocent, how do you explain that?”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t a thief,” Monk said. “But he didn’t kill Ellen Cole.”
“He didn’t steal those things, either,” Sharona said. “This whole thing is a setup.”
“Who would want to set up your husband?” Dozier said. “He’s a nobody.”
“I don’t know who, but it wouldn’t have been too hard to pull off,” Sharona said. “Anybody could have created an e-mail account for him on Yahoo!, got his checking account number somehow and used it to open an account in his name on eBay. Give me your name and one of your checks and I could do it in ten minutes.”
“Was it the eBay auction of stolen goods that led you to Trevor?” I asked Dozier.
“We found out about the auction after we got the lead on Trevor,” Dozier said. “It was Ian Ludlow who put the clues together. It made sense to me then and it still does now.”
“Even after everything Monk just told you?” I said.
“It’s all speculation,” Dozier said. “I see the evidence one way and he sees it another. Nothing he’s said makes me think we arrested the wrong guy.”
“You did and we’re going to prove it,” Sharona said, standing up. “Aren’t we, Adrian?”
“Yes,” Monk said mournfully, “we are.”
Whodunit Books was located in a storefront underneath a large parking structure in the middle of Westwood Village, right on the edge of the UCLA campus.
There was a casket outside filled with bargain paper-backs. The front windows were cluttered with poster-sized blowups of book covers advertising the upcoming signings of various mystery authors, all of whom seemed to have shopped at Leather Jackets R Us before having their author photos taken.
The first thing we saw when we came in the store was a large table filled with stacks of Ian Ludlow’s previous books in hardcover and paperback and a pile of his newest one, Death Is the Last Word .
“What’s with him?” asked the woman behind the counter. Her name tag read LORINDA.
I guess she didn’t get many customers wearing gas masks.
“Asthma,” Sharona said.
Lorinda was a thin brunette in a low-cut tank top who had a safety pin in one nostril.
Yeah, just one nostril.
I could see the trouble ahead.
Monk immediately started to organize Ludlow’s books on the table into even stacks. He opened each book to check the copyright date so he could arrange them in chronological order. I only know this because he did the same thing to my bookcase.
I looked over his shoulder and saw that the books were signed and dated by Ludlow on the title page. This seemed to stump Monk for a moment, but then he came to a decision and continued his arranging.
There were about twenty people there to meet Ian Ludlow, who sat at a desk in the back corner of the store, signing books with surprising speed.
The Tolstoy of the Mean Streets was in his early thirties, with buzz-cut hair and a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, faded jeans and a Dodger baseball cap that I suspected was hiding a prematurely receding hairline. I don’t know who men think they’re fooling with those caps.
At the front of the line was a man with a rolling suitcase full of books for Ludlow to sign. He had dandruff and his breast pocket was bulging with pens, papers and business cards.
“I’ve got every book you’ve ever written,” the man said, presenting a
“Not only that—he’s wrong,” Dozier said. “We found Ellen Cole’s jewelry in Trevor’s truck. He was stealing jewelry from his landscaping clients and auctioning it off on eBay. The payments for those sales went directly into his personal checking account. If he’s innocent, how do you explain that?”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t a thief,” Monk said. “But he didn’t kill Ellen Cole.”
“He didn’t steal those things, either,” Sharona said. “This whole thing is a setup.”
“Who would want to set up your husband?” Dozier said. “He’s a nobody.”
“I don’t know who, but it wouldn’t have been too hard to pull off,” Sharona said. “Anybody could have created an e-mail account for him on Yahoo!, got his checking account number somehow and used it to open an account in his name on eBay. Give me your name and one of your checks and I could do it in ten minutes.”
“Was it the eBay auction of stolen goods that led you to Trevor?” I asked Dozier.
“We found out about the auction after we got the lead on Trevor,” Dozier said. “It was Ian Ludlow who put the clues together. It made sense to me then and it still does now.”
“Even after everything Monk just told you?” I said.
“It’s all speculation,” Dozier said. “I see the evidence one way and he sees it another. Nothing he’s said makes me think we arrested the wrong guy.”
“You did and we’re going to prove it,” Sharona said, standing up. “Aren’t we, Adrian?”
“Yes,” Monk said mournfully, “we are.”
Whodunit Books was located in a storefront underneath a large parking structure in the middle of Westwood Village, right on the edge of the UCLA campus.
There was a casket outside filled with bargain paper-backs. The front windows were cluttered with poster-sized blowups of book covers advertising the upcoming signings of various mystery authors, all of whom seemed to have shopped at Leather Jackets R Us before having their author photos taken.
The first thing we saw when we came in the store was a large table filled with stacks of Ian Ludlow’s previous books in hardcover and paperback and a pile of his newest one, Death Is the Last Word .
“What’s with him?” asked the woman behind the counter. Her name tag read LORINDA.
I guess she didn’t get many customers wearing gas masks.
“Asthma,” Sharona said.
Lorinda was a thin brunette in a low-cut tank top who had a safety pin in one nostril.
Yeah, just one nostril.
I could see the trouble ahead.
Monk immediately started to organize Ludlow’s books on the table into even stacks. He opened each book to check the copyright date so he could arrange them in chronological order. I only know this because he did the same thing to my bookcase.
I looked over his shoulder and saw that the books were signed and dated by Ludlow on the title page. This seemed to stump Monk for a moment, but then he came to a decision and continued his arranging.
There were about twenty people there to meet Ian Ludlow, who sat at a desk in the back corner of the store, signing books with surprising speed.
The Tolstoy of the Mean Streets was in his early thirties, with buzz-cut hair and a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, faded jeans and a Dodger baseball cap that I suspected was hiding a prematurely receding hairline. I don’t know who men think they’re fooling with those caps.
At the front of the line was a man with a rolling suitcase full of books for Ludlow to sign. He had dandruff and his breast pocket was bulging with pens, papers and business cards.
“I’ve got every book you’ve ever written,” the man said, presenting a
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