an expansive Victorian porch. He pointed at the photo on the bulletin board. “It’s not quite symmetrical.”
For Monk this was damning in and of itself, but almost never did it prove the gardener was a killer.
“You can see it’s almost symmetrical—the azaleas on both sides, the roses. Even the Japanese maples are evenly spaced and the same height. Very civilized. But look at the foxgloves.” He pointed to the familiar stalks, these a little more pink than purple. “There are twice as many on this side than on the other. Someone removed some foxglove.”
Stottlemeyer examined the photo. “It would be interesting to see if you’re right.” He turned to the officers. “Check out Google Earth Street View. That’s the easiest way.”
“Got it,” said Officer Garcia, and made a note.
“But I think our biggest tip is the garage,” said Monk.
“The garage?” Devlin picked up the Harriman folder and took a look. “Smith changed into his ‘uniform’ in their garage. Is that what you mean?”
Monk lifted the corner of his mouth. “I love garages. I mean, personally I hate them. All the filth and disorder and oil stains on the cement. But people are weird about them. They store all sorts of stuff there—things they don’t want in the house and then never get rid of. If killers were smart, they would never buy a house with a garage. It’s like a ticking time bomb.”
“You think something’s in the garage?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“John Harriman was not at the children’s event that day. It was his wife who gave Smith access to the garage because she wanted him to make a dramatic entrance through the front door. Yes, something was in the garage.”
“Well, kiddies. We have a suspect.” Captain Stottlemeyer clapped his hands and turned to face us. “Nobody talks to the Harrimans. Got it? Our goal now is information. Whatever can help us get a search warrant for that garage.”
“I’ll focus on Harriman’s personal history,” Devlin volunteered. “Any crimes he could be covering up. Suspicious deaths of relatives or associates. Influxes of cash. How far back should I go?”
“Eight years, two months,” Monk said. “Eight years, three months this coming Tuesday.”
When he realized we were staring openmouthed, he explained. “I know I should say ten years. Ten is a more civilized number. But Harriman bought this house eight years and two months ago. I doubt he would have taken the trouble to have the movers pack up and transport incriminating evidence to a new place, so I’m guessing this happened after they moved.”
“Thanks,” said Stottlemeyer, including us both. “Good work.”
“I’m going to need to visit Mr. Smith’s house again,” Monk said. “Personally this time.”
“Really?” Devlin sounded dubious. “You don’t need me to go in there with my camera and describe it?”
“No.” He sighed, long and hard, as if carrying the weight of a thousand clowns. “I’m afraid I have to see it myself. Last time we missed something.”
“What? What did we miss?” the captain asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.” And he started to leave.
“We didn’t miss a thing,” Devlin protested, but no one listened.
I followed my partner out of Stottlemeyer’s office and to the elevator, but not before catching the captain’s eye. The man was shaking his head, exhibiting a familiar blend of admiration and curiosity.
Two perfect exits in a row. I was on a roll.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mr. Monk Gets Mail
I drove Monk to his Pine Street apartment building, and this time when he made noises about sharing a fun evening of washing and drying all his lightbulbs, I actually said yes. It was my way of rewarding him.
He’d been feeling a little lonely and disconnected, I could tell. Ever since Ellen slammed her shop door in his face, he’d been quietly entertaining the possibility that he might, just might, be wrong about some things. I think that, plus my brilliant
For Monk this was damning in and of itself, but almost never did it prove the gardener was a killer.
“You can see it’s almost symmetrical—the azaleas on both sides, the roses. Even the Japanese maples are evenly spaced and the same height. Very civilized. But look at the foxgloves.” He pointed to the familiar stalks, these a little more pink than purple. “There are twice as many on this side than on the other. Someone removed some foxglove.”
Stottlemeyer examined the photo. “It would be interesting to see if you’re right.” He turned to the officers. “Check out Google Earth Street View. That’s the easiest way.”
“Got it,” said Officer Garcia, and made a note.
“But I think our biggest tip is the garage,” said Monk.
“The garage?” Devlin picked up the Harriman folder and took a look. “Smith changed into his ‘uniform’ in their garage. Is that what you mean?”
Monk lifted the corner of his mouth. “I love garages. I mean, personally I hate them. All the filth and disorder and oil stains on the cement. But people are weird about them. They store all sorts of stuff there—things they don’t want in the house and then never get rid of. If killers were smart, they would never buy a house with a garage. It’s like a ticking time bomb.”
“You think something’s in the garage?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“John Harriman was not at the children’s event that day. It was his wife who gave Smith access to the garage because she wanted him to make a dramatic entrance through the front door. Yes, something was in the garage.”
“Well, kiddies. We have a suspect.” Captain Stottlemeyer clapped his hands and turned to face us. “Nobody talks to the Harrimans. Got it? Our goal now is information. Whatever can help us get a search warrant for that garage.”
“I’ll focus on Harriman’s personal history,” Devlin volunteered. “Any crimes he could be covering up. Suspicious deaths of relatives or associates. Influxes of cash. How far back should I go?”
“Eight years, two months,” Monk said. “Eight years, three months this coming Tuesday.”
When he realized we were staring openmouthed, he explained. “I know I should say ten years. Ten is a more civilized number. But Harriman bought this house eight years and two months ago. I doubt he would have taken the trouble to have the movers pack up and transport incriminating evidence to a new place, so I’m guessing this happened after they moved.”
“Thanks,” said Stottlemeyer, including us both. “Good work.”
“I’m going to need to visit Mr. Smith’s house again,” Monk said. “Personally this time.”
“Really?” Devlin sounded dubious. “You don’t need me to go in there with my camera and describe it?”
“No.” He sighed, long and hard, as if carrying the weight of a thousand clowns. “I’m afraid I have to see it myself. Last time we missed something.”
“What? What did we miss?” the captain asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.” And he started to leave.
“We didn’t miss a thing,” Devlin protested, but no one listened.
I followed my partner out of Stottlemeyer’s office and to the elevator, but not before catching the captain’s eye. The man was shaking his head, exhibiting a familiar blend of admiration and curiosity.
Two perfect exits in a row. I was on a roll.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mr. Monk Gets Mail
I drove Monk to his Pine Street apartment building, and this time when he made noises about sharing a fun evening of washing and drying all his lightbulbs, I actually said yes. It was my way of rewarding him.
He’d been feeling a little lonely and disconnected, I could tell. Ever since Ellen slammed her shop door in his face, he’d been quietly entertaining the possibility that he might, just might, be wrong about some things. I think that, plus my brilliant
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