bed?”
Monk pulled up the blanket so we could see how the top sheet was folded under the mattress of the bed the body was on.
“The top sheet on the corner of this bed is tucked using the Salvadoran fold,” he continued. “The top sheet on the other bed is folded around the mattress corners using the classic gift-wrap method. That proves that this bed was made after Emilia, the usual maid, cleaned the room yesterday. Paola brought the body down from upstairs in her linen cart. She remade the bed before placing the body in it to remove any possible forensic evidence the killer might have left when he slept in the bed last night.”
We all looked at Paola, who chewed on her lip some more. Things weren’t going well for her and she knew it. So did we.
“You’ve convinced me, but we aren’t going to be able to make a case on how she folds sheets,” Stottlemeyer said. “The DA would laugh me out of his office.”
“Use the wineglasses,” Monk said. “The lipstick on the rim is hers. It’s as good as a fingerprint. The DNA aside, her upper lip is chapped, which is why she chews on it. The lipstick impression is an exact match.”
Stottlemeyer nodded. “Read this woman her rights, Lieutenant, and arrest her.”
While Disher did that, I asked Monk the one question I still had.
“How did Paola know that Emilia would be sick today?”
“She poisoned her, of course,” Monk said.
“I told Roger it would never work,” Paola said, shaking her head. “But he said it was foolproof, that we’d be long gone before anyone realized what had happened.”
“You probably would have been, too, if it wasn’t for Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
I had to give the captain credit. He never tried to minimize Monk’s brilliance for his own benefit. He always made sure that Monk knew his work was appreciated and that he got full credit for it, even if it was at Stottlemeyer’s or the SFPD’s expense.
Stottlemeyer had his faults, but failing to acknowledge the accomplishments of others to relieve his own insecurities wasn’t one of them.
“So, Paola, are you going to tell us where to find Roger?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Or are you going to take the murder rap for him while he enjoys piña coladas on a beach somewhere with his new girlfriend?”
“He’s in room 717,” she said without an instant’s hesitation.
Stottlemeyer glanced at Monk. “You want to come along for the arrest?”
Monk shook his head. “Seven-seventeen is a very odd number, and that can’t be good.”
Stottlemeyer glanced at the corpse. “It certainly wasn’t for him.”
12
Mr. Monk Sorts Out the Nuts
Solving a murder put Monk in a much better state of mind. He’d set the world right and, in doing so, seemed to center himself, too.
He was eager to talk with anyone who’d been involved with Conrad Stipe—as long as they were in the Belmont and not back at the convention.
So we headed downstairs to the bar, where Stottlemeyer had left Kingston Mills, the new executive producer, and Judson Beck, the actor playing Captain Stryker.
I think part of the reason Monk was so motivated to stick around and work on the case was to avoid going home and dealing with the fact that Ambrose might be an Earthie. Or an Earther. Or whatever the Beyond Earth fans were calling themselves these days (I missed the panel discussion on that topic at the convention so I didn’t know which term was politically correct in the “ Beyond Earth -verse”).
I was eager to get to the bar, too, but for an entirely different reason. I was starving.
We were in the stairwell, two flights from the lobby, when Monk stopped on the landing, something occurring to him.
“I forgot to trade cases with the captain,” Monk said.
“Yes, you
Monk pulled up the blanket so we could see how the top sheet was folded under the mattress of the bed the body was on.
“The top sheet on the corner of this bed is tucked using the Salvadoran fold,” he continued. “The top sheet on the other bed is folded around the mattress corners using the classic gift-wrap method. That proves that this bed was made after Emilia, the usual maid, cleaned the room yesterday. Paola brought the body down from upstairs in her linen cart. She remade the bed before placing the body in it to remove any possible forensic evidence the killer might have left when he slept in the bed last night.”
We all looked at Paola, who chewed on her lip some more. Things weren’t going well for her and she knew it. So did we.
“You’ve convinced me, but we aren’t going to be able to make a case on how she folds sheets,” Stottlemeyer said. “The DA would laugh me out of his office.”
“Use the wineglasses,” Monk said. “The lipstick on the rim is hers. It’s as good as a fingerprint. The DNA aside, her upper lip is chapped, which is why she chews on it. The lipstick impression is an exact match.”
Stottlemeyer nodded. “Read this woman her rights, Lieutenant, and arrest her.”
While Disher did that, I asked Monk the one question I still had.
“How did Paola know that Emilia would be sick today?”
“She poisoned her, of course,” Monk said.
“I told Roger it would never work,” Paola said, shaking her head. “But he said it was foolproof, that we’d be long gone before anyone realized what had happened.”
“You probably would have been, too, if it wasn’t for Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
I had to give the captain credit. He never tried to minimize Monk’s brilliance for his own benefit. He always made sure that Monk knew his work was appreciated and that he got full credit for it, even if it was at Stottlemeyer’s or the SFPD’s expense.
Stottlemeyer had his faults, but failing to acknowledge the accomplishments of others to relieve his own insecurities wasn’t one of them.
“So, Paola, are you going to tell us where to find Roger?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Or are you going to take the murder rap for him while he enjoys piña coladas on a beach somewhere with his new girlfriend?”
“He’s in room 717,” she said without an instant’s hesitation.
Stottlemeyer glanced at Monk. “You want to come along for the arrest?”
Monk shook his head. “Seven-seventeen is a very odd number, and that can’t be good.”
Stottlemeyer glanced at the corpse. “It certainly wasn’t for him.”
12
Mr. Monk Sorts Out the Nuts
Solving a murder put Monk in a much better state of mind. He’d set the world right and, in doing so, seemed to center himself, too.
He was eager to talk with anyone who’d been involved with Conrad Stipe—as long as they were in the Belmont and not back at the convention.
So we headed downstairs to the bar, where Stottlemeyer had left Kingston Mills, the new executive producer, and Judson Beck, the actor playing Captain Stryker.
I think part of the reason Monk was so motivated to stick around and work on the case was to avoid going home and dealing with the fact that Ambrose might be an Earthie. Or an Earther. Or whatever the Beyond Earth fans were calling themselves these days (I missed the panel discussion on that topic at the convention so I didn’t know which term was politically correct in the “ Beyond Earth -verse”).
I was eager to get to the bar, too, but for an entirely different reason. I was starving.
We were in the stairwell, two flights from the lobby, when Monk stopped on the landing, something occurring to him.
“I forgot to trade cases with the captain,” Monk said.
“Yes, you
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