vibrate in the police station. To me it’s like being in a theater or a church.
I saw who it was and took a deep breath before answering. “Daniela, hi. We’re actually with Captain Stottlemeyer of homicide right now, discussing your case.”
“Good. The captain might be able to help us out. I’m with your intern. She’s been arrested.”
To my credit, I did not say, what the hell do you mean, my intern? Although I almost did. Instead, I said in my calmest voice, “Ah, yes. Julie. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding. May I please speak with her?”
I stepped aside, leaving Monk and Devlin to fight over the symmetry of the corkboard. “Mom?” came a soft, hesitant voice. “I’m so sorry.”
“Julie, where are you?”
“I’m in Henry Pickler’s house, like we discussed.”
“We discussed no such thing, young lady. You stay right there. I’m coming.”
“The police want to take me to the station and book me. I’m kind of guilty.”
“Don’t say that.” Life was tough enough. My daughter was not about to add a criminal arrest to her résumé. “We’ll get you out of this.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr. Monk and His Dream House
D aniela had been right. Captain Stottlemeyer was able to help. As soon as I pulled him away from the corkboard and explained the situation, he made a call to the sheriff’s office in Millbrae, which is just south of South San Francisco—which is not a part of San Francisco at all but a totally separate town, despite its name.
It was surprisingly easy to get Monk away from the board. All I had to say was Julie was in trouble and he forgot all about symmetry. Monk is like an uncle to her. He and Julie had even worked on a case or two, with Julie filling in for me as his assistant. Devlin also asked if there was anything she could do. Everyone at the station loved Julie. Except for me. Right now, I wasn’t too fond of her.
Most of Millbrae is dominated by the San Francisco airport and the kind of developments that often get built around airports. But there’s a section farther south, not far from the tony environs of Hillsborough, where the lots are larger and you might be able to squint and fool yourself into thinking there’s some nature around that’s not part of a backyard or a state park.
The Pickler residence was in just such an area. It was a largesplit-level ranch, straight out of the seventies, complete with a sunken living room, shag carpeting, and harvest gold appliances. I know the place sounds overwhelmingly depressing, but it wasn’t. When you walked in, you found yourself entering a spotless, perfectly maintained tribute to that era. It was like a museum to a gentler, more innocent era of terrible taste. And you instantly knew two things. One, this had been Henry’s childhood home. It had to be. And two, a lot of money and attention had been spent to keep it looking this way.
Daniela Grace met us at the door. Julie Teeger waited nervously by the modular sofa under the bay window. I recognized the wallpaper color from my own childhood, a soft Moon Landing blue. The captain’s call had succeeded in getting rid of the police presence, so it was just Daniela, Monk, and the two Teegers.
“Mom, I am so sorry.”
“Don’t say anything. We’ll talk about this later,” I advised. It was my own version of the Miranda warning. Anything you say now can and will be used against you, sweetie.
“Hey, Adrian.” Julie and Monk hadn’t seen each other in a month or more. They greeted each other with their usual air hug. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain,” said Monk.
“You can’t? Really?”
“That’s a figure of speech. Don’t hold me to it.”
Daniela seemed a lot more forgiving than I would be, given the circumstances. “I remember when my son was an intern at my law firm years back,” she reminisced. “He once tried to help by rewriting an entire tort in street English without telling anyone. We had six lawyers show up at the
I saw who it was and took a deep breath before answering. “Daniela, hi. We’re actually with Captain Stottlemeyer of homicide right now, discussing your case.”
“Good. The captain might be able to help us out. I’m with your intern. She’s been arrested.”
To my credit, I did not say, what the hell do you mean, my intern? Although I almost did. Instead, I said in my calmest voice, “Ah, yes. Julie. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding. May I please speak with her?”
I stepped aside, leaving Monk and Devlin to fight over the symmetry of the corkboard. “Mom?” came a soft, hesitant voice. “I’m so sorry.”
“Julie, where are you?”
“I’m in Henry Pickler’s house, like we discussed.”
“We discussed no such thing, young lady. You stay right there. I’m coming.”
“The police want to take me to the station and book me. I’m kind of guilty.”
“Don’t say that.” Life was tough enough. My daughter was not about to add a criminal arrest to her résumé. “We’ll get you out of this.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr. Monk and His Dream House
D aniela had been right. Captain Stottlemeyer was able to help. As soon as I pulled him away from the corkboard and explained the situation, he made a call to the sheriff’s office in Millbrae, which is just south of South San Francisco—which is not a part of San Francisco at all but a totally separate town, despite its name.
It was surprisingly easy to get Monk away from the board. All I had to say was Julie was in trouble and he forgot all about symmetry. Monk is like an uncle to her. He and Julie had even worked on a case or two, with Julie filling in for me as his assistant. Devlin also asked if there was anything she could do. Everyone at the station loved Julie. Except for me. Right now, I wasn’t too fond of her.
Most of Millbrae is dominated by the San Francisco airport and the kind of developments that often get built around airports. But there’s a section farther south, not far from the tony environs of Hillsborough, where the lots are larger and you might be able to squint and fool yourself into thinking there’s some nature around that’s not part of a backyard or a state park.
The Pickler residence was in just such an area. It was a largesplit-level ranch, straight out of the seventies, complete with a sunken living room, shag carpeting, and harvest gold appliances. I know the place sounds overwhelmingly depressing, but it wasn’t. When you walked in, you found yourself entering a spotless, perfectly maintained tribute to that era. It was like a museum to a gentler, more innocent era of terrible taste. And you instantly knew two things. One, this had been Henry’s childhood home. It had to be. And two, a lot of money and attention had been spent to keep it looking this way.
Daniela Grace met us at the door. Julie Teeger waited nervously by the modular sofa under the bay window. I recognized the wallpaper color from my own childhood, a soft Moon Landing blue. The captain’s call had succeeded in getting rid of the police presence, so it was just Daniela, Monk, and the two Teegers.
“Mom, I am so sorry.”
“Don’t say anything. We’ll talk about this later,” I advised. It was my own version of the Miranda warning. Anything you say now can and will be used against you, sweetie.
“Hey, Adrian.” Julie and Monk hadn’t seen each other in a month or more. They greeted each other with their usual air hug. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain,” said Monk.
“You can’t? Really?”
“That’s a figure of speech. Don’t hold me to it.”
Daniela seemed a lot more forgiving than I would be, given the circumstances. “I remember when my son was an intern at my law firm years back,” she reminisced. “He once tried to help by rewriting an entire tort in street English without telling anyone. We had six lawyers show up at the
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