We sat at a table where Monk would be sure to see us when he finally got to the lobby, which ended up being about a half hour after we’d left him on the thirtieth floor.
Monk staggered out of the stairwell looking as if he’d just trekked on foot across the Mojave Desert. He undid the top two buttons at his collar and, without even acknowledging us, shuffled into Flo’s Floral Designs.
“You think he saw us?” Stottlemeyer said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Neither one of us got up to check. We weren’t finished with our soup and we both knew Monk had to pass us if he wanted to leave the building. But the incident was a conversation killer. We were both silent, watching the florist shop, waiting to see what would happen next.
After a few minutes he came out holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers and collapsed into a seat at our table.
“Water,” he croaked.
I took a Sierra Springs bottle out of my bag and passed it to him. He guzzled it down and sagged into his seat.
“How was your walk?” I asked.
“Invigorating,” Monk replied.
“Who are the flowers for?” Stottlemeyer said.
“You.”
Monk handed them to the captain, who took them, a befuddled look on his face. I doubt he appreciated the beautiful mix of lilies, roses, orchids, and hydrangeas. It was a stunning bouquet.
“Is this some kind of apology?”
“It’s evidence that Lucas Breen is guilty of murder.”
Stottlemeyer looked at the flowers, then back at Monk. “I don’t get it. What do the flowers have to do with anything?”
That’s when I recognized them. I’d seen them before and I remembered where.
“I talked to Flo.” Monk gestured to the florist shop. “This bouquet is one of her original designs. She’s very proud of it.”
“Good for Flo,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Lucas Breen bought one just like it from Flo on Thursday,” Monk said.
“So?”
“They were for his mistress, Lizzie Draper,” Monk said. “I saw the same bouquet in her house yesterday.”
I don’t know how Monk noticed the bouquet, since his gaze was locked on Lizzie Draper’s cleavage the whole time we were there. Monk must have astonishing peripheral vision. It was the same extraordinary bouquet Lizzie was using as a model for the painting she was working on.
“Even if that’s true,” Stottlemeyer said, “what does that have to do with Esther Stoval’s murder?”
“Esther Stoval spied on her neighbors. She used binoculars to look into her neighbors’ homes and took pictures,” Monk said. “She once turned a neighbor in to the cable company for watching ESPN with an illegal converter box.”
“I’m surprised she lived as long as she did,” Stottlemeyer said. “You don’t come between a man and his sports.”
“I think Esther had incriminating photos of Lucas Breen and Lizzie Draper and threatened to show them to his wife if he didn’t halt the condominium project. A divorce could have cost him tens of millions of dollars. That’s why Breen killed Esther.”
Stottlemeyer shook his head. “That’s a mighty big leap, even for you, Monk.”
“That’s what happened,” Monk said.
I was sure he was right. Stottlemeyer was sure, too. Because if there is one thing Monk is always right about, it’s murder. And Monk knew that we knew. Which made the situation all the more frustrating for the captain.
Stottlemeyer held up the bouquet. “And
“We also have her buttons,” Monk said.
“Her buttons?”
“I couldn’t help noticing them,” he said.
That was probably the biggest understatement of the day.
“The letters ‘LB’ were written on them,” Monk said. “At the time I thought it was a brand name, but it wasn’t. It was a monogram. The shirt she was wearing was handmade for Lucas Breen.”
11
Mr. Monk and the Suspect Smell
We reconvened in Stottlemeyer’s office, where he put the bouquet in an empty Big Gulp cup and filled it with water. Vases aren’t easy to come by in the homicide department of the SFPD.
Disher came in and stared at Monk with dismay. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling all right?”
“I feel fine,” Monk said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Monk said. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that I’ve never seen you so, so . . .” Disher searched for the right word. “Unbuttoned.”
“Unbuttoned?” Monk said.
Disher motioned to his collar. “Your top two buttons are unbuttoned.”
“Oh, my God.” Monk immediately flushed with embarrassment and buttoned his collar up. “How long have I been naked? Why didn’t you say something?”
“It was two buttons, Mr. Monk,” I said.
“Word is probably spreading all over the department right now!” Monk said.
“I’m sure nobody noticed,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I strolled in here half-naked. They aren’t blind.” He buried his face in his hands. “I’m so ashamed.”
“You’re among friends, Monk.” Stottlemeyer came around his desk and squeezed Monk’s shoulder reassuringly. “Nobody is going to say anything. You have my word.”
Monk looked up, stricken. “Could you talk to them for me?”
“Sure,” Stottlemeyer said. “Who?”
“Everyone,” Monk said. “Every officer in the building.”
“Okay, I can do that,” Stottlemeyer said. “But could I wait until after we discuss how we’re going to prove that Lucas Breen killed Esther Stoval?”
“That’s not going to be easy,” Disher said. “There’s no physical evidence that puts him in that house when Esther was killed.”
“Or anybody else,” Stottlemeyer said.
“He did it,” Monk said. “If we work backward from there, we’ll find something.”
“He’s got a rock-solid alibi.” Disher went to Stottlemeyer’s computer and clicked a few keys. “I’ve pulled dozens of press photos off the net of Breen and his wife arriving at eight P.M. and departing at midnight. I talked to the photographers and got the approximate times the photos were taken from them.”
“Good work,” Stottlemeyer said.
Disher angled Stottlemeyer’s monitor so we could see the pictures on the screen. Sure enough, there were photos from various angles from different photographers of Breen and his wife in their raincoats, huddled under an umbrella and rushing into the lobby from the rain. There were also photos of the Breens leaving at midnight with the governor and his wife.
