Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

“I don’t want the captain’s case-closure statistics to fall.”

“If they don’t, Mr. Monk, they have no incentive to rehire you.”

“He’s a very good detective and people need to know that,” Monk said.

“You’re right, and it’s great that you want to help him, but if you continue investigating crimes for the police for no salary, what are you going to do for a living? How are you going to pay me?”

“It’s who you are; it’s what you do,” he said. “You would do it for free.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” I said.

“Yes, you would.”

“Assisting you is my job, and I enjoy it, but it is not who I am; it is not a burning need that I am compelled to satisfy.”

“You’re just saying that,” Monk said. “You’re burning.”

“I mean it, Mr. Monk,” I said. “If you can’t pay me, then I will have to get another job. And what about Dr. Bell? How will you pay him?”

“He’ll take me on pro bono.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because I’m fascinating,” he said. “You should take me on pro bono, too.”

“I won’t and neither will Dr. Bell. So if I were you, I would stop detecting for free and find someone else who will pay you for it.”

“Like who?”

“Like other police departments,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll go back to that conference and do some schmoozing.”

“What’s that?”

“Chatting people up, getting to know them,” I said. “But more important, it’s getting them to know you.”

Now he looked worried. “Do they have to?”

“To know you is to love you,” I said.

“Bring plenty of wipes,” he said.

CHAPTER NINE

Mr. Monk Gets an Offer

The murder of Judge Stanton was front-page news in the San Francisco Chronicle the next morning. The article described some of the more notorious criminal cases he judged and that he’d been about to preside over the trial of reputed mobster Salvatore Lucarelli, the West Coast Godfather.

There were other newsworthy crimes in the city, including a hit-and-run death in the marina the previous night and a robbery in Union Square that left a storekeeper dead.

Stottlemeyer would certainly have his hands full. But if he’d kept Monk on, most of those cases would probably have been solved before lunch.

If I sound a little bitter, that’s because I was. Not only did I think he’d treated Monk unfairly, but he’d betrayed me as well. He’d sat across from me at Starbucks and claimed he didn’t resent Monk at all. He was either lying to himself, or to me, or both.

I had no doubt that Stottlemeyer would come crawling back to Monk eventually; it was just a question of what would break first, the captain or my checking account.

But there was another option. Monk could get a better-paying job with another police department, perhaps as close by as Oakland, Berkeley, or San Mateo.

I knew I’d have to do most of the networking at the conference, so I dressed up a little more than usual and, I’m a bit ashamed to admit this, I chose clothes that accented my curves (such as they were) and showed a bit more skin.

I would be dealing primarily with men, after all, and I needed whatever edge I could get. I couldn’t really count on much support from Monk. Luckily for us both, Braddock had done most of the work for me already by touting Monk’s amazing case-closure stats during their panel discussion.

I headed over to Monk’s place and heard him talking on the phone in the kitchen as I walked in.

“I am a completely anonymous person who knows that the witness to the hit-and-run killing last night is lying,” Monk said. “He told the police that the driver nearly ran over him, too, but he jumped out of the way. The witness gave them a detailed description of the driver and a partial plate, which he said he saw because the driver was bearing right down on him.”

I walked in and saw the Chronicle on the counter in front of Monk. It was open to the article about the hit-and- run. I leaned against the wall, folded my arms under my chest, and glowered at Monk, who turned his back to me.

“But he couldn’t have seen any of it. If what he said was true, then the driver’s headlights would have been shining right in his face, blinding him. I believe that the witness himself was the hit-and-run driver and that he’s trying to mislead the police with false information.”

Monk turned back to me, only so he could refer to the newspaper again.

“I also have some anonymous information about the robbery of the electronics store in Union Square -”

That was more than I could take. I unplugged the phone.

“If you’re not going to make an effort on your own behalf, then why should I bother?” I said. “Forget going to the police conference today. You can call back the tip hotline and I’ll use the time to get a head start looking for my new job.”

I plugged the phone back in and reached for the classified section of the newspaper, which I took back with me to the dining room table in a huff. I opened it to the Want Ads.

“It’s unfair and un-American for you to penalize me for being a good citizen,” he said. “It’s my duty to society to tell the police what I know.”

“Hey, this sounds good. There’s an opening for a personal shopper at Macy’s,” I said, circling a listing. “I’ve got lots of experience shopping and I enjoy it. Would you write me a letter of recommendation?”

“No,” he said.

“Don’t you think that’s being petty?”

“You’re overqualified for that job,” he said.

“Why? I do a lot of your shopping for you.”

“And no shopper will ever be as rigorous in his standards as I am,” Monk said. “You’d be wasting your talents. It would be like a brain surgeon working as a nurse.”

I thought that was a pretty audacious comparison for him to make. Being Monk’s assistant wasn’t brain surgery, though at times it felt as if someone were drilling a hole through my skull without anesthesia.

I didn’t tell him that, of course. I still might need that letter of recommendation.

Monk picked up the phone and started to dial.

“Oh look, a taxi company is looking for drivers,” I said. “I could do that. I can drive, I have a bubbly personality, and I know my way around the city.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he said, hanging up the phone.

“Do you know how many times I’ve nearly been killed helping you catch murderers?” I said. “I’d probably be safer in a taxi.”

“You’re forgetting all the diseases you will be exposed to in a filthy taxi,” Monk said. “When you are with me, you are safe from infection.”

“And from making money,” I said.

The phone rang, startling Monk. He answered it. He listened. He winced. Then he nodded.

“I’m just being a good citizen,” he said, but apparently the caller had already hung up. Monk set the phone back in its cradle.

“That was Captain Stottlemeyer, wasn’t it?” I asked.