the dirt.”
Monk nodded. He was impressed, though I wasn’t sure whether it was with the progress of the investigation or the confidential information that Danielle was able to dig up.
“Do they have any suspects?” Monk asked.
“They are concentrating on violent offenders that Judge Stanton sent to prison and who have recently been released,” she said. “And the possibility that mobster Salvatore Lucarelli had him killed to avoid trial.”
Monk frowned. “Why would any of them ask a woman to do their killing?”
“Women kill just as well as men do,” I said.
“It could be the mother, girlfriend, or daughter of someone that he sent to prison,” Danielle said.
“It’s possible,” he conceded with a nod.
And my theory wasn’t?
Monk had never conceded that one of my alternative theories might be possible. But I wasn’t a twentysomething hottie who told him he was amazing.
“Did you take care of that other thing?” Monk asked Danielle.
She flipped a page in her notebook. “Of all the Nobel categories, I think the Peace Prize is the one you want.”
“You think that you deserve a Nobel Prize?” I asked him.
“Not me,” Monk said. “John Hall.”
“Who is he?”
“The inventor of the Diaper Genie,” Monk said.
“You honestly believe that creating the Diaper Genie deserves the Nobel Peace Prize?”
“I do,” Monk said. “Don’t you?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Monk, what you believe won’t be enough,” Danielle said. “The only people allowed to submit nominees are professors of social sciences, law, and philosophy; government leaders; directors of peace organizations; members of the Nobel committee; and past winners of the prize.”
“Who do we know who has won a Nobel Prize?” Monk asked us both.
“No one,” I said.
“How about professors?”
“There’s Professor Cowan,” I suggested flippantly.
“Good idea,” Monk said.
“You just proved him guilty of murder, Mr. Monk. I doubt that he’s in the mood to do you a favor.”
“But it’s for a good cause,” Monk said.
“Even if he agreed with you about that, I doubt that the Nobel Committee would accept a nomination from a murderer.”
“Then let’s create a peace organization,” Monk said. “How hard could that be?”
“I’ll look into it,” Danielle said, writing a note to herself. I bet it was something like, Monk is crazy.
“I believe in peace.” Monk made a peace sign with his fingers. “You can’t have peace without cleanliness. The Diaper Genie could unite the world.”
“Did you have any luck with the home-invasion murder case?” Danielle asked.
“It’s not a home invasion,” Monk said. “And it’s not a murder.”
She looked baffled. “Then what is it?”
“Suicide,” Monk said.
He motioned us over to the table and gestured to the photographs.
“Look at this. Lou Wickersham was stabbed in the heart while sitting in his easy chair. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“If he’d walked in on robbers and they attacked him, then his body would be on the floor, not in the chair. And if they came at him from the front, why doesn’t he have any defensive wounds?”
“There’s the cut on his hand,” I said.
“It’s on the back of his hand,” Monk said. “If he grabbed for the knife, the wound would most likely be across his palm. Besides, the cut is superficial.”
“You’re saying that Wickersham stabbed himself in the chest?” Danielle said.
“Yes,” Monk said. “He sat down in what is probably his favorite chair in his favorite room and plunged the knife into his heart.”
“Then why aren’t his fingerprints on the knife?” she asked.
“Because he held it with the handkerchief that’s on the floor,” Monk said. “The police assumed the killers used the handkerchief to grip the knife and that the spot of blood came from the chest wound. It didn’t. The blood came from the cut on his hand.”
“How did he get the cut?” I asked.
“When he broke the glass on the French doors to his study,” Monk said. “Here’s what happened. He ransacked the house to hide the fact that he’d sold his wife’s jewelry and everything else of value to pay off the loan sharks while she was away. But it wasn’t enough and he knew it. All he bought was some time. The best he could hope for was to secure his wife a comfortable life. So he staged a home invasion and made his suicide look like murder so that his wife would get his life insurance money.”
“He sacrificed himself for her,” I said.
Monk nodded. “And it was all for nothing. She won’t see a penny of the money.”
“Not necessarily,” Danielle said.
“The insurance company won’t pay her off for a suicide,” Monk said.
“The only way they’ll know it wasn’t suicide is if she decides to tell them,” Danielle said.
“We’ll tell them,” Monk said.
“We can’t. We were hired by the widow and are bound by our contract with her to maintain her privacy,” she said. “Nick will give her our report and what happens after that will be up to her.”
“If she doesn’t inform the police, and cashes the insurance company’s check, then we will be accessories to a crime,” Monk said.
“Not necessarily, and only if they discover the truth, if that’s what it is,” she said. “You’re the only one who thinks it wasn’t murder. With all due respect, what if you’re wrong?”
“Mr. Monk is never wrong about murder,” I said.
“That’s for our client to decide,” she said. “As Nick always says, we provide information and our clients decide what to do with it.”
“I can’t accept that,” Monk said.
“Then maybe Intertect isn’t the right place for you,” Danielle said.
I suddenly had a horrifying vision of my Lexus, my corporate credit card, my comprehensive health coverage, and my big, fat salary evaporating after just one day.
“Let’s not overreact,” I said sternly to Danielle, then turned to Monk. “Or do anything rash. I’m sure we can smooth this out with Mr. Slade in a way that everyone can live with.”
The phone rang. I answered it. It was Nick Slade, as if on cue. But before I could bring up our ethical dilemma, he spoke up.
“Another judge has been gunned down and we’ve been hired to investigate. The client specifically asked for Monk.”
“Who’s the client?” I asked.
“Salvatore Lucarelli,” he said.
“The mobster?”
“That’s yet to be proven in a court of law,” he said. “And the judge who was supposed to hear that case is the guy who was just killed.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought Judge Stanton, the judge who was killed in Golden Gate Park, was supposed to preside over that case.”
“He was,” Slade said. “Judge Carnegie was next in line, which makes Lucarelli the top suspect, which is why he wants Monk to prove that he’s innocent.”
“Mr. Monk will never work for Salvatore Lucarelli,” I said, glancing at my boss, whose ears seemed to perk up
