“So has the bubonic plague but we don’t use it as a weight-loss treatment,” Monk said.
Wurzel laughed. “This is a far more hygienic pedicure than anything traditional salons do. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to save me from some hungry carp.”
Monk eyed the fish warily, as if waiting for them to show their true, vicious nature. I had a hard time tearing my eyes away from them myself.
“We’re investigating the murder of a police officer named Paul Braddock,” I said.
“What does that have to do with me?” Wurzel asked.
“We think his murder might have something to do with the killing of Bill Peschel.”
She shook her head. “I still don’t see how I can help. I don’t know either one of them.”
“You bought Peschel’s tavern in the Tenderloin ten years ago,” I said. “There’s a Jamba Juice there now.”
“Oh, yes, I remember the building,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me; I own so many properties.”
“Why did you buy that one?” Monk asked without taking his eyes off of the fish.
“I buy properties throughout San Francisco in areas that I think will eventually become prime residential and shopping districts,” she said. “So far, I’ve been right more times than I’ve been wrong.”
“Did your husband ever visit Peschel’s tavern or have any kind of relationship with him?” I said.
“Of course not,” she said. “Why would you think so?”
“Because Peschel’s early investment in InTouchSpace made him very well-off.”
“That’s true of hundreds of other people,” she said.
“And you bought his building,” I said.
“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” she said.
Frankly, neither did I. But I had that ticklish feeling in my chest again and I didn’t know why.
A Chinese woman approached holding a bowl of white cream. She looked like a slightly older version of the Chinese androids we saw when we came in. She must have been the original model.
“Hello, I am JoAnne,” she said. “Welcome to my salon.”
I was right.
“May I?” JoAnne asked Wurzel.
“Please do,” Wurzel replied. JoAnne started to apply the cream to her face. “Have you ever had a geisha facial, Miss Teeger?”
“It’s a little out of my price range.”
“It’s heaven,” she said.
“You’ll be there soon if you keep letting creatures feed on you,” Monk said.
“There’s nothing dangerous about it,” JoAnne said. “It’s certified by the health department. It’s totally natural.”
“So is letting vultures and maggots pick at your flesh,” Monk said. “Is that your next beauty treatment?”
I gestured to the white cream. “Why is this called a geisha facial?”
“Because Kabuki actors and geishas would use the cream to remove their makeup and replenish their skin,” JoAnne said. “The Chinese have also used it for centuries. I’m using my great-great-great-grandmother’s mixture.”
“What’s in this that isn’t in my jar of Noxzema?”
“Milled nightingale guanine mixed with rice bran,” JoAnne said.
Monk looked up. “You must be mistaken. Guanine is-”
“Bird poop,” she interrupted. “This is made from nightingale droppings.”
Monk froze and his face went almost as white as Mrs. Wurzel’s.
“You’re putting avian excrement on this woman?” He looked at Wurzel. “And you’re letting her?”
“It feels wonderful,” Wurzel said.
“The guanine has been sterilized with ultraviolet light to kill the bacteria,” JoAnne said. “It cleans and revitalizes your skin better than anything else.”
“You’re cleaning people’s skin with excrement instead of soap,” Monk said.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” JoAnne said. “But yes, I suppose you’re right.”
Monk turned his head and looked at all the other women in the salon with the cream on their faces. He swallowed hard.
“Excuse me, I need to leave,” he said slowly, measuring his words. “Natalie, could I borrow your cell phone, please?”
I handed him my phone and he immediately started dialing as he walked away. He was probably making an emergency call to Dr. Bell. All in all, I thought he was showing admirable restraint. I was prepared for him to tackle JoAnne and wrestle the cream from her grasp.
JoAnne and Mrs. Wurzel watched him go. They didn’t realize they’d gotten off lucky.
“What’s his problem?” Wurzel asked.
“He can’t accept that putting bird poop on your face is good for you. It offends his sensibilities,” I said. “I have to admit I’m skeptical, too.”
“I’m glad I didn’t tell him about our kitty litter exfoliation treatment or our Egyptian cleanse,” JoAnne said.
I could guess what the kitty litter exfoliation was but not the Egyptian option.
“What’s an Egyptian cleanse? Camel pee?”
JoAnne laughed and so did Mrs. Wurzel. It was nice to know that I hadn’t offended them.
“Cow bile, ostrich eggs, and resin,” Joanne said.
“I think I’ll stick with Noxzema,” I said, and turned to Mrs. Wurzel. “If anything occurs to you about Bill Peschel or Paul Braddock, please give us a call at Intertect.”
I didn’t have a card to give her but I figured Intertect was in the book.
“I will,” she said.
I walked outside and found Monk standing across the street. I assumed that he wanted to put some distance between himself, the poop facials, and the flesh-eating carp.
Monk said good-bye to whomever he was talking to and handed me the phone.
“That’s a chamber of horrors.”
“I wouldn’t pay two hundred bucks to have bird crap smeared on my face,” I said. “But maybe it works. Women wouldn’t be coming from all over to have it done if it didn’t.”
“JoAnne must be using some form of mind control on them,” Monk said.
“It’s not mind control. It’s insecurity and futility. They just want to look young and pretty as long as they can and keep the pimples and wrinkles away forever. I’m the same way. I think it’s hardwired into us.”
“Those women are in mortal danger,” Monk said. “It took all of my willpower not to do something about it on the spot.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because it’s a dangerous, volatile situation. JoAnne and her evil minions are practically holding loaded guns to the heads of those women. I didn’t want to cause a panic. So I played it cool.”
“I’m glad that you did, Mr. Monk. I think that taking a relaxed, low-key approach was exactly the right thing to do.”
“I’m leaving it to the professionals,” he said.
“What professionals?”
That’s when I heard the sirens. Within moments, fire trucks pulled up in front of us and firefighters in hazardous materials suits charged into the salon.
“You called a haz-mat team?” It was a rhetorical question, of course, since the team was right there.
“And plenty of backup,” he said.
“Backup?” I asked. “What kind of backup?”
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than two black, windowless vans screeched to a stop behind the fire trucks, the back doors flew open, and dozens of men in full paramilitary gear and carrying automatic weapons spilled out and stormed into the building.
“Who are they?”
“Homeland Security,” Monk said.
Linda Wurzel and the other customers were hustled outside at gunpoint in their bathrobes and white face masks. That would have been embarrassing enough, but then the satellite broadcast vans from the local TV
