“Blackmail,” he said.
“That’s illegal,” Monk said.
“Not this kind,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s called political blackmail. I told the chief if he didn’t restore my budget to what it was before, I’d go to every TV station and reporter in town and tell them how I was falsely arrested for a murder by an incompetent police department and freed by the efforts of a consultant they fired. I would also remind the reporters that one of the mayor’s biggest campaign contributors was Linda Wurzel.”
“Ouch,” I said. “Speaking of lovable Linda, how’s the case going against her and Slade?”
“They’re each trying to cut a deal with the DA to testify against the other in return for taking the death penalty off the table. I think Slade’s got the edge. Turns out he was wearing a wire when he met with Wurzel ten years ago and he kept the tape of their conversation as insurance.”
“Slade wouldn’t have taped the meeting if he’d gone into it intending to take the job,” Monk said. “He was going to arrest her but something must have changed when he heard her proposal.”
“It’s called greed, Monk. He saw a way to bankroll his dreams.”
“Why did she want her husband killed?”
“Remember all those women who came forward demanding a piece of Steve Wurzel’s estate because they claimed that he’d knocked them up?” Stottlemeyer said. “Well, he did.”
“I could see why that would make her furious,” I said. “But why did she go shopping for a hit man at Peschel’s tavern of all places?”
“She didn’t know where else to go. She picked the slea ziest, most dangerous bar in the seediest neighborhood she could find and figured there was bound to be someone inside who was desperate and immoral enough to take the job.”
“It’s hard to believe that a police officer would ever fit that description,” Monk said.
“It’s an ugly world out there,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I know,” Monk said, and handed the captain a Diaper Genie. “We can change that.”
“With this?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“Every revolution has to start somewhere,” Monk said.
Lee Goldberg
