“The killer murdered the diamond dealer and assumed his identity.”
“Why bother?” I asked. “Why not just run off with the diamonds and be done with it?”
“Because he wouldn’t be done with it,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’d still have to fence the stolen merchandise, which means taking a big risk and cutting someone else in on the score.”
“The killer’s plan was brilliantly simple,” Monk said. “He was going to sell the diamonds to the legitimate buyers and take the money that would have gone to the dealer.”
“What if the buyers had already met Bozadjian face-to-face? ” Disher said.
“They hadn’t, and the killer knew it, or he never would have done this,” Monk said with a trace of impatience in his voice.
Disher picked up on it and looked stung. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. Where’s the proof?”
“There’s so much evidence to choose from.”
“Like what?” Disher asked.
“Like those wineglasses,” Monk said. “The victim was a diabetic. He wouldn’t have had alcohol.”
“I know diabetics who drink,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Do you know any diabetics who can live without insulin?”
“He has insulin,” Stottlemeyer said.
“But he couldn’t have taken it,” Monk said, leading us to the bathroom and showing us the victim’s kit. “Here are the syringes, the insulin vials, and the needle clip. Ordinarily, he injects himself, then clips off the needle into this hazardous waste container, then throws out the syringe. He’s been here since yesterday, the room hasn’t been cleaned since he checked in, and yet there are no syringes in the trash. If he’d taken his insulin, there would be.”
“He could have taken his shot somewhere else,” Disher said.
“Doubtful,” Monk said. “But even if he had, it wouldn’t have done him any good. The insulin is supposed to be kept refrigerated or on ice. These vials aren’t. Why aren’t they in the minibar? And where is the ice pack that goes in his kit? I’ll tell you.”
“Of course you will,” Stottlemeyer said.
“It’s still in the minibar upstairs. The killer took the vials out of the minibar when he removed the victim’s things, but it didn’t occur to him to look in the freezer for the ice pack also. That was his crucial mistake.”
“The insulin thing suggests that he was moved,” Stottlemeyer said, “but it doesn’t prove it.”
“You’re right,” Monk said. “It doesn’t. The bed proves it.”
“The bed is from upstairs?” Disher said.
“Of course not. That would be ridiculous,” Stottlemeyer said, but he hesitated, then turned to Monk. “Wouldn’t it?”
“The bed wasn’t moved,” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer looked relieved. I think that for a moment there he was afraid Monk was going to contradict him and show that the bed had, indeed, been moved in some fiendishly clever way.
“Paola said she walked in to clean this room and found the body,” Monk said. “So how could she have made the victim’s bed?”
Monk pulled up the blanket so we could see how the top sheet was folded under the mattress of the bed the body was on.
“The top sheet on the corner of this bed is tucked using the Salvadoran fold,” he continued. “The top sheet on the other bed is folded around the mattress corners using the classic gift-wrap method. That proves that this bed was made after Emilia, the usual maid, cleaned the room yesterday. Paola brought the body down from upstairs in her linen cart. She remade the bed before placing the body in it to remove any possible forensic evidence the killer might have left when he slept in the bed last night.”
We all looked at Paola, who chewed on her lip some more. Things weren’t going well for her and she knew it. So did we.
“You’ve convinced me, but we aren’t going to be able to make a case on how she folds sheets,” Stottlemeyer said. “The DA would laugh me out of his office.”
“Use the wineglasses,” Monk said. “The lipstick on the rim is hers. It’s as good as a fingerprint. The DNA aside, her upper lip is chapped, which is why she chews on it. The lipstick impression is an exact match.”
Stottlemeyer nodded. “Read this woman her rights, Lieutenant, and arrest her.”
While Disher did that, I asked Monk the one question I still had.
“How did Paola know that Emilia would be sick today?”
“She poisoned her, of course,” Monk said.
“I told Roger it would never work,” Paola said, shaking her head. “But he said it was foolproof, that we’d be long gone before anyone realized what had happened.”
“You probably would have been, too, if it wasn’t for Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
I had to give the captain credit. He never tried to minimize Monk’s brilliance for his own benefit. He always made sure that Monk knew his work was appreciated and that he got full credit for it, even if it was at Stottlemeyer’s or the SFPD’s expense.
Stottlemeyer had his faults, but failing to acknowledge the accomplishments of others to relieve his own insecurities wasn’t one of them.
“So, Paola, are you going to tell us where to find Roger?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Or are you going to take the murder rap for him while he enjoys piña coladas on a beach somewhere with his new girlfriend?”
“He’s in room 717,” she said without an instant’s hesitation.
Stottlemeyer glanced at Monk. “You want to come along for the arrest?”
Monk shook his head. “Seven-seventeen is a very odd number, and that can’t be good.”
Stottlemeyer glanced at the corpse. “It certainly wasn’t for him.”
12
Mr. Monk Sorts Out the Nuts
Solving a murder put Monk in a much better state of mind. He’d set the world right and, in doing so, seemed to center himself, too.
He was eager to talk with anyone who’d been involved with Conrad Stipe—as
