Color-coded paper clips. Dried gobs of chewing gum. Coffee candy wrappers. Beyond Earth uniforms. They weren’t the sexiest clues in the history of criminal detection, but they added up to something.
But what?
All we knew was that three men were dead.
Brandon Lorber was the CEO of a chain of burger restaurants and was shot three times after he’d already died of a heart attack. The shooter had a piece of coffee candy and, at some point, got into a taxi driven by Phil Bisson.
Conrad Stipe was the creator of Beyond Earth, which was being remade into a new TV series. He chewed gum and stuck some under the seat of the taxi that took him to a Beyond Earth convention, where an assassin dressed as Mr. Snork shot him to death. Sometime in the last two days Stipe also rode in Phil Bisson’s taxi.
Phil Bisson was a cabbie who drove both Conrad Stipe and his killer in his taxi. Were Stipe and the killer in the cab together? Was that why the cabbie was murdered, because he could testify that the two men had met and he could identify the killer?
I shared my thinking with Monk.
“It’s a good theory,” Monk said.
“So in other words,” I said, “it’s a bad theory.”
“If I thought it was a bad theory, that’s what I would have said. Unlike Captain Stottlemeyer, who is in the throes of caffeine withdrawal, I don’t say the opposite of what I mean. The only question I have about your theory is where does Brandon Lorber fit in?”
“Maybe he doesn’t,” I said. “Maybe you’re wrong about the wrapper.”
Monk shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Surely you’ve been wrong once or twice,” I said.
“Not on something as significant as how a candy wrapper is twisted,” Monk said.
That ridiculous comment gave me an opportunity to confront Monk with his own hypocrisy in a way he might actually understand.
“How is the way that a candy wrapper is twisted more significant than whether someone is wearing a first-season Confederation uniform with second-season Snork ears?”
“There’s a big difference,” he said.
“Which is?”
“A candy wrapper is real and Beyond Earth is fiction, ” Monk said.
“The uniforms are real,” I said. “The killer was wearing one. It was as real to him as the candy he put in his mouth. You can’t dismiss what’s significant to Ambrose just because it’s not important to you.”
“Or to any sane, well-adjusted human being,” he said.
“But you believe that people care how the ends of a coffee candy wrapper are twisted.”
“They do if they are sane, well-adjusted human beings and not druggie freaks.”
I would have pursued it further, perhaps to the death, but Monk got up and headed for the door.
“Let’s go talk to the forensic accountant,” he said. “And find out what the shooter wanted so badly for us to know.”
19
Mr. Monk and a Thousand Suspects
The Forensic Accounting Unit of the San Francisco Police Department was in the basement, but what it lacked in windows and views it more than compensated for with high-tech toys. The dark offices were bathed in a blue glow from the dozen ultra-thin flat-screen monitors that seemed to cover every surface except the ceiling and the floor.
Two men and one woman sat at their desks, working at their keyboards, the soft, springy clicking of the keys like a chorus of electronic cicadas. There was no clutter whatsoever on the desks—no coffee cups, no paperweights, no loose papers, and no family photos or personal items.
The temperature down there, emotionally and physically, was very chilly, but I could tell that Monk liked it. There was no cleaner space in the entire police department.
All three of the accountants were young, attractive, and dressed in stylish, perfectly fitted black clothes that made them almost entirely disappear into the shadows around them. They were like ninjas but with personal stylists and health club memberships.
The woman rose from behind her two flat-screen monitors and glided towards us. She was probably around my age and had short blond hair and very pale skin. I guess she didn’t see much sunlight. But what struck me most about her was the big gun in the holster on her belt.
It was comforting to know that she was armed in case a spreadsheet resisted arrest. She probably carried around those razor-sharp silver ninja stars in a pouch somewhere in case things really got tough.
She introduced herself to us as Lieutenant Sylvia Chase, the commander of the Forensic Accounting Unit. I guess she already knew Monk by reputation within the department, because she didn’t bother offering him her hand. Or maybe she was just as cold as the room.
“Welcome to the cutting edge of law enforcement,” she said with a nod.
“I had no idea this department even existed,” Monk said, glancing appreciatively around the room.
“We solve financial crimes the same way they are committed,” she said. “Quietly and in the shadows.”
I think the ninja accountant was taking that last part too literally. If her skin hadn’t been so pale, I wouldn’t have been able to see her at all.
“I like your office,” Monk said. “It’s very clean and inviting.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I believe in an orderly environment. ”
“Me too,” Monk said. “Can I work here?”
“I’m aware of your skills as a homicide investigator, ” she said, “but do you have any advanced accounting experience?”
“No,” Monk said. “But I like even numbers and I am very clean.”
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” she said.
I couldn’t see Monk’s face too clearly, but I was pretty sure he looked like he was about to cry.
“What makes this unit ‘the cutting edge’?” I asked.
“Murder is a Stone
