On our last wedding anniversary before Mitch was sent overseas, we dropped off Julie with my parents in Monterey and spent a wonderful night in a nineteenth floor room at the Belmont. We stayed in the old tower, the one that dates back to the 1920s, not the new one they built in the 1970s, which I guess isn’t so new unless you compare it to the old one.
Mitch and I never left our bed except to look out the window at our view, at the sliver of the Bay Bridge we could see between the clustered skyscrapers of the Financial District. We didn’t even sleep. We held each other close and listened to the music of the street: the clanking of cable car bells, the raplike rantings of a sidewalk preacher, the wail of distant police sirens, someone playing a harmonica, the honking of cars trying to inch up Powell Street, the drums and clatter of Hare Krishnas marching down Geary.
It’s a memory I cherish. And for that reason, I was very uncomfortable about going to the Belmont with Monk to see Dylan Swift.
I can understand how my apprehension might not make a lot of sense to you. But the Belmont is a place that has a lot of emotional resonance for me because of the time I spent there with Mitch. If Swift and I were both at the Belmont, and Swift really could talk to the dead, I was sure to hear from Mitch again. In the same way the Grand Kiahuna Poipu, by virtue of its placement as the jumping-off point for souls, might give Swift a foot in the door to the great beyond, I figured the Belmont would be crackling with psychic energy as far as Mitch and I were concerned.
I’d finally reached a sort of peace with my grief back in Hawaii. But it was a fragile peace. Another message from Mitch, real or not, could shatter it. So I was very uneasy as we approached the ballroom where Swift’s show was shot.
Monk was as excited as a kid on his way to Disneyland, though you’d have to know him well to recognize it. To the casual observer, Monk appeared as tightly wound as ever. But I saw the intensity in his eyes, the slight curl of a smile at the edges of his mouth, and the way he kept rolling his shoulders.
There was an enormous line of people waiting to get inside, hundreds at least, jamming the hallway in carefully roped-off lanes that snaked the line back on itself several times in the corridor. Even so, the line stretched down the corridor and out of sight around the corner.
“We’ll never get in,” I said.
“Stay here,” Monk said.
He went to the head of the line and said something to the beefy security guard there. The guard mumbled into his radio, listened to the reply, then motioned Monk into the ballroom. Monk waved me up.
“What did you say?” I asked as we were moved to the front of the line and admitted into the ballroom, which was already rapidly filling up with people.
“I told him I was Adrian Monk and that Mr. Swift would be very upset if he knew we stopped by and were turned away. The security guard checked. Apparently I was right.”
There were several minibleachers, with only three rows each, arranged in a half circle facing a stage. The ballroom was lit by the harsh glare of enormous movie lights mounted on scaffolding that stretched over the stage and bleachers. Cameras that pivoted on the ends of telescoping crane arms were positioned in each corner of the room. Several flat-screen monitors hung from the scaffolding so we could see ourselves on TV.
“Mr. Monk, the only reason Swift would let you in is if he intends to take advantage of you.”
“I know,” Monk said, scanning the audience for two empty seats.
“He’s in his element here and in complete control of what happens. He’ll reveal your most intimate secrets and fears on national television.”
“I’m counting on it,” Monk said.
“Or he will reveal mine,” I said, revealing my true fear.
“I won’t let him do that, Natalie.”
“You don’t have any control over what happens here, Mr. Monk. This is his show.”
He smiled enigmatically. “Not today.”
27
Mr. Monk Talks to the Dead
We found two unoccupied front-row seats next to two familiar faces—Captain Stottlemeyer and Lieutenant Disher were sitting in the audience waiting for us. Stottlemeyer looked grumpy and uncomfortable, but Disher was wide-eyed and exuberant.
“What are you doing here?” I said as we took our seats beside them.
“Ask Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “He insisted we show up for this freak show.”
“It’s gonna be great,” Disher said. “This guy Swift can talk to the dead.”
“No, he can’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “Because dead people don’t talk. You want to know why they don’t talk? Because they’re dead.”
“I’m looking forward to introducing you to my uncle Morty,” Disher said.
“He came down here today, too?”
“He died ten years ago,” Disher said. “But if Dylan Swift makes a connection to the beyond, I guarantee you my uncle Morty will grab the phone.”
Stottlemeyer groaned. “You’d better have a damn good reason for dragging us down here, Monk.”
“Did you get my letter?” Monk asked.
Stottlemeyer patted his breast pocket. “It’s right here in my pocket. Unopened and unread, just like you told me. If I give it to you now, can I leave?”
But as Stottlemeyer spoke the doors closed and an assistant director, a young woman wearing a headset microphone, stepped onto the stage.
“I’m Abigail Donovan, the first assistant director, and I want to thank you all for coming today to be a part of the Dylan Swift show.”
The audience applauded. Why, I don’t know, but we joined in because
