Disher suddenly felt the three egg-and-cheese McMuffins he had for breakfast climbing up his throat with a hot vengeance. He yelled for Lansdale to pull over, opened the passenger door to the car before they even came to a stop, and vomited in the street, right in front of a Japanese tour group standing on the curb.
He wiped his mouth with a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin he found in the map pocket of the door and smiled at the revolted tourists.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Mune on sawaru na. Shinu kakugo shiro.”
The Japanese tourists glowered at him and marched away in a huff.
Disher closed the door and turned to Lansdale. “What is their problem?”
“I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with you puking on their shoes.”
“I missed their shoes by a good two inches,” Disher said. “Besides, I showed them the courtesy of apologizing in English and Japanese.”
“No, you didn’t,” Lansdale said.
“Mune on sawaru na, shinu kakugo shiro means, ‘Please forgive me for the inconvenience, I’m truly sorry.’ ”
“It means, ‘Stop groping my breasts and prepare to die,’” Lansdale said.
“I think you’re mistaken,” Disher said.
“My wife is Japanese,” Lansdale said.
“Oh, so I guess you’ve heard that a lot,” Disher said, and slapped the dash. “Let’s go, Jackal, we’ve got some bad guys to catch.”
Lansdale drove them up another block to the hotel and parked right in front. Disher put on a pair of sunglasses for the Caruso effect before getting out and hurrying inside.
Sure enough, all eyes were on him as he headed across the lobby towards the elevators, so everybody saw him when he tripped over the suitcase and slid on his stomach across the slick, marble floor.
Lansdale helped Disher to his feet.
“Who put that suitcase down in front of me?” Disher said. “I want him arrested for assaulting an officer.”
“It was there when we came in. You headed straight for it, Bullitt. You might want to take off your sunglasses indoors, the lighting is pretty dim in here.”
“Then tell them to turn up the lights; we’re running a murder investigation here,” Disher said. “Clues hide in the dark. And it’s ‘Bullitt, sir,’ to you.”
“Yes, sir,” Lansdale said. “Bullitt, sir.”
Disher looked around, pretending to be scanning for clues, when he was really checking to see if anyone was laughing at him. If they were, they were hiding it well. That was when he spotted the surveillance cameras in the corners of the ceiling.
“I want the surveillance tapes on all floors, elevators, and stairwells for the last twenty-four hours and a complete list of guests who are staying in the hotel.”
“Will do,” Lansdale said.
They got into the elevator and rode it up to the seventh floor in silence. Disher pocketed his sunglasses. When the doors opened, they were greeted by a uniformed officer, who glanced at the badges clipped to their belts before letting them exit the elevator. The entire floor was being treated as a crime scene, which would have been Disher’s first move if it hadn’t been done already.
Disher approached the open door to Braddock’s hotel room and looked inside. The room was cramped with forensic techs who were taking pictures, bagging things, and brushing every surface for prints.
“Take five, boys, we need the room,” Disher said. “Everyone goes but the ME.”
He stepped aside as the techs filed out of the room, leaving behind only Dr. Daniel Hetzer, who crouched beside Braddock’s body, which was facedown on the floor beside the king-sized bed.
Dr. Hetzer maintained two days’ worth of stubble on his pale, fleshy cheeks to compensate for the lack of hair on his head. He used to be a two-pack-a-day smoker until he gave up cigarettes for alcohol instead. But he still smelled of cigarette smoke.
Disher looked around the room. The bed was made, but the comforter was wrinkled and pillows were bunched up against the headboard as a backrest. The TV remote was on the floor beside the bed. Braddock was watching TV when his killer arrived, which meant the killer wasn’t lying in wait for him, which meant the killer was invited in, which meant it was someone Braddock knew.
The dining table was tipped over. There was a broken bottle of scotch and the shards of two broken glasses on the floor. Disher was surprised the doctor wasn’t lapping up the puddle like a thirsty dog.
“Cause of death?” Disher asked.
“Strangulation,” Hetzer said. “But he took a beating sometime before that. His nose is broken and there’s a bruise on his chest.”
He turned the body over so Disher and Lansdale could see Braddock’s broken nose, which was Stottlemeyer’s handiwork, and the red ligature marks around his neck, which were somebody else’s.
“You might want to check between Braddock’s teeth for traces of the comforter,” Disher told Dr. Hetzer.
“You think that Braddock liked to chew his bedsheets?” Lansdale said.
“I think Braddock knocked his killer back into the table as he was being strangled. Then the killer pushed Braddock facedown into the bed, put all his weight on Braddock’s back, and added smothering to his murderous repertoire.”
Dr. Hetzer nodded. “Judging by the position of the body, I’d say you’re probably right.”
“I didn’t get this badge out of a box of Cap’n Crunch, Doc,” Disher said. “When was he killed?”
“I’m guessing midnight,” Hetzer said, “Give or take an hour or two.”
“Can’t you be more specific?”
“I wish I could, but the AC was turned on full blast. It was like a meat locker when we got here.”
“Someone was trying to make it difficult for us to pin down exactly when the murder occurred,” Disher said. “We’re dealing with a pro. What was Braddock strangled with?”
“I’d say a belt, a rolled-up towel, or the sash of a bathrobe.”
Disher turned to Lansdale. “Make sure the forensic boys bag anything in this room that could have been used to strangle somebody. And talk to the people in the adjoining rooms, upstairs and downstairs, too. Maybe they heard something. I also want those glass shards tested for prints ASAP. I want to know who he was drinking with.”
“What are you going to be doing?” Lansdale asked.
“The heavy thinking,” Disher said. “You bring me the pieces and I’ll put the puzzle together.”
Monk spent the day at his apartment working through the files that Nick Slade had sent over that morning. I tried to help as best I could, but since I’m not a detective genius, it basically meant being a sounding board as he sorted through the clues and then being a stenographer as he laid out the solutions to the mysteries.
Danielle came by late that afternoon with a file under her arm. When I saw the file, I involuntarily tensed up. But it wasn’t another case to add to the pile Monk was dealing with. It was her research into Bill Peschel, his daughter, Carol, and her husband, Phil.
Monk set aside his remaining cases for the moment to listen to what Danielle had dug up.
“Your instincts were right, Mr. Monk,” she said. “Carol and her husband are living a lie. They aren’t a prosperous, upper-middle-class family.”
“They’re communist sleeper agents who’ve infiltrated American society,” Monk said.
Danielle and I stared at him.
“You are aware that we are in the twenty-first century,” I said. “And that the Berlin Wall fell, the Soviet Union collapsed, and the Cold War is over?”
“Yes,” Monk said.
“That’s not it,” I said.
“How do you know?” he said.
“Because the Berlin Wall fell, the Soviet Union collapsed, and the Cold War is over.”
“Okay,” Monk said. “They’re wanted fugitives.”
Danielle and I stared at him.
“They’re brother and sister,” Monk said.