“What does that have to do with anything?”
“The deputy chief thinks it was so Monk wouldn’t be around to investigate Braddock’s murder.”
“If I intended to murder Braddock, don’t you think I would come up with a better plan than this?”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Disher said, his voice cracking, his hands shaking. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Paul Braddock.”
“You’re making a mistake, Randy.”
“I certainly hope so,” Disher said, and gave Stottlemeyer his handcuffs. “Could you put these on, please?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I’m going to throw up.” Disher hurried to the garbage can beside the desk and gagged into it. Between heaves, he tried to read the captain his rights.
“It’s okay,” Stottlemeyer said, cuffing his own hands behind his back. “I know them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monk worked on his remaining Intertect cases at his dining table while I tried to hone my detecting instincts by reading the Murder, She Wrote novel he bought in Mill Valley.
I can’t say that I learned much about investigative procedure but I discovered that you should stay far away from Cabot Cove. That tiny New England village is deadlier than Beirut, South Central Los Angeles, and the darkest back alley in Juarez combined. Cabot Cove probably has the highest per capita murder rate of anyplace on earth. Even though every killer eventually gets caught by Jessica Fletcher, I still wouldn’t feel safe there. I’m surprised the old biddy walks around town unarmed.
Jessica was about to prove that her second cousin twice removed was innocent of murder when Monk’s phone rang. I answered it.
“I need to see Monk right away,” Captain Stottlemeyer said. “Meet me in the interview room at the Seventh Street lockup.”
He hung up before I could ask him for more details. I assumed he’d made a breakthrough on the Peschel case and so did Monk.
On the way there, Monk and I tried to guess what was in store for us. We decided that the captain had either arrested someone for the crime or had found someone behind bars who had vital information on the killing. What other reason could there be for meeting at the jail? Monk suggested that it might even be a grateful Salvatore Lucarelli, offering to trade information in return for a reduced sentence.
So we went into the jail with a certain level of excitement, believing that we were in for something good. We were led to the same interview room where we’d met with Lucarelli a few days before, so I was prepared to see him there again.
I guess that’s why when I saw the man in the yellow jumpsuit, in that first split second I thought it was Lucarelli. Or perhaps my mind didn’t want to believe what my eyes were telling me.
It was Captain Stottlemeyer sitting there this time. Only he wasn’t in chains.
Monk let out a little gasp. “Leland? What happened?”
I rarely heard Monk refer to the captain by his first name. But this wasn’t a normal situation.
“I’ve been arrested for murder,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Who did you kill?” Monk asked.
“Nobody,” Stottlemeyer said. “How could you think I’ve murdered anyone?”
“Because you’re in jail for murder,” Monk said.
“That doesn’t mean I’m guilty.”
“The police don’t arrest innocent people,” Monk said. “They are very good at what they do.”
“Ordinarily, I would appreciate that vote of confidence, but since I’m sitting here for a crime I didn’t commit, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t agree with you.”
“Who was murdered?” I asked.
“Paul Braddock,” Stottlemeyer said.
“How?” Monk asked.
“He was strangled in his hotel room,” Stottlemeyer said.
“When?” Monk asked.
“The night of the wake.”
“When you beat him up,” Monk said.
“Yes,” Stottlemeyer said.
“After he humiliated you in front of hundreds of homicide detectives,” I said.
“Yes,” Stottlemeyer said.
“So all the police have against you is one of the strongest motives for murder that I’ve ever heard in all my years of investigating homicides,” Monk said. “It’s not so bad.”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. He didn’t know how to be. I think he was trying-in his own sweet, unconvincing way-to be reassuring. He failed miserably.
Stottlemeyer cleared his throat. “And I was in the hotel at the time of the murder.”
Monk nodded. “Is that all?”
“And he was strangled with a tie identical to the one I was wearing.”
Monk nodded again. “That’s it?”
“And they found my fingerprints on a broken glass in Braddock’s room.”
Monk nodded some more. “Anything else?”
“They found my tie, stained with Braddock’s blood, in my garbage can.”
Monk hadn’t stopped nodding. “Any more?”
“And I fired you shortly before Braddock’s murder, which meant that the one detective in San Francisco with an unbroken record for solving homicides wasn’t around to investigate this case.”
Monk kept right on nodding. He was nodding so much I was afraid he’d give himself a concussion, so I grabbed his head to stop him. He kept trying to nod anyway. I held his head tight.
“You can stop nodding, Mr. Monk, the captain is finished listing all the evidence against him,” I said, glancing at Stottlemeyer. “Aren’t you?”
Now Stottlemeyer nodded.
Monk took a deep breath and let it out slowly, signaling to me that he was calm. He wasn’t fighting against my grip any longer. I let go of his head and he held it steady.
“So,” Monk said. “Why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “That’s why I called you. I’m being framed and you’re the only one who can prove it.”
“Isn’t Randy working his butt off to clear your name?” I asked.
“Who do you think put together the case against me?” Stottlemeyer said. “He thinks I’m guilty.”
“How could he?” I said.
“Only because the captain had an incredibly strong motive and all the evidence pointed to him,” Monk said. “Other than that, Lieutenant Disher has nothing.”
“That’s comforting,” Stottlemeyer said. “So, will you help me or not?”
“Of course I will,” Monk said.
“Me, too,” I said.
Stottlemeyer smiled. “Then I know this is all going to work out fine.”
“I hope he gets himself a good lawyer,” Monk said as we left the jail and headed for the Lexus, which was parked at a meter a short way up Seventh Street.
“Do you think he’s going to need one?”
“A good lawyer might be able to plea-bargain him down to a sentence that’s less than life in prison.” Monk tapped each meter that we passed. It was a habit of his that I had never understood.
“That won’t be necessary, because this case will never get that far,” I said. “You’ll prove him innocent long before a trial.”
“What makes you think I’m going to do that?”
“Because you just said you would,” I said.
“I said I would help him,” Monk said. “We’ll start interviewing criminal defense attorneys today.”
“What about investigating the murder and proving him innocent instead?”
“Are you kidding?” Monk said. “He did it.”
“How can you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he did it.”
“You know Captain Stottlemeyer better than that,” I said. “He couldn’t murder anyone.”
“Until now. Did you hear all the evidence against him?”
“I wouldn’t care if they’d caught Stottlemeyer in the act, cinching the tie around Braddock’s throat.”
“Did they?” Monk asked.
“No, they didn’t,” I said through gritted teeth, withstanding the urge to slap him silly.