“Thanks,” I said. “You were a big help.”
“I was distracting him until you could make your move.”
“My move? What about your move?”
“That was my move.” Monk put his wallet back in his pocket. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“I’d like to know, too.” The mugger groaned.
“Watching my daughter in her tae kwon do class.” I glanced at Monk and jerked my head toward my purse. “You can use my cell phone to call the police.”
“Not yet.” Monk came over and crouched beside me. “Excuse me, Mr. Mugger. Do you work this street a lot? Is this your mugging turf?”
The mugger didn’t answer. I ground my knee into his testicles until he whimpered. I am woman; hear me roar.
“Answer the question,” I said.
The mugger nodded. “Yeah, it’s my patch.”
“Were you working on Friday night?” Monk asked.
“I don’t get a lot of vacation days in my profession,” the mugger said.
“Did one of your victims Friday night include a man named Lucas Breen?”
“Screw you.”
I increased the pressure on his privates. “You’ll have a hard time screwing anything ever again if you aren’t more forthcoming.”
I knew I sounded like a character in a bad cop movie, but I was still riding on adrenaline and pissed off about having a knife to my throat. The tougher I talked, the better I felt and the more the fear began to fade away.
“Yeah, I robbed Breen,” he croaked. His eyes were bulging so much I was afraid they might pop out and bounce away. I eased the pressure I was exerting on him.
“What time did you mug him?” Monk asked.
“I don’t have a watch.”
“You must have stolen hundreds of watches in your career. You never considered keeping one?”
“I don’t have lots of appointments.”
“Was Breen missing anything?”
“He was after I met him,” the mugger said.
“But not before,” Monk said.
“I took his wallet and his watch. I let him keep his wedding ring.”
“Why?” I said.
“Because people are real touchy and stupid about ’em. They’ll risk their lives for their wedding rings.” He looked at Monk. “I’ve never seen anyone do it for a Ralphs Club Card.”
“The savings really add up,” Monk said. “Did you notice anything unusual about Breen?”
“He was in a big hurry, couldn’t wait to give me his stuff,” the mugger said. “And he smelled like smoke, like he just ran out of a burning building or something.”
Monk called Stottlemeyer and, while he was filling him in, a black-and-white the captain sent showed up and two officers jumped out to take care of the mugger. I took the phone from Monk, called my neighbor Mrs. Throphamner, and begged her to take care of Julie for a couple hours while we followed up on what the mugger told us. Ever since I started working for Monk, Mrs. Throphamner has become used to my frantic calls for emergency babysitting.
We were just finishing up giving our report to the officers when Stottlemeyer showed up and motioned us into his car.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I think it’s time to have another chat with Lucas Breen,” Stottlemeyer said. He made some calls and found out that Breen was still at his office, just a few blocks away.
When we got to the building, Stottlemeyer used the guard’s phone to call up to Breen’s office. He spoke to the secretary and asked if Breen would come down to the lobby to meet with us. When the secretary said that Breen refused, Stottlemeyer smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “Tell him we can have the conversation about Lizzie Draper at his house in front of his wife.”
Stottlemeyer hung up, then motioned to the Boudin Bakery. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee while we’re waiting for Breen to come down?”
I took Stottlemeyer up on his offer and convinced him to sweeten the deal with a fresh sourdough baguette. Monk settled for a warm bottle of Sierra Springs water from my bag.
Five minutes later Lucas Breen emerged from the elevator alone and joined us at our table.
“What’s so important you had to drag me out of my office?” Breen said.
“You didn’t have to come down,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I guess you didn’t want the missus hearing about your affair with Lizzie Draper.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“She’s your mistress,” Stottlemeyer said.
Breen grinned with smug self-confidence and tugged at the cuffs of his monogrammed shirt. “Is that what she says?”
Stottlemeyer shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Breen said.
“We know you bought her a bouquet of flowers from the florist in this lobby,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Do you? I buy lots of flowers from Flo. I buy them for my wife, my secretary, my clients, and to beautify my office. How do you know her bouquet came from me? It could have come from anybody in this building. The woman could even have bought the bouquet here herself.”
“You bought it for her,” Monk said. “Probably the same time you left her your shirt. She was wearing it when we met her. The buttons are monogrammed with your initials.”
“My wife donated some old clothes to Goodwill,” Breen said. “She always hated that denim shirt. Perhaps this woman you talked to enjoys shopping for bargains at secondhand clothing stores.”
“How did you know it was denim?” Monk asked. “We didn’t tell you what kind of shirt she was wearing.”
“The buttons,” Breen said quickly. “Only my denim shirts and short-sleeved sportswear have my initials on the buttons instead of the cuffs.”
“How do you know we weren’t talking about one of your short-sleeved shirts?”
“I’m a happily married man and faithful to my wife, but even if I weren’t, adultery isn’t a crime.”
“But murder is,” Monk said. “You killed Esther Stoval.”
“That’s laughable,” Breen said. “I had no reason to want her dead.”
“Esther knew about your affair and was blackmailing you,” Monk said. “On Friday night you slipped away from the fund-raiser, smothered Esther, and set fire to her house.”
“You’re forgetting that I didn’t leave the Excelsior hotel until midnight,” Breen said.
“Yes, you did, and we can prove it,” Stottlemeyer said. “You were mugged on the street a block away from the hotel. We have the mugger, and we know you reported your stolen credit cards to your bank. But here’s the odd thing: You didn’t report the mugging to the police. Gee, I wonder why.”
Breen sighed wearily. “I briefly stepped out of the hotel for a smoke, and that’s when I was mugged. It hardly qualifies as ‘leaving.’ ”
“Then why didn’t you tell anybody about it?” Stottlemeyer said.
“Because I promised my wife I’d quit smoking. If she knew I was still smoking cigars, she’d have my head.”
“That’s why you didn’t report the mugging? Because you were afraid your wife would find out that you were still smoking?” Stottlemeyer said, incredulity dripping from every word.
Breen absently tugged again at the cuffs of his handmade shirt. I don’t know if it was a nervous habit, or if he just wanted us all to admire his cuff links.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Captain. I didn’t tell the police because I knew the press would pick up on it and the mugging would be all over the news. The last thing I want to do is create the impression that the neighborhood is a hotbed of crime. I have an ownership interest in the Excelsior. We’d lose room bookings, weddings, and convention business. But it’s more than that. I love San Francisco. I don’t want to do anything that might hurt the city’s image or cause a decline in tourism.”
“That’s a good story, and we’re all moved by your civic pride,” Monk said. “But here’s what really happened. You left something behind in Esther’s house. So you stole a firefighter’s coat and helmet in order to go back into the house and get it. But you didn’t know the firehouse had a dog, and when he came at you barking and growling, you killed him with a pickax.”