day.”
“You can finish it in a day?” I asked.
“That’s a figure of speech. I meant the Sarabeth case is more important.”
“Good to hear,” said the lieutenant. “And . . .” Her voice hesitated. “I know the department is cutting back. If they can’t cover all your expenses or you have to put in extra hours, I don’t want you skimping. I have some savings of my own.”
“You would pay?” Monk said. “Your own actual money?”
“This is important to me.”
It was an amazing offer to come out of Devlin’s mouth. In all the time I’d known her, she’d never once hinted that Monk’s skills might be essential. To her, he was a mental trickster who somehow jumped to the right conclusions a day before she would have gotten there herself. Now suddenly she was a believer. I guess my old Lutheran minister was right. There are no atheists in a foxhole.
“That’s a generous offer, Amy,” I said. “But we don’t want your money.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Monk. “I need to pay the rent on this dump.”
“I’m speaking for myself and you. We are not taking her money. She’s family. As close to family as a couple of misfits can have.”
“Thanks,” said Devlin before Monk could object again. “I’ll make sure you get paid. The thing with the fake name? I would have caught that, but not for a day or two. Meanwhile, he’s getting away.”
“We’re on it,” I said, and shook her hand to seal the deal. I shook an extra time on behalf of my partner.
“I so appreciate it,” said Devlin. “Now I have to get back to the station.”
“The big question here is why,” said Monk, almost to himself.
“To work on the case. Although I can stay if you need me. Just tell me what to do.”
“No. I mean why would this man create a fake identity, spend a year working as an accountant—not a very exciting or lucrative job—and then shoot up an office full of coworkers? He must have had a good reason.”
CHAPTER NINE
Mr. Monk and the Theory
I made one more call to Daniela Grace, after my staff of cleaners had stopped their racket and Lieutenant Devlin had gone back to her job of tracking down No One.
I assured our lawyer that we were focusing our laserlike brilliance on Henry Pickler but, to be honest, his case had plummeted to the bottom of our pile of two. It’s hard to get passionate about a client who would rather stay cooped up than give the police a plausible explanation. On the top of the pile we had an office shooting with three dead and the beginnings of a nationwide manhunt for a man who didn’t exist.
To add to this case’s appeal, I had a No One theory of my own that I was nurturing. I talked it over with Monk on our way to San Francisco General.
“I think this whole mass murder is just . . .”
“You’re wrong,” said Monk. He was clutching his seat belt, as usual and checking all the mirrors—passenger, driver’s rearview—in a seamless rotation.
“I haven’t said anything. How can I be wrong?”
“You said mass murder. You’re wrong. According to the FBI, a mass murder has four or more victims with nocooling-off period between the homicides. The bureau is very strict about these things. Mr. Noone might have intended for this to be a mass murder but luckily it’s just a triple homicide.”
“Just a triple homicide? How about massacre? Can I say massacre?”
“You can, but it’s not very accurate.”
“Fine. Triple homicide. Can I go on? I have a theory.”
Monk turned his head from the passenger rearview and stared at my profile. “First Walter White, the drug lord, now this? Is this what it’s going to be? You coming up with theories? I’m all in favor of a partnership. But I’m not sure that includes you having theories.”
“It does. It’s in our corporation bylaws. Section two, paragraph three. Want to read it?”
“Can I amend the bylaws before hearing your theory? Then I won’t have to hear your theory.”
“No. You’re
“You can finish it in a day?” I asked.
“That’s a figure of speech. I meant the Sarabeth case is more important.”
“Good to hear,” said the lieutenant. “And . . .” Her voice hesitated. “I know the department is cutting back. If they can’t cover all your expenses or you have to put in extra hours, I don’t want you skimping. I have some savings of my own.”
“You would pay?” Monk said. “Your own actual money?”
“This is important to me.”
It was an amazing offer to come out of Devlin’s mouth. In all the time I’d known her, she’d never once hinted that Monk’s skills might be essential. To her, he was a mental trickster who somehow jumped to the right conclusions a day before she would have gotten there herself. Now suddenly she was a believer. I guess my old Lutheran minister was right. There are no atheists in a foxhole.
“That’s a generous offer, Amy,” I said. “But we don’t want your money.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Monk. “I need to pay the rent on this dump.”
“I’m speaking for myself and you. We are not taking her money. She’s family. As close to family as a couple of misfits can have.”
“Thanks,” said Devlin before Monk could object again. “I’ll make sure you get paid. The thing with the fake name? I would have caught that, but not for a day or two. Meanwhile, he’s getting away.”
“We’re on it,” I said, and shook her hand to seal the deal. I shook an extra time on behalf of my partner.
“I so appreciate it,” said Devlin. “Now I have to get back to the station.”
“The big question here is why,” said Monk, almost to himself.
“To work on the case. Although I can stay if you need me. Just tell me what to do.”
“No. I mean why would this man create a fake identity, spend a year working as an accountant—not a very exciting or lucrative job—and then shoot up an office full of coworkers? He must have had a good reason.”
CHAPTER NINE
Mr. Monk and the Theory
I made one more call to Daniela Grace, after my staff of cleaners had stopped their racket and Lieutenant Devlin had gone back to her job of tracking down No One.
I assured our lawyer that we were focusing our laserlike brilliance on Henry Pickler but, to be honest, his case had plummeted to the bottom of our pile of two. It’s hard to get passionate about a client who would rather stay cooped up than give the police a plausible explanation. On the top of the pile we had an office shooting with three dead and the beginnings of a nationwide manhunt for a man who didn’t exist.
To add to this case’s appeal, I had a No One theory of my own that I was nurturing. I talked it over with Monk on our way to San Francisco General.
“I think this whole mass murder is just . . .”
“You’re wrong,” said Monk. He was clutching his seat belt, as usual and checking all the mirrors—passenger, driver’s rearview—in a seamless rotation.
“I haven’t said anything. How can I be wrong?”
“You said mass murder. You’re wrong. According to the FBI, a mass murder has four or more victims with nocooling-off period between the homicides. The bureau is very strict about these things. Mr. Noone might have intended for this to be a mass murder but luckily it’s just a triple homicide.”
“Just a triple homicide? How about massacre? Can I say massacre?”
“You can, but it’s not very accurate.”
“Fine. Triple homicide. Can I go on? I have a theory.”
Monk turned his head from the passenger rearview and stared at my profile. “First Walter White, the drug lord, now this? Is this what it’s going to be? You coming up with theories? I’m all in favor of a partnership. But I’m not sure that includes you having theories.”
“It does. It’s in our corporation bylaws. Section two, paragraph three. Want to read it?”
“Can I amend the bylaws before hearing your theory? Then I won’t have to hear your theory.”
“No. You’re
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