Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant by Hy Conrad Page B

driver’s license. It’s the first time I’ve been carded in decades.”
    â€œMonk has pulled pranks on them in the past.”
    â€œReally? He doesn’t seem like a prankster.”
    â€œHe’s been hanging with a bad influence. Kids. What can you do?”
    â€œWell, Peter and Wendy seem to be darling people. They’re very imaginative, with a great color sense. And I think they’re very trustworthy, which is exactly what I need for this job. Don’t look surprised.”
    â€œI wasn’t surprised,” I lied. “I just thought they might be a little laid-back for your tastes.”
    â€œThey are,” she admitted. “But they remind me of myself back in the day. I was living in a free-love commune in the Haight during the Summer of Love, you know. I had my moments.” And she shook her hips, or what was left of them.
    I didn’t know how to respond. I would have guessed Daniela had spent the summer of ’67 hosting teas for the Junior League. “Well, I’m glad Peter and Wendy are doing well.”
    â€œThey’re a little disorganized. But I’m giving them firm deadlines and it seems to be working. Please thank Adrian again for his recommendation. Well . . .” She threw me a little wave. “Gotta go crack the whip. Have a good day, dear.”
    By the time Monk arrived for his shift, I had completed one more background check and was both anticipating and dreading this afternoon’s stakeout. I didn’t even think to ask about the poisoning case, not until Monk brought it up.
    â€œI put in a full six hours yesterday.” I wasn’t sure if this was a boast or a confession. “The lieutenant was ready to strangle me. But he couldn’t say I wasn’t working. I was working.”
    I watched as he centered his jacket on his private peg and arranged his umbrella in the office umbrella stand. “Did you really come up with nothing?” I asked. “I know we talked about stalling, but . . .”
    â€œI’m not stalling,” Monk said. Finally satisfied with his jacket, he closed the door. “The forensics team did a thorough job and so did I. My opinion? The thallium was never in the house, not unless the killer came back and cleaned up, which is doubtful. The judge had a state-of-the-art security system and he seemed to use it diligently. Even his own daughter didn’t know the code.”
    â€œSo you’re saying the victim ingested the poison on his walk to work?”
    â€œI don’t know what I’m saying.” And then he paused, his eyes unfocused. For a second, I thought he’d had one of his revelations. Until . . . “Holy Mother-of-pearl. What is that racket?”
    â€œWhat racket?” Other than a little muffled street noise, I heard nothing. But as soon as Monk headed for the left-hand wall, I knew. “Peter’s playing his guitar.”
    â€œWhy is he so loud? It’s like a rock-and-roll concert.”
    â€œHe’s not loud. We just have thin walls.”
    â€œI think I need to put up another poster about fresh baked hippies.”
    â€œYou are not putting up another poster,” I said firmly. “What you and Luther did was mean. You should be ashamed.”
    â€œMe? I’m not the one carrying on like Woodstock.”
    This was an argument I couldn’t win. If Adrian Monk can see details that no one else can, then he can hear them, too. No amount of protesting about gentle, barely audible guitar strums was going to convince him. “Adrian,” I pleaded. “We have a year and nine months on our lease. It would be nice if you could avoid alienating everyone on the block.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll try.”
    Two hours later, I was parked in a rare legal space in the Financial District, with a view of the main exit of Timothy O’Brien’s building and the only exit of his parking garage. I