"Thanks for giving me a lift," Manny told Adrian and Natalie as they pulled up in front of his house. Due to the weaknesses in the case against him that Adrian had brought up, and since there was little evidence against him to begin with, he'd been freed and exonerated.
"Any time, Manny," Adrian told him. Inside, the detective was very, very nervous. Christmas Eve was now upon them, and they were now down to just ten hours to find the mastermind of the planned nuclear blast. The past two days had yielded practically nothing to them, although they'd finally located Bud Harms in a motel about thirty miles south of San Francisco on Route 101 the previous night. He would be arriving for questioning in about forty minutes, judging by the clock on Natalie's dashboard just before it went dark as she shut off the engine.
The detective was preparing for the potential holocaust. He'd packed up Trudy's picture and poems and locked them in a safe place. Many of the rest of his personal items that were inside his sector of the apartment were at the moment being catalogued by Ambrose and readied for transport. The children had been ferried over to a posh hotel in the downtown district where Natalie's family—who'd called about two nights ago to say they'd decided to come to town for Christmas—was to be staying. They were on call, ready to get as far away from the city as possible at a moment's notice from Stottlemeyer.
"Thanks for believing in Santa, too," Manny continued as they climbed out of the car, "I knew he'd never kill the chief."
"Well, obviously, Manny. What purpose would a man so devoted to giving to millions of others have in poisoning a police chief?" Adrian said, trying hard to suppress his own rarely used sarcasm.
"It must have been his evil twin Stanley Claus after all," Manny reasoned, "I believe L. Frank Baum said in The Life and Times of Santa Claus that…"
"I don't think Stan was the killer, Manny," Adrian told him, playing around with a piece of mistletoe hanging next to a large plastic cutout Santa on Manny's gate, "It's someone who lives in this area, trying to set Kris Kringle up."
"Mr. Nast," a kindly looking old woman came scurrying over toward them, "I held all your mail for you."
She handed him a thick wad of letters. "Thanks Mrs. Hunter," Manny told her. He eagerly looked through the wad. "Nope, nothing from Santa here. But tonight, I'll meet him in person."
"You're not seriously considering waiting on the roof all night for a sleigh and eight reindeer to appear?" Natalie inquired, her eyebrows raised.
"Doesn't everyone?" Manny countered, "Well, seeing how they're calling for fog, I'm guessing he's going to use Rudolph tonight. As soon as I see his nose in the sky, I'll send up some flares. Better check to make sure I have enough."
He dashed into his house. "Lucky you, having to live next to him this time of year," Natalie confided in Mrs. Hunter.
"Well, he's harmless, and it's only a month," Mrs. Hunter seemed nonplussed by her neighbor's habits, "Indeed, things have gotten a bit brighter since he moved in here after he got out of the asylum."
"Manny said the Howard Nuclear Plant got this house for him," Adrian said, producing his nail file and scraping away at Cupid's right antler on the large replica of the sleigh on Manny's front lawn. This had been gnawing away at his for some time now as being important somehow.
"Yes," Mrs. Hunter told him, "They even set it up for them before he moved in. They sent a team down that worked inside it all night long about a week before he arrived."
"Did they now?" Adrian stood up, "You didn't happen to see anything out of the ordinary going on in the house during that time?"
"No," the old woman said, "I feel it rude to snoop. But I could hear them sawing and drilling like there was no tomorrow. And then the night before Mr. Taylor was killed across the street, a loud thumping and dragging sound from his house awakened me. I assumed Mr. Nast was moving some furniture around."
"Very interesting," Adrian was now scraping Dancer's antlers. "Why is this so important, Mr. Monk?" Natalie had to ask him.
"They're uneven, in by some chance Santa would happen to show up, I think he'd like…and Blitzen's hoof's too big there, too," the detective started toward it, but his assistant took the file out of his hands and shook her head at him.
"Hey," Manny had reappeared on the porch, "Care for some milk and cookies before you go."
"Of course, Manny," Adrian said quickly. This would give him a prime opportunity to look inside the house. The moment he stepped inside the shrine to Saint Nick, he saw something out of the ordinary. "Manny, do you remember how that mark ended up on the floor?" he asked, pointing to a long white scrape mark on the floor."
"Funny, I never noticed this," Manny stared at it, "The night I saw Santa, I slept in till just about the time you guys showed up. Nothing fell over, I know that much."
"I see," Adrian's gaze had fallen to a large portrait of Santa over the fireplace, drawn like one of the Haddon Sundblom Coca-Cola ads. "Is your safe behind here?" he asked Manny, who nodded. The detective produced two wipes and slowly pushed the portrait aside. "Natalie, look at this," he pointed to the wall directly around the safe, "There's noticeable scrape marks here; the wood's broken toward us, so the safe was pulled out of the wall."
"But if it was, it's back here now, and pretty well set in place," Natalie gave the safe a hard yank. It didn't budge an inch. "And it's clearly too heavy to move," she added, "I believe what you're saying, but it doesn't seem to make sense."
"I know," Adrian agreed. And there wasn't much time for them to find out anymore.
"So, Bud, I've heard you're a pretty good chemist," Stottlemeyer was grilling Harms inside the precinct's interrogation room. From his position behind the one-way mirror on the wall, Adrian observed the scene before him closely. Harms didn't look the least bit nervous—compared to Stottlemeyer, who was dripping in sweat, given the fast-approaching deadline—and from what the detective could see, his pulse wasn't speeding up at all.
"Yeah, I used to be a top-flight chemist for Howard," Harms said, "But that was before they turned on me."
"Oh really? Well Bud, ten witnesses claim you drunkenly slugged Ed Ertley for no good reason," the captain countered, "And our little database shows you were part of Caucasian Provinces for a while."
"OK, I see, blame the guy with the rap, nice going," Harms said curtly.
"This is dead serious, Bud!" Stottlemeyer could barely contain his frustration, "Some of your old cronies are planning something terrible tonight! Now are you going to help us or not?"
"I could if I knew a damn thing what you were talking about, but this whole thing, whether you choose to believe it or not, is news to me!" Harms told him, "I haven't even been in San Jose since I got axed! If you ask me, this sounds like Angela Moreno's work. She was always determined to bring down the company by any means necessary. I should also tell you that while she was moving up to shop steward, she earned the nickname, "The Goblin" since she was so ruthless."
"Do tell," Stottlemeyer's expression lightened, "Well now, if you're willing to make a statement on…."
Adrian rapped on the mirror. What was that?" Harms asked, looking around.
"Uh, that's nothing," Stottlemeyer told him. When the knocking failed to stop, however, he sighed in resignation. "Would you excuse me for a minute?" he asked his suspect. "What is so important, Monk?" he asked his go-to man once he'd joined him outside.
"It's not him, Captain," Adrian told him, "His blood pressure's remained constant throughout; he knows nothing of the plan."
"His blood pressure?" Stottlemeyer was amazed Adrian could judge a man's innocence by this method. "Well, as you may heard, Monk, he's got Angela Moreno down as a prime suspect; this matches a lot of…"
"Captain," Disher approached them, "We just found two dead bodies in the sewer under Telegraph Hill. They're both Caucasian Provinces members."
He held out a sheet to his boss. "Louis Armani and John Pole," Stottlemeyer read off it, "Yeah, I've heard of these cretins; hate crime muggings around Fisherman's Wharf."
"You want to know what's more amazing?" Disher asked him. He paused for a long time. "Yes, yes I do Randy, just spit it out!" the captain bellowed.
"Armani was Chief Richard Taylor's primary informant," Disher told him, "He'd grown disenchanted with the plot and was going to sell out his buddies."
"He didn't happen to give the head guy's name, did he?"
"No sir, he was too afraid of retaliation, but he did give Chief Taylor enough specifics about the bomb and where they might be planting it," Disher said, "It appears Caucasian Provinces has backup sites staked out in case their primary bomb site is discovered."
"What was their primary site, Randy?"
"Right underneath the Pyramid, sir," Disher looked grim.
"Dear God," Stottlemeyer looked dreadful, "That would kill at least ten thousand people. Call the state national guard and have them sweep the whole building."
"They're doing it now, sir," Disher said, "They haven't found anything yet."
"Tell them to keep looking," Stottlemeyer ordered him, "We can't keep a lid on this any longer; call the press and tell them to start evacuations immediately. I want as many trained bomb experts searching this city looking for the backup sites."
"Will do sir," Disher scurried off. Stottlemeyer dialed his cell phone. "Honey, it's me," he told Karen, "Get out of town; this is now an emergency. Call the Davenports and tell them to take the kids with them. Tell them you'll meet up on the rest stop nearest to Redding on I-5, that should be far enough away from the epicenter. Don't worry, I'll be fine, just save yourself. If anything happened to you or the boys, I'd…yes, I know I said…"
"Captain, look at this," Adrian pointed at the rap sheet, "John Pole was a professional chemist." He stared at pictures of the dead bodies Disher had brought along with him, "He's got dark circles under his eyes. He helped make the poison that killed Clarissa."
"Uh, Monk may have something here, Karen, I'll call you back, just get out on the highway and make sure the kids are fine," Stottlemeyer told his wife, "Yeah, stop by their place and pick them up if you want, that'll probably be better actually. Talk to you later."
He hung up and looked at the photos. "How can you be sure, Monk?" he asked the detective.
Adrian gave him a definitive look that didn't need an answer. "OK, but who's he taking orders from?" he asked, "Tell me you know it's Angela Moreno; that would make it so much easier."
"I wish I could, but I can't," Adrian squeezed his eyes shut in frustration.
"You can't say that it is her, or you don't know who it is?"
"I don't know who it is," Adrian admitted, "I know the answers right there, I just can't see it!"
"Well I hope your vision clears soon, Monk, because we've got just six more hours to bring them in," Stottlemeyer held his watch to the detective's face, "Anyway, go back to your place, get Sharona and your brother and get them to safety."
"Shouldn't I hang around for…"
"No, I need you safe!" Stottlemeyer surprisingly shouted at him.
Adrian winced at the rebuttal. "Well, it's going to be hard to press Sharona to do anything I say, you've seen it firsthand," he pointed out. Not surprisingly, Sharona had responded to being grounded with civil disobedience. Over the last few days, the detective had been awakened too early by loud music, found his toilet unflushed by the nurse—who'd frequently gone the bathroom during times not allotted to her—discovered things rearranged all over the apartment, and other annoying nuisances. His efforts to get her to relent had been fruitless.
"Look, I don't want to see anything happen to her either; if she refuses to leave, drag her out," Stottlemeyer encouraged him, "It's not…"
His cell phone rang. "Yeah?" he asked into it, "It's for you, Monk."
He held it to the detective's ear. "Yes?" Adrian asked. His expression dropped like a rock. "They're doing WHAT, Ambrose? Oh you've got to be…I don't believe…not now! How can they…how can she…are you sure it's…I'll be there as soon as I can."
He rushed to the door. "Natalie, start the car, we've got a crisis!" he yelled into the holding room.
"What, what happened, Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked him, concerned.
"Several things," Adrian told him, looking meek, "For one, Sharona's out of control. But more severely, I think Eric and Rochelle Hart just had me removed from the case judiciously!"
"They what?" the captain looked stunned, "They can't legally do that!"
"I'm afraid they've got a document that's official," Adrian shook his head, "Once again, I think I'm screwed."
And without waiting for Stottlemeyer's response, he rushed toward the door, feeling miserable for the umpteenth time in his life. Now when he needed to be able to help people the most, he probably wasn't going to be able to.