“He was granting me my second-to-last request,” Monk said.
“What was your first?” I asked.
“That he would clean up the broken glass after he killed me,” Monk said.
“Naturally,” Stottlemeyer said.
“So what was the incriminating item he left in the taxi?” Disher said.
"His BlackBerry,” Monk said. “It slipped off his belt while he was sitting in the backseat. It had all the e-mails between him and Archie, photos of Lorber, and a diagram of the building in it. When he realized he’d forgotten it, he called it from a pay phone at the airport and Stipe answered. That’s how the hit man knew who’d found his PDA. He couldn’t take the chance that the cabbie or Stipe would scroll through his messages. So he told the cabbie to hold on to the PDA and then killed him when the man delivered it to him.”
Disher stepped up to Monk. “You did great work here today.”
“Thank you, Randy,” Monk said.
“How would you like to be a consultant to the Special Desecration Unit?” Disher asked. “We could use a man like you.”
“I’d be honored,” Monk said.
My bashed-up Jeep was evidence at a crime scene, so Stottlemeyer arranged for a patrol car to drop me off at home and to take Monk wherever he wanted to go. We got to my place first.
I was about to get out of the car when Monk touched my arm. It surprised me. Monk rarely, if ever, touched me.
“Did you really mean what you said tonight?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “Every fire hydrant in the city is covered in dog pee.”
“Not that,” he said. “Do you really need me?”
I looked at him and I thought about his question. But I realized it wasn’t something I had to think about. It was something I had to feel.
“Yes, Mr. Monk, I do.”
“Not just for a paycheck?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I’m a very needy person.”
“Me too,” he said. “Sometimes I think it’s not such a bad thing.”
“I think you’re right,” I said.
“I always am,” he said.
Don’t miss the next exciting book
in the MONK series!
MR. MONK GOES TO GERMANY
Available in July 2008 from Obsidian
Read on for a sneak peek at the next
mystery starring Monk, the brilliant
investigator who always knows when
something’s out of place. . . .
It was a beautiful Monday morning, the kind that makes you want to jump onto a cable car and sing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” at the top of your lungs.
But I wasn’t in a cable car. I was in a Buick Lucerne that my father bought me when my old Jeep finally crapped out. It was only later that I discovered the real reason for Dad’s largesse. He’d actually bought the Buick for his seventy-seven-year-old mother, who’d turned it down because she didn’t want the same car that everybody else in her retirement community was driving. Nana was afraid she’d never be able to pick her car out from the others in the parking lot.
So Nana got a black BMW 3 Series and I got a car that my fifteen-year-old daughter, Julie, won’t let me drive within a one-mile radius of her school for fear we might be seen. Supposedly Tiger Woods drives a car like mine, but if he does, I bet it’s only to haul his clubs around on the golf course.
The day was so glorious, though, that I felt like I was driving a Ferrari convertible instead of a Buick. My glee lasted until I turned the corner in front of Monk’s apartment and saw the black-and-white police car parked at the curb and the yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the building.
I felt a pang of fear that injected a hot shot of adrenaline into my bloodstream and made my heart race faster than a hamster on his wheel.
Since I’d met Monk, I’d visited lots of places cordoned off with crime scene tape, and the one thing they all had in common was a corpse.
This wasn’t good. Monk had made a lot of enemies over the years, and I was afraid that one of them had finally come after him.
I double-parked behind the cop car, jumped over the yellow tape like a track star, and ran into the building. I was terrified of what I would find when I got inside.
The door to his apartment was open and two uniformed officers stood in the entry hall, their backs to me, blocking my way.
“Let me through,” I said, pushing past them to see Monk facing us. He was perfectly relaxed, his starched white shirt buttoned at the collar and his sleeves buttoned at the wrist. Believe me—for him, that’s hanging loose.
I gave him a big hug and felt his entire body stiffen. He was repulsed by my touch, but at least his reaction proved he was alive and well.
“Are you okay?” I stepped back and took a good look at him and his surroundings. Everything was neat, tidy, balanced, and symmetrical.
“I’m a little shaken,” Monk said. “But I’m coping.”
“What happened?” I asked, glancing back at the two cops.
They were both grimacing. Either they’d eaten something that disagreed with them or they’d been talking to Monk. Their name tags identified them as Sergeant Denton and Officer Brooks.
“I was burglarized,” Monk said.
“What did they take?” I asked.
“A sock,” Monk said.
“A sock?” I said.
“A left sock,” Monk said.
“There’s no such thing,” Officer Brooks said. “Socks are interchangeable.”
Monk addressed Sergeant Denton. “Are you sure your partner graduated from the police academy?”
“Maybe you just misplaced the sock,” Sergeant Denton said.
“I don’t misplace things,” he said.
That was true. His life was devoted to making sure that everything was in its proper place.
“When did you notice it was gone?” I asked.
“I washed my clothes in the basement laundry room this morning and brought them back up to my apartment to fold,” Monk said. “Then I heard the sanitation truck arriving, so I put on my gloves and boots and went outside to supervise my trash collection.”
Officer Brooks stared at him in disbelief. “You supervise your trash collection?”
“Don’t ask,” I said to the officer, then turned back to Monk. “So then what did you do?”
“I came back inside to resume folding my laundry,” Monk said. “And that’s when I discovered that I’d been brutally violated.”
“You lost a sock,” Sergeant Denton said.
“And my innocence,” Monk said.
“Did you look for it?” I asked him.
“Of course I did,” Monk said. “I searched the laundry room and then I ransacked my apartment.”
“It doesn’t look ransacked to me,” Officer Brooks said.
“It was a ransacking followed by a ran-put-everything-backing. ”
“Socks disappear all the time, Mr. Monk,” Sergeant Denton said.
“They do?” Monk said.
“Nobody knows where they go,” the sergeant said. “It’s one of the great mysteries of life.”
“How long has this been going on?” Monk asked.
“As long as I can remember,” Sergeant Denton said.
“And what’s being done about it?”
“Nothing,” the sergeant said.
“But it’s your job,” Monk said.
“To find lost socks?” Officer Brooks asked.
“To solve crimes,” Monk replied. “There’s some devious sock thief running rampant in this city and you aren’t doing anything about it. Are you police officers or aren’t you?”
“No one is stealing socks,” Sergeant Denton said.
“But you just said there’s a rash of sock disappearances, ” Monk said.
“It happens,” I said. “I’ve lost tons of them.”
“You’ve been victimized, too?” Monk said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
/> “Because they weren’t stolen,” I said.
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Then how can you say they weren’t stolen?” Monk said. “Socks don’t just disappear.”
I was surprised and a little disappointed that Monk was becoming so unhinged over this. He’d been doing so well the last few weeks.
“Why would anyone want to steal your socks?” Officer Brooks asked.
“They are very nice socks,” Monk said. “One hundred percent cotton.”
Sergeant Denton sighed. “We’re leaving now.”
“You haven’t even taken my report yet,” Monk said.
“We do that and then we have to detain you until someone from psych services arrives and does an evaluation, which could take hours,” Sergeant Denton said. “I don’t think any of us wants that—do we, Mr. Monk?”
“Somebody broke into my home and stole my sock,” Monk said. “I’ve secured the crime scene. What I want is a thorough investigation.”
“Can you handle him?” Officer Brooks asked me. I nodded.
“I’m a consultant to the police,” Monk said to them. “I work directly with Captain Leland Stottlemeyer in Homicide.”
“So why didn’t you call him?” Officer Brooks said.
“That would be overreacting,” Monk said. “It’s only a sock, for God’s sake. It’s not like someone was killed.”
“It’s nice to know you have some sense of perspective after all,” Sergeant Denton said. “There’s hope.”
“There’s never hope,” Monk said.
The officers turned their backs to us and walked out.
Monk looked at me. “They are shirking their duty.”
I didn’t feel like arguing with him. “It’s not a very valuable item, Mr. Monk. I suggest you just forget it and buy another pair of socks.”
“And what do I do with the remaining sock?”
I shrugged. “Use it as a rag to clean around the house. That’s what I do.”
“You clean your house with your socks?” Monk said, his eyes wide with shock. “That’s barbaric! I don’t even want to think about what you do with your underwear. Not that I ever think about your underwear. Or anybody’s underwear. Oh God, now I am seeing underwear. I have underwear in my head. What do I do?”
“You could throw the sock out.”
“I can’t,” Monk said. “It will haunt me.”
“It will?”
“I’ll always know that a pair has been broken and that somewhere out there, there is a sock waiting to be reunited with its other half.”
“The sock isn’t waiting,” I said. “It’s a sock. It has no feelings.”
“I will pursue my sock to the ends of the earth,” Monk said. “I won’t rest until the balance of nature has been restored.”
“One sock is all that it takes to knock nature off balance?”
“Can’t you feel it?”
The phone in the living room rang. I answered it for Monk. It was Captain Stottlemeyer.
“Perfect timing,” I said. “There’s been a crime.”
“That’s why I am calling,” he said.
“You already heard about the sock?” I asked.
“I heard about a murder,” the captain said. “What sock?”
“The one Mr. Monk lost and that’s going to haunt him until he finds it.”
In other words, Stottlemeyer could forget about Monk concentrating on any murder case as long as his sock was missing.
“I see,” Stottlemeyer said. “You don’t get paid enough.”
“Neither do you,” I said.
“But I don’t have to see Monk every day if I don’t want to,” he said. “And I get to carry a gun and drive a car with a siren.”
“You’re blessed,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “My wife left me and my last steady girlfriend turned out to be a cold-blooded murderer.”
“I guess life has a way of evening things out,” I said.
“With my help,” Monk added.
Stottlemeyer heard that. I could tell from his sigh. “Could you ask Monk to pick up the extension?”
I did. Monk got on the line in the kitchen. We could see each other through the open doorway.
“I want to report two officers who are shirkers,” Monk said. “Flagrant shirkers.”
“I’ve got a murder here, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s a tricky case. I could use your help on this one.”
“I’ve secured this crime scene,” Monk said. “I can’t just walk away. Vital evidence could be lost.”
Stottlemeyer sighed again. I could visualize him rubbing his temple, fighting a growing Monkache in his skull.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Monk. If you come over here, I’ll reassign Randy to the Sock Recovery Task Force and send him to your place to lead the investigation.”
“You have a Sock Recovery Task Force?” Monk said.
“We do now,” Stottlemeyer told him.
Monk smiled. Balance was being restored.
Any other cop would have been pissed off about being taken off a homicide case and sent to Monk’s apartment to look for a lost sock. But not Lieutenant Randy Disher, the captain’s enthusiastic and loyal right-hand man. Disher was just thrilled to be heading a task force, any task force, even if it existed in name only to satisfy the crazy obsessions of a single psychologically disturbed ex-cop.
It was still a task force. And Disher was the top dog.
Disher didn’t say this to me, but it was evident from the way he bounded into Monk’s apartment with his notepad out and a big smile on his face.
“What have we got?” Disher asked.
Monk told him. Disher took detailed notes.
“Can you describe the sock?”
“White, tube-style, size ten to twelve,” Monk said. “For the left foot.”
“That’s a pretty common sock,” Disher said. “Would you be able to identify it if you saw it again?”
“Absolutely,” Monk said.
I wondered how he’d do that, but I kept my mouth shut.
“I’m on it,” Disher said. “I’ll develop a detailed timeline, retrace your steps from the laundry room, and question the suspects.”
“What suspects?” I asked.
“The ones that will emerge in my investigation,” Disher said.
“It’s a lost sock, Randy,” I said.
Monk leaned close to Disher and spoke in a whisper. "I would start with the new tenant in apartment 2C.”
“Why?” Disher whispered back.
Monk tipped his head toward the window. The three of us looked outside. A young man in his twenties was making his way down the sidewalk on crutches. He was missing his right leg.
“That’s him,” Monk said. “He’s obviously an unbalanced individual. I knew it instinctively the instant I saw him.”
“He’s missing a leg,” I said. “That’s not a crime or a reflection of his character.”
“He doesn’t have a right leg,” Monk said. “So he’d only be interested in socks for his left foot. And you’ll notice he’s wearing a white sock.”
I didn’t notice. “That doesn’t make him a thief.”
“The day after he moves in, one of my best left socks is stolen,” Monk said. “Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
So that was what this was all about. The new tenant had upset the delicate balance of Monk’s world. He couldn’t stand the idea that someone with just one leg was living above him. It had probably been all Monk could think about since the man moved in and that irrational anxiety had manifested itself in a lost sock.
I felt like a detective who’d just solved a case.
“I’ll question him,” Disher said, tipping his head toward the man outside.
“You’re not serious,” I said. “You’ll offend him.”
“I’ll use finesse,” Disher said.
“There is no way to ask a one-legged man if
he stole his neighbor’s sock and not be offensive.”
“I don’t see how it’s any more offensive than asking the same question of someone who has both legs,” Disher said.
“You’re right,” I said. “So if I were you, I wouldn’t ask anybody that question.”
“But you aren’t wearing a badge,” Disher said. “I am. Being a cop means asking the tough questions.”
“He doesn’t shirk his responsibility,” Monk said.
I didn’t want to be there when Disher started his questioning. I visited Monk’s apartment almost every day, and I wanted to be able to face his neighbors without embarrassment or shame.
“You wouldn’t want to shirk yours either, Mr. Monk. You have a murder investigation to consult on.”
Monk nodded. We got the address of the crime scene and the names of the victims from Disher.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Monk said.
“You don’t know anything about the case yet,” I said.
“It’s a murder,” Monk said. “How hard could it be?”
“It’s not like it’s a lost sock,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said.
Monk had no ear for sarcasm. Thank God for that. If he did, I probably would have been fired years ago.
Mr. Monk in Outer Space Page 28