Mr. Monk on Patrol

by Lee Goldberg

  Then again, Monk certainly had his quirks and phobias, enough for just about everybody but me, Stottlemeyer, Sharona, and Disher to write him off as a lunatic.

  So why did I care if Ellen Morse was a little nutty, too?

  It sure as hell wasn’t jealousy.

  Yes, I loved Monk, but not in a romantic way.

  Maybe I was just being overprotective. I was worried that Monk might get his fragile heart broken.

  Or maybe it wasn’t that at all.

  Maybe it was my ego. I was pissed off because, despite all of my so-called detecting skills, I’d totally missed Ellen Morse’s true nature.

  But so had Monk.

  At least he had an excuse for missing it—he was too distracted by her creepy fascination with excrement to notice anything else. And maybe I was so distracted trying to keep him under control that I didn’t see the signs, either.

  Or maybe we were both so jet-lagged and caught up in the cases we were investigating that we wouldn’t have noticed a walrus if it had walked past us playing drums and singing Neil Diamond’s greatest hits.

  “Did you ask Ellen my question?” Disher asked.

  “Sorry, Chief, we didn’t get the chance,” I said.

  “Poop never came up?”

  “It did,” Monk said. “She made an interesting and surprisingly valid argument for not just disposing of it as toxic waste.”

  “So now you’re ready to buy a set of poop candles,” Disher said, “or maybe drink a glass of dung tea?”

  “Hell no,” Monk said, pushing his plate aside, his appetite gone. “But I can see, and almost accept to some small degree, her point of view.”

  “Holy crap!” Sharona said.

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to venerate it,” Monk said. “But perhaps it could have some uses that aren’t entirely repugnant.”

  She came over and crouched down beside Monk so that she was eye to eye with him. “Adrian, did you really just say that you’re contemplating changing your attitude, even slightly, about one of your core beliefs?”

  “I’m not an unreasonable person,” Monk said.

  She shook her head and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I never thought I’d see this day.”

  Neither did I.

  And that’s when I realized that I was jealous of Ellen Morse, but not because Monk was attracted to her.

  It was because Ellen Morse was the one who’d achieved this milestone with Monk.

  And not me.

  23

  Mr. Monk and the Knockoff

  Our first call on patrol that morning was to investigate a trespassing and disturbing the peace complaint at Homeby’s Home of Big Screen on Springfield Avenue.

  The storefront windows of Homeby’s were full of enormous high-definition TVs playing a continuous loop of scenes from the latest big-budget superhero movies, shots of waterfalls and tropical beaches, and highlights from recent sporting events.

  An earnest young man with a Disney park employee haircut and wearing a blue Homeby’s polo shirt and khaki slacks met us at the door as we came in. Even though we weren’t customers, he still flashed us the Homeby’s “We’re so glad to serve you” smile that’s the cornerstone of the store’s advertisements.

  “Thank you for coming, Officers. I am at the end of my rope.”

  “I can tell from your smile,” I said. “And you are?”

  “Ken,” he said. “Store manager.”

  “So what’s going on?”

  “Come in and I’ll show you.”

  There were TVs of all shapes and sizes mounted on the walls or set up in little living room displays, complete with furniture, throughout the vast sales floor. There were streamers and banners across the ceiling, pointing out special bargains and new products, and several blue-shirted salesmen roamed around, talking to customers.

  “I don’t see any disturbance,” I said.

  “Are you blind, Natalie? The place has been vandalized. All the TVs are mixed up together, a mishmash of sizes and brands. It’s chaos.” Monk turned to Ken. “Did you catch the felon who broke in and did this?”

  Ken looked confused. “No one broke in. We offer a wide assortment of brands and this is how we always display them.”

  “I see,” Monk said to Ken. “Are you a diagnosed schizophrenic?”

  “No, I’m not,” Ken said.

  “You are now,” Monk said.

  “How can you say that to me?” Ken said.

  “You reported a trespasser and a disturbance of the peace,” Monk said. “But now you’re saying there was no break-in and the disturbance is intentional. You don’t need the police, you need a psychiatrist.”

  “I called you because of him.” Ken pointed to a prematurely balding man in a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops, sitting on a couch wearing 3-D glasses and watching Alice in Wonderland on a big-screen TV.

  “He looks peaceful to me,” I said.

  “That’s the problem,” Ken said.

  “I’m missing something here,” I said.

  “Ken’s schizophrenic,” Monk said.

  “His name is Miles Lippe. He has come in every day for the last week and spends hours watching television,” Ken said. “He just makes himself right at home and refuses to leave when we ask him to. I warned him that I’d call the police the next time he did it and now I have.”

  “Is he causing any trouble?” I asked.

  “This is a place of business, not his personal screening room,” Ken said. “If he wants a TV, he’s welcome to buy one. Until then, I want him out of here.”

  Monk and I headed over to the guy.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Lippe,” I said. “We’d like to have a word with you.”

  “Could you move over, please, Officer? You’re blocking Johnny Depp.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” I said. “The manager would like you to watch TV at home.”

  “I would if I had a TV, but I don’t,” Lippe said. “That’s why I’m shopping for one.”

  Monk looked at the TV and cocked his head to one side.

  “It’s 3-D,” I said. “You need special glasses to see the picture clearly.”

  “You aren’t shopping,” Ken said to Lippe. “You’ve been lazing around here for days.”

  “I’ve been researching,” Lippe said. “A new TV is a big-ticket item, especially if you’re talking about a Triax Pro a9600. It’s four grand. So I’ve got to ask myself, is 3-D really worth the extra money? Is the technology here to stay? But if I go with a standard high-def TV, which brand do I get? And what screen size? These are tough questions I’m struggling with here.”

  “You’re not struggling, you’re sitting around all day in the store watching TV and eating Cheetos,” Ken said. “You even bring in your own DVDs.”

  Monk squinted at the brand name on the front of the TV. It was an even number preceded by the first letter of the alphabet, so I didn’t think he’d have much to object to.

  “That’s because you won’t let me take the sets home to try out,” Lippe said. “So I’m forced to re-create the home viewing experience here as closely as possible. How else can I possibly choose?”

  “It makes sense to me,” Monk said.

  “But he’s practically moved in,” Ken said.

  “Have you had any complaints from customers or salespeople?” Lippe asked. “Have I intruded in your business or been a nuisance in any way?”

  “So what are you saying?” Ken said. “That we should just let everybody hang out here as long as they want and use our store as their personal screening room?”

  “Maybe you’d sell more TVs,” Lippe said.

  “Maybe we should provide food and drinks, too,” Ken said.

  “Now you’re talking,” Lippe said.

  Ken looked at me. “He’s an unemployed loser who is taking advantage of us. We have the right to refuse service to anyone and we’re refusing him.”

  Monk pointed to the TV. “Are all the a9600s just like this one?”

&
nbsp; “Of course,” Ken said, shifting instantly into salesman mode, Homeby’s smile and all. “Each one is an active 3-D marvel that provides stunning 1080p HD clarity to both eyes.”

  “As well as full wireless connectivity,” Lippe said. “Want to check your e-mail?”

  Ken’s smile evaporated and he turned to Lippe. “You’ve been surfing the Net here, too?”

  “I’m exploring all the features,” Lippe said. “As an informed consumer should.”

  “What I was asking is,” Monk said, “do all the a9600s have a lowercase ‘a’ in front of the ‘9600’?”

  The question managed to shift Ken’s and Lippe’s attention to Monk. For the first time, they shared something in common: They were both baffled by Monk’s seemingly idiotic question.

  “Yes,” Lippe said, “I believe they do.”

  “Not that it makes any difference,” Ken said.

  Monk rolled his shoulders. “It does to me.”

  I sighed and turned to Lippe. “Okay, Mr. Lippe, here’s the deal. You can stay for one hour each day, spending no more than five minutes in front of any one set, for another week. By then, you should have been able to sample every TV in the store. If you haven’t bought a TV by then, you’ll have to leave and you won’t be permitted back into this store for a year.”

  “That sounds very arbitrary to me,” Lippe said.

  “Consider yourself lucky that I’m not throwing you out right now,” I said.

  “Why aren’t you?” Ken asked.

  “Because his argument has some validity,” I said. “It’s a big decision and you have a huge selection.”

  “That’s in total disarray,” Monk added. “Perhaps if you organized the store in a coherent manner, it wouldn’t take people forever to find the television set that they want and they wouldn’t need rest and provisions to fortify them during their search.”

  Monk headed for the door.

  “Is he joking?” Ken asked.

  “No, and neither am I.” I turned and wagged my finger at Lippe. “Your five minutes in front of this TV set are up. Move along.”

  As Lippe gathered up his Cheetos and ambled over to the next TV, I followed Monk out the door. I was quite pleased with myself and my Solomon-like solution to the problem.

  But when I stepped outside, I found Monk standing outside a jewelry store, staring at the window display of diamonds and Rolexes.

  “Looking for an engagement ring for Ellen already?” I asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Monk said. “Could you do me a favor? Please call the dispatcher and ask her how many times drunken birds crashing into Mr. Prosser’s window have set off his alarm.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But why?”

  “Indulge me,” Monk said.

  “What do you think I’ve been doing day in and day out for years now?” I said, but I did as he asked. I posed Monk’s question to the dispatcher using the handset clipped to my shoulder. We both heard the reply.

  “Never,” the dispatcher said. “But those birds set off alarms all over his neighborhood.”

  “Why not his?” I asked. “He’s been hit by them, too.”

  “Because Mr. Prosser doesn’t have an alarm,” she said, using a tone in her voice that suggested, rather strongly, that she was stating the obvious.

  And I guess she was, because now that I thought about it, I couldn’t recall seeing an alarm control pad on the wall in his entry hall, not that it mattered.

  At least not to me. It apparently did to Monk, because the next thing I knew, he was insisting that we pay Mr. Prosser a visit.

  I had no idea why we were seeing Prosser again but, like I said before, I was used to indulging Monk’s whims. And it’s not like we had anything else to do.

  Prosser answered his door dressed Miami casual with his hair wet, leading me to wonder if he kept a water bottle around all day to spritz himself or if he just took a lot of showers.

  “Back again so soon?” he asked.

  “I’m interested in a Triax Pro a9600 flat-screen TV,” Monk said. “And you mentioned you could give us a deal.”

  “So I did,” Prosser said. “Come on in.”

  He led us to his family room. Monk went up and examined the TV, his back to us. Prosser smiled with pride.

  “She’s a beauty,” Prosser said. “The pinnacle of television technology.”

  Monk rolled his shoulders and turned around to face us again. I could see the change in his demeanor even if Prosser couldn’t. He didn’t know Monk as well as I did. As Sherlock Holmes might have said, the game was now afoot. I just didn’t know what the hell the game was this time.

  “This TV costs four thousand dollars at Homeby’s,” Monk said. “Can you give us a better price?”

  “How does twenty-five hundred sound to you?” Prosser said.

  “Incredible,” Monk said. “How can you offer such a great price?”

  “Low overhead,” he said.

  “Meaning you don’t have the cost of the big store, the sales team, or their security,” Monk said.

  “I run a mail-order business out of my home,” Prosser said. “And supply product to some area merchants.”

  “And yet, with so much expensive equipment in your home, you don’t have an alarm system,” Monk said.

  “I just never got around to it,” Prosser said. “But there’s really no point, with the birds setting off alarms all the time. Nobody takes the alarms on this block seriously, not even you guys.”

  “Besides, you wouldn’t report a burglary even if you had one,” Monk said. “Because the last thing you want is police officers paying too much attention to what you are selling.”

  “I have a valid business license for this address,” Prosser said. “There’s nothing illegal about selling items from my home.”

  “But it is illegal to sell bootleg electronics,” Monk said, “The Triax TV model numbers all have lowercase letters but yours has a capital ‘A.’ These TVs are as fake as the Rolex on your wrist and the Louis Vuitton bag in the entry hall, which is why you didn’t report that you were burglarized the other day. Because everything that was stolen was illegal goods that it’s a crime for you to be selling.”

  Now I understood why Monk was so interested in the model number of the TV at Homeby’s and why he was checking out the watches at the jewelry store next door.

  Prosser took a step back from me, as if he’d just realized I had leprosy.

  “I had no idea my TVs were fake,” he said. “I am shocked and, to be honest, outraged. I will get to the bottom of this right away and report what I learn to the proper authorities. But I can assure you that I wasn’t burglarized.”

  I spoke up. “So maybe you can explain why we have an evidence room full of fake TVs with your fingerprints all over them.”

  It was a lie, of course, and it provoked a revealing reaction from Prosser.

  He bolted like a rabbit for the back door of the kitchen. I took out my baton and Frisbee’d it at him the way I saw Heather Locklear do it a thousand times on the opening credits of T.J. Hooker when I was growing up.

  It worked.

  The baton hit Prosser behind the knees and sent him flying facefirst into the counter.

  I ran up, pinned him down, and cuffed his hands behind his back while Monk read him his rights.

  When Monk was done, I sat Prosser up and shoved a dish towel against his nose to stem the bleeding.

  “You know what this means, Mr. Monk.”

  Monk nodded. “That Lindero and Woodlake didn’t kill Pamela Goldman. They were busy robbing Prosser at the time of the murder.”

  “So who killed her?”

  “My guess would be her husband,” Monk said.

  “But he’s got an ironclad alibi.”

  “All the more reason to suspect him,” Monk said. “I’d be much more likely to consider his innocence if he had no alibi at all.”

  “You do realize that defies common sense.”

  “Not mine,” Monk said
.

  24

  Mr. Monk Reviews the Evidence

  Nobody except Officers Lindero and Woodlake was happy about Monk’s discovery. It was another embarrassment for the Summit Police Department and acting mayor Disher. Sure, they’d arrested the two dirty cops who were responsible for a string of residential burglaries, but now Disher would have to concede to the media that those cops had been wrongly charged with murder. It didn’t make the police look very bright.

  But the bigger problem was that there was still a murderer on the loose who’d killed a woman in her own home. A lot of women in Summit were going to be afraid to be home alone until the murderer was caught.

  “The good news is that we’ve got one of the best homicide detectives in the country on the case,” Disher said as the three of us gathered in his office.

  “And you, too, Chief,” I said.

  “I was talking about me,” Disher said. “But having someone of Monk’s reputation on board is an additional asset, practically speaking as well as from a PR perspective.”

  “We wouldn’t want to forget the PR perspective,” I said.

  “Now that I’m acting mayor, I’ve got to think about how it’s all going to play on the eleven o’clock news,” Disher said. “Because that’s what they are watching in Trenton. The state could still come in and take over.”

  “We can’t worry about that,” I said.

  “I can,” Disher said.

  “The best thing we can do is to not worry about what anybody else thinks and just concentrate on doing our jobs,” I said. “To that end, let’s go over what we know about Pamela Goldman’s murder.”

  “Wait, maybe Monk has solved it already,” Disher said, then turned to Monk. “Have you?”

  “No, not yet,” Monk said. “But I think the husband probably did it.”

  “He couldn’t have,” Disher said.

  “That’s the main reason why Monk thinks he did,” I said.

  “He might have arranged for someone else to do it,” Disher said, “but he couldn’t have done it himself.”

  Then Disher proceeded to review all the facts we knew about the sequence of events leading up to Pamela Goldman’s murder.