Mr. Monk on Patrol

by Lee Goldberg

  Disher shook his head. “He was a couple of houses down, he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his view was from a second-story window through the branches of a tree.”

  “So his testimony won’t be worth anything as far as identifying the guys,” I said.

  “No, it won’t, but it does put us firmly on the trail of a couple of day laborers,” Disher said. “Or I should say, day killers.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “You’re the chief.”

  “I don’t think so,” Monk said.

  “What’s wrong with the day killers?” Disher said. “Do you have a better name?”

  “I don’t think Goldman hired anybody to kill his wife. It would have left him too vulnerable to blackmail.”

  “Who said he hired the day killers?” Disher said. “I haven’t ruled out the burglary-gone-bad theory.”

  “I have,” Monk said.

  “Why?” Disher asked.

  “Because nothing was stolen,” he said.

  “Maybe because she walked in on them before they could steal anything and then they were too spooked after they killed her to continue with their burgling.”

  “I don’t think so,” Monk said.

  “Well, I do, and I’m the chief. Tomorrow you two will start talking to the day laborers who hang out around Home Depot. Maybe one of them will know who drives a rusted-out brown van. Now get out of here, you’re off duty.”

  I motioned to the papers on his desk. “What is all that?”

  “Invoices from all the contractors the city owes money to. After I’ve sorted through and prioritized all of them, I’ve got to go over the former city attorney’s draft of a cell phone tower ordinance.”

  “It must be a thrill wielding such power,” I said.

  “It sure is,” Disher said. “I’m fighting sleep every second. It’s a good thing I have a Taser.”

  I changed out of my uniform and waited for Monk in the lobby. Evie waved me over to the counter.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” she said. “When was the last time you were out on a shooting range?”

  I shrugged. It had to be more than a decade.

  “A couple of years,” I said. It was relatively close to the truth.

  She frowned and shook her head. “That’s not going to cut it. You need to sharpen your skills if you’re going to be carrying a weapon on the street. I’m off in a few minutes. Why don’t you come with me to the range? I’ll even let you try out some of my guns.”

  “That’s a very nice offer, but it’s been a hectic few days and I was looking forward to a quiet, relaxing evening.”

  “There’s nothing more relaxing than firing off a few hundred rounds.”

  “A few hundred?”

  “Haven’t you ever fired an automatic weapon?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. You’ll sleep like a baby afterward,” she said. “More important, you need to know, down to your bones, that you can handle yourself in a shoot-out with some deranged, acid-tripping communist.”

  She had a point. So when Monk came out, I told him I was going to the shooting range with Evie and that either he could come along with us or I could drop him off at Sharona’s first.

  He rolled his shoulders. “That won’t be necessary. You can go ahead without me.”

  “How are you going to get back to the house?”

  “I’ll work something out,” he said.

  I was uncomfortable leaving him on his own like that, but before I could argue with him, he spoke up again.

  “I’m a grown man, Natalie, and a police officer. I think I’m capable of being on my own. Besides, I think we could both use a little break from each other, don’t you?”

  He was right, though I was surprised he was the one who said it and not me.

  “Okay,” I said and turned to Evie. “I’m ready when you are.”

  She jerked her head toward the back door. “Go get your Glock and a box of shells, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  Evie drove a massive old Buick with a gun locker in the trunk—and there were enough weapons in it to overthrow a small country.

  She took me to a training range that was like an amusement park for cops and other law enforcement and security professionals.

  There was a fake city street, much like you’d find on a Hollywood backlot, with painted characters that popped out from behind windows, cars, and doors.

  The figures were all ridiculously cartoonish caricatures, whether they were gunmen and bank robbers or little old ladies and children. I knew from experience that real criminals were seldom kind enough to dress in ways that instantly identified their evil character and violent intent.

  But it was great fun walking down that street, gun at my side, doling out hot lead to the bad guys and, inadvertently, to a nun, a doctor, and a schoolteacher, though I’m pretty sure they harbored criminal intent.

  Evie walked the same course, pulverizing the cutouts and nearly entire building facades with her massive weapons. I half expected her to bring out a rocket launcher for some target practice.

  On the range, and later just shooting stationary targets at various distances, I was surprised how quickly I loosened up.

  I guess shooting a gun is, to use a cliché, like riding a bike. It involves a lot of muscle memory. My reflexes weren’t particularly great, but I held the gun steady and my aim was still good.

  Aim didn’t mean so much to Evie. She relied on firepower over precision. Rather than shoot a bad guy between the eyes, she preferred to blow his head clean off, and maybe even his shoulders, too.

  And she was right. It was astonishing to me how relaxing it all was, despite the noise, concentration, and startling recoil of the weapons. I guess it’s because shooting things allows you to work out all your pent-up aggression and frustration. Nothing relieves tension quite like blasting something to bits. Boys seem to be born knowing that, but it’s knowledge that has to be acquired by girls.

  But going to the shooting range with Evie was also a sad experience for me. The last time I’d been to one was with my late husband and I couldn’t help thinking of him.

  He’s often in my thoughts, of course, but this time the pain had a sharper edge. Maybe it was because it had been so long since I’d relived this particular shared experience.

  Sadness is its own kind of tension and I blasted my way through that, too.

  After using enough ammo to repel a commie invasion, we stopped at Evie’s favorite diner, a place that served massive steaks and was frequented by truckers, all of whom seemed to know her and treat her like one of their own.

  All in all, it was a fun night and I was grateful to Evie for inviting me.

  The only one in the house when I got back was Sharona. She made me a cup of tea and we sat down at the kitchen table together.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “Randy is still at the office. I’m lucky he even manages to come home to sleep with all the work he’s got now.”

  “And Mr. Monk?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t seen or heard from him since this morning.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was after ten p.m. Sharona shook her head and smiled at me over her mug of tea.

  “What?” I said. “I’m worried about him, that’s all.”

  “He’s not a kid, Natalie. And from what I’ve seen, he’s more capable now of taking care of himself than he’s ever been since the day I met him.”

  “He’s still got his problems,” I said.

  “Don’t we all,” she said. “But Adrian seems to have a grip on most of his now. He hasn’t called his shrink once since he got here.”

  I hadn’t noticed that until she mentioned it. Yet another milestone reached on this trip.

  “A lot has certainly changed for Mr. Monk in the last year or so, especially since he finally solved Trudy’s murder. He says his life is more balanced now. Even his brother, Ambrose, has made some significant chan
ges in his life. He’s got an assistant of his own now. She lives with him.”

  “How live-in is she?”

  “Same bed live-in,” I said.

  “Wow. How has Adrian handled that?”

  “Not well,” I said. “It doesn’t help that Yuki’s tattooed and an ex-con. Of course, that was before he met Ellen Morse. If he can accept a woman who sells poop for a living, maybe he’ll be more open-minded about Yuki, too.”

  “With all this change going on, do you ever worry that Adrian may stop needing an assistant?”

  “It never occurred to me,” I said.

  “At least now you know you’ve got other options if that day comes.”

  “I wasn’t looking for a backup plan.”

  “Well, you’ve obviously been looking for something,” Sharona said. “And I think you’ve finally found it. You seem to like being a cop.”

  “It’s only been two days and the reality of it hasn’t sunk in yet, especially since I’m away from home. It feels more like a role-playing game than reality.”

  “Even in the mini-mart?”

  “Especially then,” I said. “I don’t know how I’ll feel about all this when I get back to San Francisco.”

  “Who says you have to go back?”

  I was about to press Sharona on what she meant by that when Monk came in the front door.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “I had dinner with Ellen,” he said, trying very hard to be matter-of-fact about it and failing.

  “You were alone with a woman?” Sharona said.

  “I’m alone with Natalie all the time,” Monk said.

  “It’s not the same thing and you know it, Adrian. This was a date.”

  “It was a meal,” Monk said. “Not a date.”

  “How was it arranged?”

  “I happened to run into Ellen on the street as she happened to be walking home and since we happened to be in front of a restaurant when our paths intersected, we decided to dine together.”

  “That’s a lot of happenings,” I said. “So what happened over dinner?”

  “She talked about her time among the savages in Africa and I talked about my time among the savages in San Francisco.”

  “What time was that?” Sharona asked.

  “From the day I moved out of our family home in Tewksbury to the moment that I was drugged and put on a plane to New Jersey.”

  “Then you should be grateful that I rescued you,” Sharona said.

  “Where do things stand now between you and Ellen?” I asked.

  “She’s a fine woman, but it’s hard to ignore the elephant in the room.”

  “You mean the elephant droppings,” Sharona said.

  Monk cringed. “I wish I could convince her to give up her crusade to legitimize excrement.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just accepted it?” I said. “Or agreed to disagree? Compromise is part of any successful relationship.”

  “We don’t have a relationship,” Monk said. “It was just dinner.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You didn’t just run into her by accident, you planned it. You made sure you were walking in front of the restaurant at the same time that she’d be passing it on her way home. It’s already a relationship, Mr. Monk. The only question is what kind it’s going to be and if it’s going to last.”

  He rolled his shoulders and tipped his head from side to side. “She spends her day in a room full of poop.”

  “And her nights alone in her perfect home,” I said.

  “With her collection of poop,” he said.

  “Maybe that’s only because she hasn’t found the right man yet,” Sharona said.

  “It’s not going to happen with all of that poop around,” he said.

  “Maybe it already has,” Sharona said and winked at me.

  Monk yawned theatrically and looked at his watch. “Oh my, will you look at the time. I have to go to bed.”

  “Nice dodge,” Sharona said. “But you aren’t fooling anyone.”

  His fake yawn, though, was enough to provoke a real one from me. It’s amazing how contagious yawns are.

  “Yeah, but we do have an early shift in the morning and a tough boss,” I said. “We wouldn’t want to get reprimanded for tardiness on our third day on the job.”

  “If he ever reprimands you, let me know,” Sharona said. “And I’ll reprimand him.”

  28

  Mr. Monk Is Trashed

  When I came into the kitchen the next morning, Monk was already up and dressed, sitting at the table, hunched over an iPad. Disher sat beside him, showing him how to use the device while Sharona made waffles again.

  “Surfing the Web, Mr. Monk?” I asked, taking the seat on the other side of him.

  “No, I’m on the Internets,” he said.

  “It’s the same thing,” I said. “Surfing is another way of saying ‘looking around.’”

  “I know what I want to look at,” he said. “Joel Goldman’s seminar.”

  “You can look at it a thousand times and it’s not going to change anything,” Disher said.

  “We’re missing something,” Monk said. “I kept seeing the video again and again in my head last night.”

  “So what do you need to see it again for?” Sharona asked, bringing a plate of waffles over and setting it in the center of the table.

  “Because I’m not recognizing something that I’ve seen or my subconscious wouldn’t be harassing me.”

  “Okay, I’ve got you on the site,” Disher said, bringing up the Web page with the screencaps from all of Goldman’s seminars. “The iPad works with a touch screen. All you’ve got to do is touch the screencap you want with your finger and it will play the video.”

  “What’s a screencap?” Monk asked.

  “It’s a still image taken from the video that you want to watch,” Disher said. “In this case, it also doubles as a button to start the playback.”

  Disher tapped the screencap from Joel Goldman’s most recent video and it began to play.

  “If you want to pause the video, fast-forward, or do any other playback functions, just tap the bottom of the screen and the controls will come up.”

  Goldman started talking about interest rates, derivatives, and mortgage-backed securities, and some brilliant way to manipulate all of them to become rich enough to live on his street in Summit.

  Monk peered intently at the screen. “Are those smudges?”

  “It’s on the screen,” Disher said. “Not the video.”

  “So your screen is thick with finger grease,” Monk said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Disher said.

  “Of course it does. You know what those smudges are? Billions of virulent germs, transforming your iPad into an electronic petri dish of disease. When was the last time you cleaned it?”

  “I don’t know,” Disher said.

  “It’s disgusting.” Monk took a Wet One out of his pocket, tore open the packet, and started to clean the screen with the tissue.

  “Wait, wait,” Disher said. “Don’t!”

  But Monk was already wiping, his touch causing multiple screens, each with a different Goldman video, to pop up, one on top of the other, like overlapping sheets of paper.

  “You’ll thank me later,” Monk said, wrapping the Wet One in a napkin and handing it to Sharona. “We’ve saved lives today.”

  “It’s just like old times.” Sharona frowned and tossed the wipe into the trash. “I’d forgotten the thrill.”

  The smudges were gone, but now a different video occupied the screen, and a cacophony of Goldmans was coming out of the iPad’s speakers.

  “It’s a touch screen, Monk. Your wiping clicked open every video on the page,” Disher said. “Now I have to close all of these windows to get you back to the original video.”

  Disher reached for the iPad but Monk grabbed his wrist.

  “Not yet,” Monk said, staring at the video.

  “But you’re watching the w
rong video,” Disher said. “That’s not the one from the day of the murder. Can’t you see? He’s not even wearing the same shirt. That’s a major fail for a guy with your eye for detail.”

  “Let me see the next one,” Monk said.

  Disher closed the window and the one underneath appeared. “That’s not it, either. Visually, they’re all the same, except for what he’s wearing. Nothing else changes.”

  Monk scrutinized the video, getting his face so close to the screen that the tip of his nose almost touched it. “Okay, now let me see the broadcast from the day of the murder.”

  “I can’t with your face in the way,” Disher said. “Unless you’d like to tap that tiny X with your nose.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Monk leaned back and allowed Disher to tap the various screens closed until he got back to the right one.

  “This is it,” Disher said. “Knock yourself out.”

  Disher dug into his waffles while Sharona and I continued to watch Monk, who rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and smiled.

  Sharona smiled, too. And so did I. For Adrian Monk, in that brief moment, the entire universe was in perfect balance and everything fit where it was supposed to.

  But Disher missed it all. He was too wrapped up in devouring his breakfast.

  “Whenever you’re not rolling on dispatcher calls today,” Disher said, “I want you two out talking to the day laborers around the Home Depot.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Monk said.

  Disher looked up. “Why not?”

  “Because Adrian already solved the murder,” Sharona said.

  “He did? When?”

  “Just now,” Sharona said.

  “So who killed Pamela Goldman?”

  “Her husband did,” Monk said.

  Disher dropped his fork on his plate and took a deep, calming breath. “We’ve been over this already a dozen times. The video has been analyzed by experts. There’s no trickery involved. Joel Goldman was in his office, doing a live broadcast minutes before the murder.”

  “Yes, he was,” Monk said.

  “This video proves that.”

  “Absolutely and irrefutably.”

  “So the video proves he couldn’t have killed her,” Disher said.