Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants

by Goldberg, Lee

  I couldn’t blame him for wearing the gas mask. I found myself wishing I had one, too.

  Sharona called Lieutenant Sam Dozier. He was working a homicide at an antiques store in Brentwood, which happenedto be pretty close to where we were, so we decided to meet him there.

  I was surprised that Dozier was okay with that. I figured that maybe he wanted to see what made Monk so special.

  Well, the lieutenant was about to find out.

  Big-time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mr. Monk and the Fly

  It’s never easy finding a parking spot at a crime scene, but it was even worse this time because there was a lot of roadwork being done. The traffic was bottlenecked. The street was clogged with bulldozers, pipes, and construction materials.

  We ended up having to park two blocks away and make our way through the crowd of construction workers and lookee-loos to the police line around the antiques store.

  Monk doesn’t like crowds. It significantly raises the possibility that he may brush against another human being, which would mean he’d have to rush home and take three showers.

  We didn’t have time for that today.

  Sharona and I both knew what had to be done. All it took was a shared glance between us and we ran interference for Monk so he could walk in a brush-free zone of his own.

  I hated to admit it, but having a co-assistant definitely had some advantages.

  We were met at the police line by a plainclothes cop who was chewing on a drool-soaked, unlit cigar. He had bags under his rummy eyes, jowls only a hound dog could love and a gut that reminded me of what I looked like when I was eight months pregnant.

  “Lieutenant Sam Dozier,” he said, lifting the police tape for us to duck under and offering Monk his chubby hand.

  Monk shook hands with Dozier.

  Out of habit, Sharona and I simultaneously offered Monk a disinfectant wipe. He took one from each of us, wisely not playing favorites, and cleaned his hand.

  “I’m Adrian Monk and these are my co-assistants, Natalie Teeger and Sharona Fleming, though I believe you and Sharona have already met,” Monk said, sounding like Darth Vader with that mask on.

  Dozier shook my hand, then turned to Sharona.

  “I’m sorry about what you and your son have been through, but as far as I’m concerned, this is a waste of time,” he said. “The Ellen Cole murder case is closed and your husband killed her. I’m only meeting with you as a professional courtesy to the SFPD.”

  “I appreciate it,” Sharona said.

  “What’s with the gas mask?” Dozier asked.

  “Allergies,” Monk said.

  “What are you allergic to?”

  “Los Angeles,” Monk said. “I’d like you to take us to Ellen Cole’s house and walk us through the crime scene.”

  Monk held his hand up in front of his face, as if shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun.

  But there was no glare.

  “It’s going to have to wait until tomorrow or maybe the day after,” Dozier said. “As you can see, I’m a little busy right now.”

  “It has to be today,” Monk said, squinting at Dozier over the top of his hand.

  I tried to guess what Monk didn’t want to see, but there were so many possibilities. It could have been the torn-up asphalt or the Dumpster in front of the store or the Porta Potti down the street or the soggy cigar between Dozier’s teeth.

  “Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Dozier said, “but I’m in the middle of working a homicide here.”

  “So wrap it up and let’s go,” Monk said.

  “It’s not that easy,” Dozier said.

  “Maybe not for you,” Sharona said. “But it is for him.”

  Dozier gave Monk a look. “Is that so?”

  “Show him, Adrian,” Sharona said.

  “I may be a little rusty,” Monk said. “It’s been a day or two since I solved a murder.”

  “If you can close this case for me,” Dozier said, “then you’ve got my full attention for as long as you’re here.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Monk said.

  “It’s not too complicated.” Dozier turned his back to us and led us toward a charming storefront in the style of a Victorian house. “It’s a simple holdup gone bad.”

  Monk lowered his hand from in front of his face and followed Dozier. We followed Monk.

  “A guy barged into the store about an hour ago, took the cash from the register, then shot the owner and left.”

  “Sounds simple enough.” Monk recoiled from the construction Dumpster on the street as if it might attack him. “What did the witnesses tell you?”

  “There weren’t any,” Dozier said, turning to face Monk, who immediately raised his hand in front of his eyes again and averted his gaze. “The Dumpster behind you blocked the front door from view and the jackhammers muffled the sound of the gunshot. The owner’s wife didn’t even hear it and she was in the back room. It doesn’t matter, though, because we’ve got the whole thing on video.”

  “Then what’s the mystery?” Sharona asked.

  “We know what happened but we don’t know who the killer is. His face was hidden under a ski mask.” Dozier stood in the doorway of the antiques store, staring at Monk. “You got a problem with me?”

  “What makes you say that?” Monk said.

  “You’re shielding your eyes,” Dozier said, “like I repulse you.”

  Dozier was right. So I checked him out again and that’s when I saw it. Dozier’s fly was open.

  Monk could calmly scrutinize the gory bodies of people who’d suffered incredibly violent deaths but he couldn’t look at a guy wearing unzipped pants and showing a hint of boxer shorts.

  “I have sensitive eyes,” Monk said.

  “Your fly is open,” I said to Dozier.

  “There isn’t any equipment there he hasn’t seen since the day he was born,” Dozier said, glancing down at himself.

  “It’s the open zipper itself that bothers him,” Sharona said. “If you’d missed a button on your shirt, he’d be reacting the same way.”

  “I heard you were odd,” Dozier said to Monk.

  “Actually, I’m even,” Monk said, still shielding himself. “You will be, too, once you zip up.”

  “I used that Porta Potti earlier and I guess I was in a hurry to get out.” Dozier reached down, yanked up his zipper and strode into the store. “Big deal.”

  As soon as Dozier’s back was turned, I reached into my purse for a wipe.

  For me, not for Monk. I’d just remembered I’d shaken Dozier’s hand, too. I scrubbed my hands and tossed the wipe in the Dumpster and followed everyone into the antiques store.

  Nowadays people call anything more than a week old an antique. I think if you call something an antique, it should be at least twice as old as me and have some artistic value. Otherwise it’s a collectible.

  This place was definitely full of antiques. You wouldn’t find any Knightrider lunch boxes here. There were pottery, furniture, paintings and knickknacks everywhere, mostly from Europe, with price tags from three to four figures.

  Although the store was small, there was nothing dusty or dingy about it—a fact that I’m sure Monk appreciated. All the items were thoughtfully laid out and illuminated by pinpoint halogens, as if on museum display.

  The cash register was on a carved wooden desk in the front of the store to the left of the door. There was a bloodstain on the carpet and blood spatter on the wall.

  Monk glanced up at the security camera, rocked his head from side to side, then glanced at the open register.

  “Why did he hold up the store?” Monk asked.

  “Why does anybody rob a place?” Dozier said. “For the money.”

  “But this isn’t really a cash business. These are high-priced antiques,” Monk said. “People usually pay for them with credit cards.”

  “The only thing the perp saw was the expensive stuff and didn’t think it through,” Dozier said. “We
aren’t dealing with Professor Moriarty here. We’re talking about some hophead looking for cash to buy his next fix.”

  “But he was smart enough to hit a store that was obscured from view,” Monk said, “and to shoot the owner when the jackhammers were going.”

  “Trust me. You’re overthinking this,” Dozier said. “I’ve seen a hundred homicides just like it. Let me show you the video.”

  Dozier led us into the back room, a windowless, cramped space dominated by a large table covered with packing materials: UPS mailing labels, scissors, tape guns and rolls of bubble wrap. Suspended over the table were enormous bags of Styrofoam popcorn with funnels at the ends for filling the empty spaces in cardboard boxes.

  The bits of popcorn were all over the floor and tabletops, and charged with static electricity. As soon as we walked in, we had pieces of Styrofoam clinging to our ankles.

  There was a woman sitting on a stool. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose was red and her cheeks were moist from the tears. She was obviously the wife—a short, thin woman in her thirties. But even in her grief, she somehow managed to project refinement and intelligence. Perhaps it was the way she sat with her back perfectly straight, her chin up and her eyes focused on the African-American detective taking her statement. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to swipe away the two bits of Styrofoam that clung to her leg.

  In fact, I was surprised Monk hadn’t beaten me to it, but he was busy trying to shake off the popcorn that was clinging to him. Judging by Monk’s reaction, you’d think they were bloodsucking leeches instead of bits of Styrofoam.

  “You might want to step outside, Mrs. Davidoff,” Dozier said, nodding toward a VCR and monitor on a shelf. “We need to view the tape again.”

  Mrs. Davidoff stood up and regarded Monk. “Why are you wearing that mask?”

  “My sinuses,” Monk said. “I’d like to keep them.”

  That was when Monk collided with a stack of boxes piled up by the door to the alley for the UPS man. His peripheral vision wasn’t great with that mask on.

  Mrs. Davidoff caught the boxes before the stack could topple over. “Be careful,” she said. “These are fragile antiques awaiting shipment.”

  “I’m sorry,” Monk said.

  Mrs. Davidoff turned to Dozier. “The UPS man should be arriving soon. Will you allow him to pick up these boxes? If they don’t go today, they may never go. I don’t think I can ever come back to this store again.”

  “No problem,” Dozier said. “I’ll personally make sure they’re sent.”

  “Thank you,” she said and walked out with the other detective.

  “Classy lady,” Dozier said. “She’s holding up well now but she’s going to have a hard fall. I’ve seen it before.”

  Dozier turned on the TV and hit PLAY on the VCR. The video, taken from above and behind the front desk, was in crisp, clear color. There was no audio. We saw a man every bit as elegant as Mrs. Davidoff sitting at the desk, doing some paperwork. He had a bald spot on the top of his head that he tried to hide with a comb-over.

  Monk wasn’t paying much attention to the video; he was busy restacking the boxes according to size. At least it temporarily distracted him from the Styrofoam clinging to his ankles.

  I looked back at the monitor just as the robber stepped into the frame. He was tall, with big shoulders, a barrel chest and a ski mask over his face. His turtleneck sweater, ski mask and gloves were all black. Because of where the desk was situated, he was only visible from above the waist.

  Mr. Davidoff looked up. The robber held the gun sideways, the way gang members do in the movies, and motioned to the register. Mr. Davidoff opened the register and scooped out the few bills that were inside. The robber kept motioning to the register. The owner lifted out the cash tray, presumably to prove there was no more money there. And that was when the robber shot him. It was startling even without the sound.

  I looked back at Monk, who glanced up at the monitor just as the robber was running out of the store.

  “It’s a good thing Mrs. Davidoff hasn’t seen this,” Dozier said. “Imagine seeing your own spouse getting killed.”

  I could. And I have imagined that. If there’s a tape that exists of Mitch getting killed, I hope I never find out about it.

  Dozier fast-forwarded the video to the point where Mrs. Davidoff came out. According to the time code, it was five minutes after her husband was killed. She ran to her husband’s side and screamed, which was even more creepy and powerful in silence.

  “Freeze it,” Monk said.

  Dozier did. Mrs. Davidoff’s frozen, anguished image on the screen reminded me of Edvard Munch’s famous painting The Scream. Hands on her cheeks, eyes wide, mouth open in a wail from the depths of her soul.

  I knew exactly how she felt.

  Monk stepped up, stared at the screen and cocked his head one way and then the other.

  He’d solved the murder.

  I knew it and one glance at the smile on Sharona’s face told me that she knew it, too.

  “I know where you can find the man who shot Mr. Davidoff, ” Monk said.

  “You do?” Dozier said, incredulous.

  “Follow me,” Monk said.

  He walked out into the store and led us directly to Mrs. Davidoff, who was sitting on a couch, trying hard not to look at the desk where her husband was killed.

  “Mrs. Davidoff, you have Styrofoam on your ankle,” Monk said.

  She glanced at her ankle. “It’s the least of my problems.”

  “You are so wrong,” Monk said. “It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  Mrs. Davidoff reared back as if reacting to a foul stench. “My husband was killed today. You honestly think that it’s of less importance to me than some piece of boxing material on my pants? What kind of lunatic are you?”

  “He’s Adrian Monk, a homicide consultant for the San Francisco police,” Dozier said, then looked at Monk. “You’ve got Styrofoam on your pants.”

  Monk let out a little shriek and started hopping around, wiggling his leg, trying to shake off the Styrofoam.

  “He’s a little messed up,” Dozier said.

  “So I see,” she said.

  At that moment, I hated them both. Who were they to pass judgment on Adrian Monk? Dozier was grotesque and Mrs. Davidoff, despite her terrible loss, was a snooty bitch. They were hardly superior to him.

  Then again, Monk was in a gas mask hopping around on one foot. It hardly put him in the best light.

  “Arrest her,” Monk said as he hopped around. “She’s the man who shot her husband.”

  It was a strange way of saying that she was the shooter, but he made his point. It made me feel justified in hating Mrs. Davidoff.

  “That’s insane,” she said. “I was in the back room when he was killed.”

  “You saw the surveillance video,” Dozier said. “He was shot by a broad-shouldered man who is at least a foot taller than she is.”