Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out Read online

  “Neither does Monk’s accusation,” Pete said.

  “You were in Clasker’s car,” Monk said. “And then you got out.”

  “I was in the car because I’m the lead forensic investigator. I collect evidence at crime scenes. That’s my job. You have seen me do it a thousand times before. I got out of the car to give you my preliminary observations.”

  “That’s what you wanted us to think,” Monk said.

  “My God, this is truly Kafkaesque.” Pete looked imploringly at Stottlemeyer. “Are we really going to stand here and listen to this nonsense?”

  “Yes, we are,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “He’s saying I’m the killer because I was doing my job,” Pete said. “It’s insane.”

  “Here’s what happened,” Monk said. “You knew the route Clasker would take to court from his house. So you parked midway there, a few blocks off of Van Ness, and walked to Clasker’s house. You put on your clean suit and slipped into the trunk of his BMW. The clean suit served two purposes: it protected you from unintentionally leaving behind forensic evidence or any of it sticking to yourself. It also allowed you to be seen in the car after the murder without attracting suspicion. You waited until the right moment, sometime after the forensic crew arrived, to creep into the backseat again. Anyone who saw you crawling around inside the car at that point naturally assumed you were there to collect evidence, not that you had been there all along.”

  “That’s an outrageous theory without a single shred of evidence to back it up,” Pete said. “And I say that as an expert on evidence.”

  “He’s got a point, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “It won’t be hard to prove that his mortgage is with Big Country,” Monk said. “And that he’s losing his house.”

  “Me and tens of thousands of other people,” Pete said, “including half of the officers in the police department.”

  “It gives you a motive,” Monk said.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Pete said. “Because if it is, it’s laughable.”

  “I notice that you’re wearing rubber gloves now,” Monk said.

  “Of course I am,” Pete said, speaking in an intentionally patronizing tone of voice, making it clear he felt like he was dealing with a complete idiot. “It’s so investigators like me don’t contaminate the crime scene with our own fingerprints while we are doing our jobs.”

  “But you weren’t wearing rubber gloves at the crime scene,” Monk said. “You were wearing work gloves. That’s because rubber gloves are too thin. You were afraid the piano wire would slice through the gloves and into your fingers while you were garroting Clasker.”

  “No, I wore them because I didn’t want to cut myself on any unforeseen sharp objects or edges while I was reaching under seats,” Pete said, his patience gone and his every word dripping with irritation. “The other reason we professional crime scene investigators wear gloves is protection. If my gloves are the so-called evidence for your inept theory, I think it’s time that you concluded this farce and moved on to more credible lines of inquiry.”

  But I knew Monk was just building up to his “ah-ha” clue and I was sure that Stottlemeyer and Disher did, too.

  “Oh, there’s more. Do you recognize this?” Monk took a Baggie out of his pocket and held it up to Pete.

  “It looks like a toothpick to me,” he said.

  “It’s not just any toothpick,” Monk said. “It’s the one that the captain threw on the street in an act of wanton lawlessness.”

  “We were nowhere near Chinatown,” Disher said.

  “He’s talking about a different kind of wanton, Randy,” Stottlemeyer said, “though I have no idea why.”

  “I am completely lost,” Disher said. “Can we please start over from the beginning?”

  Monk glared at Pete. “Why was your car parked three blocks away from the scene?”

  “Because there was horrible traffic and I don’t have a siren,” Pete replied. “I had to take a roundabout route to the scene and grabbed the first open parking spot I found.”

  “You parked illegally, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t pay attention to the parking restrictions because I am exempt from them when I am on official police business.”

  “When you got back to your car, you found a parking ticket under your windshield wiper,” Monk said. “You crumpled up the ticket and threw it on the street. You littered. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “I was tired and irritable. I shouldn’t have thrown the ticket away, even if I didn’t have to pay it, but that doesn’t make me a killer. It makes me a litterbug.”

  “You should have looked at it first before you threw it away. Overnight parking is illegal on the street without a permit. You were cited at four forty-two a.m., several hours before you say that you arrived at the scene.” Monk took the other Baggie out of his pocket and showed him the parking ticket inside. “If you’d kept this, instead of following the captain’s shameful example and throwing it on the street, I might never have suspected that you were the murderer.”

  Pete lowered his head. He was caught and he knew it. His demeanor changed.

  “I’m losing everything. My home, my car, my savings. Even my wife left me,” Pete said. “Clasker ruined a lot of lives but he gets to keep everything in his life that I lost in mine. I couldn’t live with that.”

  “But you can live with murdering the guy,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I don’t see it as murder,” Pete said.

  “Maybe you don’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I do. And I’m betting a jury will, too. Get him out of here, Randy.”

  Disher stepped forward, handcuffed Pete, and read him his rights as he led him away.

  “That will teach him to litter,” Monk said.

  “I think the bigger crime here was murder,” Stottlemeyer said, taking the two Baggies from Monk.

  “One leads to the other,” Monk said.

  “Technically, he littered after he committed the murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “So my tossing the toothpick on the street had nothing to do with anything.”

  “Of course it did,” Monk said. “Your criminal act was still fresh in his mind when he saw that ticket on his car. He might have thought twice about littering if not for your recent example. It was that carelessness that did him in.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that,” Stottlemeyer said. “So you should thank me.”

  “For admitting you were wrong?”

  “For my wanton lawlessness. If it wasn’t for my littering, you wouldn’t have caught him,” Stottlemeyer said. “But forget it. I don’t mind. What matters is that you closed the case. You did good work, Monk. In fact, it was incredible. I feel like a bigger fool than usual for letting this one slip past me.”

  “Does this mean I get my job back?” Monk asked.

  “If it was up to me, it would, but it’s not,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m sorry.”

  The captain clapped Monk on the back and walked away.

  Monk watched him go. All the joy of solving the case was gone. The sadness was back. And so was something else. He slumped his shoulders, licked his lips, and wheezed.

  “My throat is so dry,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mr. Monk Cuts Back

  In the space of just twenty-four hours, Monk had lost his drinking water and his income. I was worried that he might be on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. So I called Dr. Bell and got Monk an emergency appointment just to be on the safe side.

  While Monk was in with his shrink, I started calling other law enforcement agencies, from local police departments to the California Department of Fish and Game, to see if they were interested in his consulting services. Ordinarily they would be, they told me, but now they were all in as bad as or worse financial shape than the SFPD.

  So I started approaching private security firms.

  The last time Monk got fired, he immediately snagged a cushy position at Intertect, a slick high-tech detecti
ve agency. He even got a liberal expense account, a company car, and full medical coverage.

  Unfortunately, Intertect went out of business and the other agencies in the Bay Area were making desperate efforts to cut their costs. I tried to convince them that one Adrian Monk was worth fifty Sam Spades, but nobody was buying my pitch.

  So when Dr. Bell emerged from his office for a break after two hours of counseling Monk, I was nearly as distraught as his patient and told him so.

  Dr. Bell sat down in the chair across from me. “Of course you’re feeling some anxiety, Natalie. It’s not just Adrian’s livelihood that’s at stake. It’s yours, too.”

  “How is Mr. Monk doing?”

  “He’s much better now,” Dr. Bell said. “He’s curled up in the fetal position on my couch, clutching a bottle of Summit Creek to his chest and sobbing tearlessly.”

  “That’s an improvement?”

  “I came out here to see if you had a line on a few job openings yet to give him some hope.”

  “He doesn’t believe in hope.”

  “He says he doesn’t but really he does. Hope is what has kept him going through all the adversity he’s faced over the years, whether he admits it or not.”

  “Unfortunately, Doctor, I don’t have any hope to give him. There are no jobs available for out-of-work detectives, no matter how brilliant they are.”

  “You’ll find something for him. But you might have to widen your search outside of his comfort zone,” Dr. Bell said.

  “Anything outside of his front door is outside his comfort zone. I’m not even sure he has a comfort zone. You should know that better than anybody.”

  “I’m confident that there’s a job out there that’s right for a man of his considerable skills and that you will find it. In the meantime, he’s going to be relying on you more now than ever before.”

  “I don’t know if I’m up to it, Doctor.”

  “All you have to do is be there. Everything is changing around him. But he knows you’re the one thing he can always count on.”

  “He said that?”

  “He doesn’t have to,” Dr. Bell said. “And I suspect you feel the same way about him.”

  “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me. I can’t afford it. Let’s concentrate on Mr. Monk.”

  “Fair enough. This crisis could ultimately turn out to be a very positive experience for him. He can learn that change often is another word for opportunity.”

  “That sounds nice on a fortune cookie but I’m not sure it’s true, at least not in my life.”

  Monk emerged from the office, still clutching the bottle of water. “I think it would be a good idea if I spent the night here. Perhaps the entire week.”

  “I have other patients, Adrian.”

  “They won’t mind,” Monk said.

  “Yes, they will,” Dr. Bell said.

  “Then it’s too bad for them,” Monk said. “I’m more important to you than they are.”

  “I care equally about all of my patients.”

  “But me more equally.”

  “I also have a life of my own,” Dr. Bell said.

  “You can go on with it,” Monk said. “You won’t even notice I’m there.”

  “You don’t need me now, Adrian.” Dr. Bell stood up. “I’m confident that you can handle this on your own until our next appointment.”

  “You’re probably right,” Monk said. “I can hold on until five.”

  “Our next appointment is the day after tomorrow.”

  Monk made a little squeaking sound. Dr. Bell walked to the front door and held it open for us.

  “Think of this as an investigation,” Dr. Bell said. “But instead of solving a crime and looking for the perpetrator, you’ll be looking for new opportunities and, ultimately, finding yourself.”

  We walked outside onto the street. We stood side by side for a moment in silence. Then Monk looked at me.

  “Did that make any sense to you?”

  “None at all,” I replied.

  “It’s nice to know I’m not alone on that.”

  “You’re definitely not alone, Mr. Monk.” I slipped my arm around his and we walked to my car.

  As soon as we got back to Monk’s house, he immediately started cleaning. He scrubbed the floors and countertops, dusted every shelf, washed every window, disinfected all the doorknobs, shined the lightbulbs, and vacuumed the ceilings. It was how he handled stress. He found all the cleaning very calming.

  While he occupied himself with that, I called anybody I could think of who did any kind of investigating, from insurance companies to home inspection services. I called the city editor at the San Francisco Chronicle and told them that they ought to put Monk on the Sebes case, but they weren’t interested in his services.

  Nobody was.

  So I followed Dr. Bell’s advice and widened my job search outside of detectives. I called the folks at Diaper Genie and urged them to hire Monk, their biggest fan, to market their innovative product. He was, after all, the one who nominated the inventor of the diaper disposal unit for a Nobel Prize.

  As much as the Diaper Genie people appreciated Monk’s enthusiasm, and his fervent belief that their dirty- diaper-bagging gizmo should be used for disposing of all household trash, they just didn’t have a position for him.

  By the time I finished that call, it was already six p.m. and, with no murders to investigate, my workday was over.

  Monk joined me at the dining room table carrying two teaspoons of water and offered me one.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  He sipped from one spoon and then the other. “Have you found us any work?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, you can stop now. I’ve come up with a plan of action.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m going to volunteer to consult for the police for free until they can afford me again.”

  “We talked about that the last time they fired you,” I said. “What’s their incentive for paying you if they know you’ll do it for nothing?”

  “I’ll take that chance. I have some money saved up.”

  “It could be a long time before they can afford outside consultants again,” I said. “For all we know, it could even be a year or more. Do you have that much money set aside to support yourself and me?”

  “Hell no,” he said. “That’s why you’re going to have to take a significant pay cut.”

  “How significant?”

  “You’ll be assisting me pro bono.”

  “I see,” I said, trying not to lose my temper. “And how am I supposed to pay my bills?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to work nights at a part-time job.”

  “I need a full-time job.”

  “I am a full-time job.”

  “You certainly are,” I said. “But you aren’t going to pay me.”

  “Don’t be so selfish and materialistic. There are more important things in life than money.”

  “Like assisting you, for instance.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s like a higher calling.”

  “What about my obligations as a mother to support and care for my daughter?”

  “Julie is not a child anymore. She’s nearly eighteen. It’s time she got a job, enjoyed some independence, and learned the skills she’s going to need to live on her own. You’ve coddled her for too long.”

  Monk was right about Julie, not that he knew anything about raising a kid or even living on his own. And, as much as I hated to admit it, even to myself, he was right about me.

  I was a widow, Julie was my only child, and I liked having her near me. I didn’t want to let her go. I’d been spoiling her and keeping her too close, limiting her independence out of my own neediness.

  And Julie, being a very smart kid, probably knew that and, as much as she chafed against my overprotectiveness, found ways to use it to her advantage. The conversation we had last night proved that to me.

  I had to agree with Monk. It wa
s time for Julie to get a job, if for no other reason than to gain some work experience and learn that money isn’t easy to come by.

  But that didn’t mean I accepted Monk’s argument and was ready to work a graveyard shift in some menial job just so I could devote my days to doting on him.

  I knew how much Monk needed me, especially now, but I had to put my family first. If he couldn’t afford to pay me, I would have to find a new job, regardless of the consequences for him.

  But I didn’t want to deal with it right at that moment. It had been a long day for both of us. Putting off a decision for another day or two, until I saw how things were shaking out, wouldn’t make a difference.

  “Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve got to get going before the bike shop closes.”

  “Okay, but my mind is made up,” he said.

  “It usually is,” I said.

  I left Monk’s place, dropped off Julie’s bike, and stopped at Mama Petrocelli’s to pick up a pizza on my way home.

  I could never walk into the place without Warren Horowitz, the fortysomething owner, flirting with me and begging me to work for him again. I’d waited tables there fifteen years ago right after he bought the place from the Petrocellis. Warren still used their recipes, though he’d added a “Matzorella Pizza” to the menu just to make the place his own.

  “If you won’t work for me,” Warren said, “the least you could do is marry me.”

  “It’s tempting,” I said. “But I think I’ll take a salami pizza to go instead.”

  “Hebrew National or Italian?”

  “Italian,” I said.

  “You’re breaking my heart, Natalie,” he said.

  “I’m making a sacrifice so you’ll marry a nice Jewish girl.”

  “Have you been talking to my mother?”

  I left without getting engaged, set the pizza out on the kitchen table when I got home, and found Julie in her room, video-chatting with three of her friends at once on her Mac.

  She and her friends were sharing video clips and watching them together from afar. Well, not that far. Two of the three girls Julie was iChatting with lived right around the corner.

  I would have preferred that she hung out with her friends in person rather than sitting at her computer looking at their faces on a screen. Video-chatting seemed emotionally distant and totally unnecessary when it was possible to actually meet in person without much effort. She didn’t agree. I know because we’d argued about it a dozen times.