Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out (14 page)

“The hell he is,” Stottlemeyer said.

We both watched Monk as he took a pot from one of Stottlemeyer’s kitchen cabinets, set it on the stove, and began pouring bottled water into it, turning his face away as if it was raw sewage.

“He’s been evicted because Bob Sebes didn’t pay his rent,” I said. “He needs a place to stay while he works things out.”

“Why can’t he stay with you?”

“Because they are hemorrhaging,” Monk said.

“Excuse me?” Stottlemeyer said.

“The women and the hamster,” Monk said. “It’s not safe.”

Monk took the bottle of bleach, opened it, and squeezed a couple of drops into the pot of water.

“What about your brother? He’s got a big house with plenty of room.”

“A house he hasn’t left in nearly thirty years,” Monk said. “You know why?”

“He’s agoraphobic,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Which is a fancy way of saying that he is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. How would you like to be cooped up with a nut?”

Stottlemeyer gave me a look. “I wouldn’t like it at all.”

“You said you’d be here for Mr. Monk if he needed you, Captain. Now he needs you.”

Monk turned up the flame under the pot of water.

“What are you doing?” Stottlemeyer asked him.

“It was too late to buy water purification tablets, so I am cleaning the water myself. It should be reasonably safe to rinse with it, and perhaps drink a few sips, after I bring it to a boil for five minutes, let it cool down, and then strain it through a coffee filter.”

Stottlemeyer glanced at me. “Monk is cleaning bottled water.”

“I can see that,” I said.

“He’s only been here two minutes and that is what he’s doing.”

“Which proves that I’m not going to be any trouble at all,” Monk said. “I can take care of myself.”

Stottlemeyer rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Okay, here’s the deal. You can stay with me for a couple of days until you get your life sorted out.”

“Thank you, Leland.”

“But—and this is a big
but
—I am not going to make any changes to my home or to my lifestyle to accommodate you. Do you understand?”

“No,” Monk said.

“My home, my rules,” Stottlemeyer said.

“May I see a copy?”

“A copy of what?”

“Your rules,” Monk said.

“I don’t have them written down.”

“Then how do you expect people to follow them?”

“There really is only one rule. It’s my way or the highway. Don’t try to change anything about me or my home. I am who I am and I don’t want my place Monked.”

“What does that mean?” Monk looked at me, baffled.

I shrugged like I was baffled, too, but I wasn’t. I knew exactly what Stottlemeyer was talking about. That’s why I didn’t want Monk staying with me ever again.

“What I’m saying is that I don’t want you to make yourself comfortable,” Stottlemeyer explained.

“You want me to be uncomfortable.”

“That’s right, because if you are, then I’ll know for sure that you haven’t Monked anything.” Stottlemeyer led us down the short hall to the guest room, where there were two single beds and a bureau. “This is where my boys stay when they’re here. You can have whichever bed you want.”

“Do you have fresh sheets?”

“Those are fresh.”

“They’ve never been slept on?”

“Not since they’ve been washed.”

Monk nodded. “Do you have any fresh sheets?”

“If you’re asking me if I have any brand-new, unopened, vacuum-sealed bedding in its original packaging, then the answer is no, I do not.”

Monk nodded again. “So where am I going to sleep?”

“You have your choice of those beds, the couch, the recliner, the floor, or the sidewalk.”

Monk turned to me and whispered: “Help.”

I patted him on the back. “Everything is going to be fine, Mr. Monk. Good night.”

I went to the door. Both Monk and Stottlemeyer hurried after me.

“What time are you coming back tomorrow?” Monk said.

“I’m not sure that I will be.” I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

The captain chased after me. “What does that mean?”

“We’ll see how things go.”

“What things?”

I’d already had this conversation once that night and I wasn’t going to have it again. Monk and Stottlemeyer could both live without me for a while.

“Sweet dreams,” I said, gave him a little wave, and took off down the stairwell.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mr. Monk and the Never-Ending Nightmare

T
he next morning I slept in, made myself a bagel and cream cheese, and read the newspaper. Julie met some friends for coffee before she went to work. I wished that she could have found something more stimulating for a summer job than washing cars but I knew how tight the job market was lately. I was worried that I might have to grab a towel and join her.

Instead of looking forward to a day of solitude and relaxation, I felt my anxiety rising, a trembling sensation in my midsection that jacked up my pulse and made my throat dry.

Where would I find us another job? I was fresh out of luck and inspiration. I’d have to search want ads and job-hunting Web sites just like the tens of thousands of other people in the Bay Area who were unemployed.

But first, I’d start by applying for unemployment benefits. That couple of hundred dollars a week could mean the difference between keeping our house and losing it. At least I had that—what was Monk going to do?

As if on cue, someone knocked at my front door. I flung the door open, certain that I was going to find Monk standing on my porch. But it wasn’t him.

It was Stottlemeyer.

“You have got to find Monk another place to stay,” he said.

There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was a mess. He looked like he’d rolled right out of bed and into his clothes without bothering to shower or shave.

“Why do I have to do anything?” I asked, stepping aside to let him in.

“Because you’re his assistant.”

“Not anymore. You should know that better than anybody.”

“Okay. Then
we
have to find him somewhere else to go, because if he stays with me, I’ll kill him, and that could really hurt my career as a homicide detective.”

“How did it go last night?”

“How do you think it went?” He paced in front of my couch, his hands shoved in the pockets of his wrinkled slacks.

“I don’t know. You laid down some pretty strict ground rules that didn’t leave much wiggle room for him to cause trouble.”

“I thought so, too. After you left, he wanted to talk with me about the Haxby murder, so I said good night and went right back to bed.”

“That was nice of you.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“You could have talked with Mr. Monk about his troubles and offered him some sympathy and advice. The man just lost everything he has except you and me. He’s feeling very scared and vulnerable right now.”

“We’re men. We don’t sit around whining. We take action.”

“Like running into your room, closing the door, and hiding under your sheets, hoping the problem goes away.”

“I had a long day and I was tired.”

I sat down on the couch. “So far it doesn’t sound to me like you had such an awful night.”

“Hell began at daybreak,” he said.

“That could be the title of a western.”

“More like a disaster movie,” he said, and then he told me his story.

Stottlemeyer woke up at dawn because he had to go to the bathroom. Still half asleep and not accustomed to having guests, he’d completely forgotten that Monk was in his apartment.

He went into the bathroom, stood in front of the toilet, and began to pee when someone screamed.

Stottlemeyer yelped and staggered back, stunned to discover Monk lying in the bathtub, fully dressed.

“What are you doing in there?” Stottlemeyer demanded, turning back to the toilet and continuing to empty his bladder.

“Stop,” Monk screamed. “For God’s sake,
stop
.”

It took Stottlemeyer a moment to remember why Monk was at his apartment, but it still didn’t explain why Monk was in the bathtub, curled into the fetal position, and hiding his face in his hands.

“I pee, you pee, everybody pees, especially in their own bathroom toilets.”

“Not in front of other people!”

“Men pee in front of other men all the time.”

“And those men are in lunatic asylums where they belong. It’s barbaric! Inhuman! Disgusting!”

Stottlemeyer pulled up his sweats and flushed the toilet. “Haven’t you ever been in a men’s room and seen the row of urinals?”

“Once,” Monk said.

“Haven’t you ever used one?”

“Never,” Monk said.

“But you are familiar with what urinals are and how they are used.”

“I am also familiar with cannibalism but that doesn’t mean I engage in the practice.”

“What happened here is your own fault for hiding in my bathtub.”

“I was sleeping,” Monk said. “Or at least trying to.”

“Why in my bathtub?”

“Because it is a contained area, comprised of tile and fiberglass, with a curtain for privacy. I was able to thoroughly clean the tub with a minimum of effort. I didn’t think some insane barbarian would come running in and urinate all over the place.”

“You startled me,” Stottlemeyer said. “Besides, what did you think the toilet was for? Decoration?”

“You should have knocked first!”

“The bathroom door was open.”

“It makes no difference! Before you relieve yourself you are required to take every possible precaution so that innocent bystanders aren’t placed in physical danger or traumatized for life.”

“It’s my bathroom,” Stottlemeyer said.

“And now it’s my never-ending nightmare.”

My laughter interrupted Stottlemeyer’s story. He stopped pacing and glowered at me.

“It’s not funny, Natalie.”

“It is hilarious,” I said.

“Not if it’s happening to you.”

It took me a moment to catch my breath. “That’s the beauty of it. I’m always the one it’s happening to. I never get to be the one who hears about it from a safe distance.”

Stottlemeyer nodded and sat down next to me. “You have a point.”

“So, where did you leave it with him?”

“I’m letting Monk clean my entire apartment, but I told him he couldn’t throw out anything without my approval first,” he said. “We have to get him back into his place.”

“How do you suggest we do that? Mr. Monk is broke and owes three months of back rent.”

“Hire a lawyer. What the landlord is doing can’t be legal.”

“Mr. Monk can’t afford a lawyer,” I said. “If you’re so sure the landlord is breaking the law, arrest him.”

“I can’t.”

“But he probably doesn’t know that. Maybe you can convince him to at least let you in to get Mr. Monk some water, sheets, and fresh clothes.”

Stottlemeyer glanced at me. “You might have better luck with that.”

“You’re big and brawny and have a badge.”

“You have a pretty face and cleavage. You might even get dinner and a date out of it.”

“He’s missing a tooth,” I said.

“So?”

“Would
you
date a woman who is missing teeth?”

“It depends on how many,” he said.

“You’re that desperate?”

Stottlemeyer sighed and got to his feet. “Sadly, yes.”

“I’ll go see the landlord, but I’m doing it just because I feel sorry for you.”

“Thanks,” the captain said.

“But if it doesn’t work, it’s your turn.”

“You have a deal.” Stottlemeyer went to the door. “While you’re doing that, I’ll call around and see if I can find some legal aid agency that will take on Monk’s case.”

I got up and went to the door with him. “You’d do that for him?”

“I’d take a bullet for Monk,” Stottlemeyer said and walked out.

And I knew, regardless of how casually he tried to say it, that he meant it.

I went to Monk’s apartment and met with the landlord, Phoef Sutton, who must have lost the tooth when somebody slugged him. I don’t know that for sure, but since I wanted to slug him, I figured others before me had experienced the urge, too.

Phoef was in his midthirties, wore tortoiseshell-framed glasses, a vintage bowling shirt, cargo pants, and canvas tennis shoes. He had carefully maintained stubble on his pale cheeks and seemed quite taken with himself, which also made me want to smack him.

We met in his apartment, which was decorated in prints and movie posters from the 1970s and furnished with reproduction sofas, lamps, and tables from the same era.

He refused to let me into Monk’s apartment to get any of his things, despite my winning smile and the extra button I’d opened on my blouse.

“Depriving that crazy man of access to his possessions is an incentive to get him to pay his overdue rent,” Phoef said. “Without that leverage, I doubt that the cheapskate will ever pay.”

“He’s been a good tenant,” I said. “He’s quiet, clean, and courteous.”

“One day, he stripped all the odd numbers off of the apartment doors, and when I confronted him about it, he said it was no different than rescuing people from a burning building.”

“That was an isolated incident.”

“He circulated a petition to have the tenant in the apartment above his evicted because one of his legs was amputated.”

“Perhaps Mr. Monk has made a few mistakes, but you have no right to lock him out of his apartment and deprive him of his possessions,” I said. “He’ll sue you.”

Phoef laughed in my face. “If he had the money for lawyers, he would have paid his rent. I’ll unlock his doors the day the back rent is paid and the moving trucks show up. Otherwise, I’ll auction off his belongings to settle his debts.”

I didn’t punch him.

Instead, I acted in a reasonable and thoughtful manner. I waited until dark, broke into Monk’s apartment, and stole a set of sheets, a change of clothes, and as many bottles of water as I could carry.

I dropped them off that same night at Stottlemeyer’s apartment. The captain wasn’t back from work yet and Monk was very happy to see me. He was wearing an apron and gloves and holding a mop when I arrived. I could see all of the furniture was pushed up against the wall alongside dozens of moving boxes, each securely taped shut.

“What is all that?” I asked, gesturing to the boxes.

“Garbage,” Monk said. “The captain wouldn’t let me throw anything out without his approval first.”

“It looks like you’ve packed up everything he owns.”

“There was a toxic spill this morning. Nothing could be saved. You don’t want to know.”

I didn’t tell him that I already did, nor that he was right about it being knowledge that I didn’t want to have. I gave him the stuff that I’d stolen from his apartment but I told him that I’d talked Phoef into giving it to me.

Monk nodded. “Here’s what happened. You covered the kitchen window of my apartment with a towel to protect your hand and muffle the sound while you broke the glass with your fist. You unlocked the latch and climbed in, took only what you could grab in two minutes and hold in both hands, and ran out the back door.”

I stared at him. “How did you know that?”

“It’s obvious. The evid—”

“Never mind,” I interrupted. “It was a dumb thing to ask you.”

“Don’t you want to hear my summation?”

“There’s no need. You got me. I confess.”

“But you don’t know how I knew how you did it.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Are you going to call the police?”

“A conviction for breaking and entering could lead to imprisonment and ruin your chances of finding future employment, plus you were mentally and emotionally incapacitated by your female troubles, so I won’t press charges . . .”

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“. . . on the condition that you let me do my summation.”

“There’s nobody here to be impressed by it.”

“There’s you,” he said.

So I let him do his summation. He gleefully, and I thought rather smugly, pointed out all of the dumb mistakes that I’d made committing what I thought was the perfect crime. But there’s no reason you have to know about them—I’m embarrassed enough as it is.

I learned something, though, from the experience. Now I know what it feels like to be unmasked by the greatest detective on earth.

It’s humiliating.

And makes you want to murder somebody.

Him.