Mr. Monk on Patrol (27 page)

Morse smiled when she saw me. “Hello, Natalie. Where’s Adrian?”

“He’s on the sidewalk, a safe distance away. He’d like to talk with you but he hasn’t bought into your circle-of-poop philosophy enough yet to overcome his revulsion of everything in this store.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t expect him to change completely overnight,” she said. “But I was encouraged by his willingness to keep an open mind on the matter.”

“I was shocked,” I said.

“I think you underestimate him.”

“I think I underestimated you.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I said.

She took a deep breath and came closer to me. “Did I say or do something to offend you last night?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that question, besides knowing that I didn’t want to tell her the truth. So I took the easy way out.

“Oh no. I’m sorry if I came across that way,” I said. “I was just jet-lagged, frustrated, and angry at the world. It was nothing personal. I had a wonderful time.”

“That’s good to hear, because I was afraid that maybe you thought I was making moves on your man and resented me for it.”

“My man?” I laughed. “Whatever gave you that idea? There’s no romance whatsoever between us. He’s my boss and my friend and that’s as far as it goes.”

“You don’t want it to go further?”

“Hell no,” I said.

“I’m surprised you’re so vehement about it,” she said. “Is it because he already has someone special?”

“Nope, there’s no one else,” I said. “He’s just not my type.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, but without much conviction. “He’s really a remarkable man.”

“Well, Mr. Remarkable is waiting outside to talk with you,” I said. “If we keep him waiting much longer, he might start painting lines on the sidewalk to keep people walking on the proper sides.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” she said.

I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not, because she made the comment as she was headed for the door. But it was obvious that she was attracted to Monk. I was very curious to see how he would respond. He wasn’t accustomed to women being interested in him and, to be honest, neither was I, though I had tried to set him up with a crime scene cleaner once. That didn’t work out so well.

When we got outside, we found Monk helping a man parallel park his Range Rover. Monk had his tape measure out and was standing between the huge car and the MINI Cooper behind it.

“Two and three-quarters inches more,” Monk said. The man turned off the ignition and put the car in
PARK
. Monk knocked on the window. “You aren’t done yet.”

The driver got out and locked the car with his key fob remote. He was in his fifties and looked like he’d just come from the golf course.

“Thanks for your help, Officer, but it’s fine,” the man said.

“You’ve still got two and three-quarters inches to go,” Monk said.

“I don’t think so,” the man said, stepping onto the sidewalk in front of us.

“It says so right here.” Monk held up the tape measure. “Your car is unevenly parked.”

“It’s fine,” the man said and strode into the Buttercup Pantry café.

Monk took out his ticket book.

“You’re not honestly going to ticket him,” I said.

“He’s parked haphazardly,” Monk said.

“Let’s let him off with a warning,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because Ellen is here to talk with you and we’ve got to get back to the station.”

Monk seemed to notice Morse for the first time and immediately got flustered. He put his ticket book back.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Morse,” Monk said. “I got caught up in my duty.”

“It’s quite all right,” she said. “But if you don’t start calling me Ellen, I’m going to be hurt.”

“I have something for you.” Monk stepped over to the café and picked up the Rubik’s Cube that he’d set down on one of the outdoor tables. “I got this for you in New York City.”

He presented it to her in both hands, like it was a rare and fragile object. She took it from him with the same grace.

“Is this a Rubik’s Cube?” she asked.

“I hear that some people find the puzzle challenging,” Monk said.

“But you don’t,” she said.

“I just like looking at it. I find all those squares soothing and thought you might, too.”

“Thank you, Adrian,” she said.

“I need to be honest with you,” he said. “There’s a defect.”

“Eight corners with three colored faces,” Morse said.

Monk gave me a nasty look, then turned back to her. “I’m ashamed to say I’ve never noticed that until today.”

“But you have such an incredible eye for detail,” she said.

“I suppose that I get lost in the beauty and simplicity of the squares and it blinds me to everything else,” Monk said. “I won’t mind if you throw it out.”

“Never,” Morse said. “I will treasure it.”

“You don’t mind the defect?” Monk asked.

“I’m touched by the gift but even more by the sentiment that came with it,” she said and kissed Monk on the cheek. “I’d better get back. There’s no one minding the store.”

And we all know how attractive ossified poop is to shoplifters,
I thought.

Morse smiled and walked back to the store. Monk stood still, eyes wide, and stared at her as she went.

“Why did she do that?” he said.

“Because you told her that you think that she’s beautiful despite whatever faults she may have.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said.

“Yes, you did,” I said and walked past him on my way to the police station.

Men are such idiots,
I thought. But then I realized from the look on Monk’s face that this time I had actually said what I was thinking out loud.

We found Disher in his office, looking weary and frustrated as he sorted through a mountain of paperwork.

“How did it go in the city?” he asked.

“We met an agent from Homeland Security,” I replied. “She used some slick facial recognition software and had no trouble finding Joel Goldman on surveillance camera footage arriving at and departing from Penn Station when he said he did.”

“So Goldman may end up being responsible for the murder,” Disher said, “but we’ve proven without a doubt that he didn’t commit it himself.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Monk said.

“I would,” Disher said. “I had a tech-savvy buddy in the crime lab in Frisco look at the webinar. He says the video hasn’t been touched. Joel Goldman was at his desk, in front of that wall, looking into that camera.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” Monk said.

“A man can’t be in two places at once, Monk. And I can tell you for certain that he doesn’t have a twin brother.”

“You checked?” I said.

“Of course I did. How do you think I became the chief of police? I also had Officers DeSoto and Corbin talk to Goldman’s neighbors to see if they saw anything going on that morning. Turns out one of ’em saw a beat-up, rusted-out brown van parked on the corner by Goldman’s house around noon and a couple of guys in painter’s overalls and caps hurrying out of the backyard.”

“That’s a good lead,” I said. “Did the neighbor get a look at their faces?”

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.