Mr. Monk in Outer Space

by Goldberg, Lee

  “I’m confused and I’ve had plenty of caffeine,” I said. “What do Stipe and the cabbie have to do with it?”

  “They were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Monk said. “After shooting Lorber, the hit man walked a few blocks away and hailed a taxi to the airport. The same taxi then picked up Stipe and took him to his hotel.”

  “We know all that,” Stottlemeyer said. “What we don’t know is why the hit man came back from wherever he went and killed the cabbie and Stipe.”

  “The cabbie could identify him,” Disher said.

  “But Stipe couldn’t,” I said.

  “I think that the hit man left something incriminating behind in the cab,” Monk said. “Something that both the cabbie and Stipe saw and that could tie the hit man to Lorber’s murder.”

  “But Lorber wasn’t murdered,” I said. “The hit man killed the cabbie and Stipe just so they couldn’t tie him to a murder that never happened.”

  “Yes,” Monk said.

  “But he knew the Special Desecration Unit would be relentlessly pursuing him,” Disher said, “and that once we took him down, he would do hard time. That was too terrifying for him to contemplate.”

  “What was the incriminating thing that the hit man left behind?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “I don’t know,” Monk said. “But he somehow found out that the next rider in the cab was Conrad Stipe and that he was in town for a Beyond Earth convention. So he disguised himself as Mr. Snork and made sure he was seen shooting Stipe in front of cameras and witnesses. He wanted to be sure we’d go looking for the killer in the wrong direction.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re saying the whole Beyond Earth thing was nothing but a distraction and that Stipe was killed simply because he picked the wrong cab to take him to his hotel.”

  “It’s all about Brandon Lorber,” Monk said. “We need to find out who wanted him dead and hired a hit man to do the deed.”

  “But there are so many people with a reason to want Stipe dead,” Disher said.

  “The hit man got lucky,” Monk said.

  “If the hit man hadn’t killed Stipe and the cabbie, the worst thing he could go down for would be desecrating a corpse,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “That’s a big crime,” Disher insisted.

  “Not as big as murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re making a lot of leaps here, based on nothing but chewing gum and candy wrappers, especially without the incriminating item you’re guessing is at the center of all this. Are you sure you’re right?”

  “Always,” Monk said.

  If the shooter was a professional killer, it certainly explained why Mr. Snork looked so relaxed when he shot Stipe and why his aim was so good. But it also proved something else that struck Monk a lot closer to home.

  “Not always, Mr. Monk,” I said. “Lieutenant Disher isn’t the only person you owe an apology. You owe Ambrose one, too.”

  “I don’t see why,” Monk said.

  “Ambrose gave you an important clue and you ignored it.”

  “What clue was that?” Disher asked.

  I looked sternly at Monk. If he didn’t tell them, I would and he knew it.

  “The hit man was wearing a season-one Beyond Earth uniform with season-two ears,” Monk said. “The reason they didn’t match was because the killer didn’t know any of the insignificant details about the show.”

  “Isn’t that how you usually solve cases, by noticing the seemingly insignificant details the killer missed?” I said.

  “That’s different,” Monk said.

  “No, it isn’t. This uniform mismatch proves that the killer wasn’t a real Beyond Earth fan. Ambrose also noticed that the uniform was new, which helps prove that the killer bought it the day of the shooting.”

  Monk glared at me. “Thanks for pouring extra antiseptic in my wound.”

  “The correct phrase is ‘rubbing salt in the wound,’ ” Disher said.

  “Nobody would ever rub a wound with salt,” Monk said. “It doesn’t clean or disinfect.”

  “But it would be extremely painful,” Disher said.

  “So would hacking off your arm with an ax,” Monk said. “But I don’t see what that has to do with Natalie trying to embarrass me in front of my employer.”

  “That’s not what I was doing,” I said. “I was standing up for your brother.”

  “Is he here?” Monk asked me pointedly.

  “Of course not,” I said. “He never leaves the house. That’s why I had to stand up for him.”

  “I see,” Monk said. “So are you working for him now or for me?”

  I had never seen that look in Monk’s eyes before, at least not directed at me. It was pure anger. I realized that I’d crossed a line with him.

  “For you,” I said. “I hope.”

  My pulse quickened. I might have just smart-assed my way right out of the best job I’d ever had.

  But Monk didn’t say anything to relieve my anxiety. He just turned and walked out of the captain’s office.

  “What did I just do?” I asked Stottlemeyer and Disher.

  “Relax,” Stottlemeyer said. “You weren’t any harder on him than Sharona was.”

  “She was a real hard case,” Disher said. “She didn’t let Monk get away with anything.”

  “And now she’s gone,” I said.

  “Monk didn’t fire her,” Stottlemeyer said. “She escaped.”

  “That doesn’t mean he won’t fire me.”

  “Monk has his insecurities—thousands of them, in fact—but he also has an enormous ego,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s healthy for him to be reminded that he can’t ignore other people’s feelings and that he isn’t the center of everybody’s world.”

  “I’m sure there are a lot of bosses that need to hear that.” I turned to Disher. “When was the last time you told the captain he was insensitive and wasn’t giving somebody else enough credit for their work?”

  Disher shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I don’t need to because he’s never done that.”

  “Kiss-ass,” I said.

  “Monk needs you, Natalie, and not just to drive him around and hand him disinfectant wipes,” Stottlemeyer said. “He knows that.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said and went out to look for my boss.

  I caught up with Monk outside, where he was walking down the street, tapping each parking meter that he passed.

  “Where are you going, Mr. Monk?”

  “I’m wandering aimlessly to Burgerville headquarters. ”

  I didn’t bother to point out that if he knew exactly where he was going he wasn’t wandering or aimless. A half hour ago I would have.

  “What’s there?”

  “Andrew Cahill, the company’s acting CEO,” Monk said. “I want to talk with him.”

  “I could drive you,” I said. “We’d get there a lot faster.”

  “So you can embarrass me in front of a possible suspect in the murder scheme?” Monk said. “I don’t think so.”

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Mr. Monk,” I said. “And if I did, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re supposed to watch my back,” Monk said. “Not stab it. You know how vulnerable I am now that I’ve been uprooted from my home and thrust into the unknown.”

  “You’re staying with your brother,” I said. “How is that the unknown?”

  I’d spoken without thinking and immediately regretted my confrontational tone.

  Monk stopped. “There you go again, questioning everything I do, contradicting everything I say.”

  “I do not,” I said.

  He gave me a look and started walking again. I caught up with him.

  “Okay, right then, yes, I contradicted you, but I don’t do it all the time. I only said what I said in the captain’s office to help you.”

  “How could pointing out my failings in front of the people who pay me to be perfect possibly help me?”

  “First off, they d
on’t expect you to be perfect. You put that pressure entirely on yourself,” I said. “I was trying to bring you closer to your brother.”

  “I didn’t hire you for that,” he said.

  “You hired me to be your assistant and to make life as easy for you as possible. At least I think that’s what I’m supposed to do, though you’ve never come out and said it. That’s left me pretty much on my own to figure out how best to do that for you.”

  “I’ve given you lists,” he said.

  “Of your phobias,” I said. “Knowing that you’re afraid of throw pillows, diving boards, and dust bunnies doesn’t give me a whole lot to go on. I believe that one way of making your life easier is by improving your relationship with your brother.”

  “We get along great,” he said.

  “You never see each other.”

  “That’s why,” he said.

  “He needs you, Mr. Monk, and I believe you need him.”

  “So now you’re a family therapist,” he said.

  “I know you’re both lonely and that you don’t have to be,” I said. “It hurts me to see that.”

  He stopped again. “It does?”

  “Of course it does, Mr. Monk.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like to see the people I care about unhappy,” I said.

  “You care about me?”

  “You’re much more than just a boss to me,” I said. “Assuming I still work for you.”

  “Of course you do,” Monk said.

  I sighed with relief. “Thank you, Mr. Monk.”

  “But I’m glad to know I’m much more than a boss to you,” he said.

  “Because I’m more than an employee to you?”

  "Because this isn’t just a job,” Monk said. “It’s a lifetime commitment.”

  21

  Mr. Monk Goes to Burgerville

  Monk faced the revolving door as if confronting an old enemy. He squinted at it and jiggled his arms at his sides. There was no way he was going through that doorway again.

  “You look like a marshal staring down a gunfighter and waiting to draw your gun,” I said.

  “I should have known when I saw this that Brandon Lorber was the kind of man who’d rip off his employees and destroy their futures.”

  I waved to Archie Applebaum, who was sitting at his guard desk in the center of the lobby. He got up and came over. He held up his security card key for me to indicate that he knew I wanted him to let us in.

  “Because he had a revolving door in his lobby?” I asked Monk.

  “He clearly enjoyed the suffering of others,” Monk said. “What other purpose would there be for making people endure that?”

  “Maybe so that they could get in and out of the building faster and he could conserve the heat and air-conditioning in his lobby.”

  Monk snorted. “You’re so naïve.”

  Archie slid his card through the reader on the security door, held it open for us, and motioned us inside.

  The security door was only used after hours and for the handicapped, but it was the only way Monk was going in or out of the building.

  “Welcome back,” Archie said. “Leland called and said you might be coming down. What can we do for you?”

  “We’d like to talk to Andrew Cahill,” I said.

  “I’ll call up and see if he’s willing to see you,” Archie said.

  “Up?” Monk said.

  “He’s on the tenth floor,” Archie said.

  “Please ask him if he’ll come down to see us,” I said.

  “No,” Monk said. “We want to go up.”

  “That’s a lot of stairs, Mr. Monk,” I said.

  “I want to see him in his office.”

  Archie went to his desk, made the call, then came back over. “He’ll be glad to see you.”

  He walked us over to the stairs, unlocked the door, and held it open.

  “You’re awfully security-minded here,” Monk said.

  “This is the corporate headquarters of a national chain,” Archie said. “We attract a lot of kooks.”

  “Does everybody have a shredder in their office?” Monk asked.

  “Of course,” Archie replied.

  “What happens to the shredded documents?”

  “The custodians pick them up, put them into a separate bin, and bring it down here,” Archie said. “I lock it in a special closet until the document disposal service gets here.”

  “There’s a service for that?”

  “They come once a week,” Archie said. “They take the shredded paper away and incinerate it.”

  “I also lock my garbage in a special closet,” Monk said.

  “You do?” Archie said.

  “He does,” I said.

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Monk said. “I wonder if they would come to my house each week, pick up my garbage, and incinerate it.”

  “You’d have to ask them,” Archie said, “but I don’t think they would.”

  “Who has keys to that closet?” Monk asked.

  “Mr. Lorber, the building manager, and I share a set with the two guards who work the other shifts. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m fascinated by shredded documents,” Monk said. “I like putting things back together that have been taken apart.”

  “You’d enjoy reconstructing a shredded document?”

  “I’d love it,” Monk said, and started up the stairs.

  By the time we reached the tenth floor, I was aware of every muscle in my body and the full capacity of my lungs to draw in air.

  Judging by the way Monk was breathing and the pained expression on his face, he wasn’t any better off than me, but somehow he’d mastered the ability to control his sweat. There wasn’t a bead of moisture on his skin. It was amazing.

  I had to get him to teach me how to do that.

  I wondered what other uncontrollable body functions he’d controlled. Could he also manage the moisture in his eyes and the production of saliva in his mouth? Maybe he even controlled the growth of his hair.

  As I was trying to remember the last time Monk had had a haircut, a secretary met us at the stairwell with bottled water.

  The water wasn’t Sierra Springs, so Monk refused it. I gladly took both bottles and guzzled them down as the secretary led us to Cahill’s corner office.