Mr. Monk on the Couch

by Lee Goldberg

  “May I?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “They’re yours now.”

  Alyssa picked them up and held them. Focusing on the binoculars seemed to steady her. “I never thought I’d see them again. My father loved these and kept them on his boat. They were a gift from my grandfather. When I think of Dad on that boat, I picture him with these binoculars, looking at the sea ahead. How did you get them?”

  “Your father had them with him when he died.”

  “I know,” she said. “They were on his boat when it sank.”

  I shook my head and pointed to the Excelsior. “He died in that hotel across the street, in a room on the second floor with a view of this coffeehouse. He brought these binoculars with him so he could watch you down here.”

  She shook her head. “No, that’s not possible.”

  “He’d been living in Mexico all these years, crewing on fishing boats and yachts, under the name Jack Griffin. He came back again because he had terminal cancer and, I think, because he wanted to make things right with his family.” I reached into the box and took out the snapshot. “He had this in his hand when he died.”

  She looked at the picture and wiped a tear from her face. Monk motioned to me for a wipe. I reached into my purse and handed it to him.

  “Not for me, Natalie, for her.”

  “People don’t use disinfectant wipes for tears, Mr. Monk.” I gave her a napkin instead. She took it and dabbed her eyes.

  “I remember the day this was taken,” she said. “I was so proud of that bike. He was so proud of the house. Mom was so proud of him. We were all so damn proud. We thought that’s what killed him.”

  “I know that he went out to the house in Walnut Creek a few days before he died,” I said. “One of the neighbors saw him. I thought he might have approached you, too.”

  “I think I would remember that,” she said. “I guess he was a coward to the end.”

  I took out the photo that Captain Stottlemeyer had given me of O’Quinn lying on the bed and I set it on the table in front of her. “This is what he looked like. Maybe he bought a coffee from you.”

  She touched the photo and shook her head. “I never saw him, or, if I did, his face meant nothing to me.” Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “How sad is that?”

  I wondered for whom. For her? For him? Or for all of them?

  “How long have you been back in the Bay Area?” I asked.

  She pushed the picture away from her. “Only for a few months.”

  “Where were you living before?”

  “Vancouver,” she said. “My mother and I went up to Canada after Dad’s boat sank to start a new life.”

  “Away from the bill collectors,” I said. “But still close to your mom’s family in Washington.”

  She nodded and handed the snapshot back to me.

  “You can keep the pictures,” I said.

  “I don’t want them,” she said and handed over the binoculars, too. “Or these.”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Has he been buried yet?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Put them in the casket,” she said. “Or in the trash. I don’t care.”

  “Maybe your mom would like them,” I said.

  Alyssa shook her head. “I’m never telling her about this and I’m begging you not to, either. It took her so long to get past the pain, the anger. She finally got remarried to a very nice, dependable man who would never leave her. I have two stepbrothers. That’s her life now. I’m not sure what mine is.”

  “Maybe knowing the truth about your past will help you figure that out,” I said.

  She glared at me and I knew that I’d crossed a line. “It’s his life that was a lie, not mine. There’s nothing false about my past or who I am. Everything I felt, everything I lost, was true.”

  “You don’t have to worry, Alyssa. I won’t disturb your mother,” I said. “I promise. Nobody will.”

  “How did he find me?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Why did you come looking for me?”

  I glanced over at Monk for help, but he had nothing to say. I was on my own.

  “I was with the police when your father’s body was found. He’d died of natural causes, had false identification, and his fingerprints weren’t in the system. The police were going to drop it and let him be buried as a John Doe. I thought someone out there might care that he was dead.”

  “Well, you were wrong,” she said, then got up and walked away, turning her back to us.

  I sighed.

  “Congratulations,” Monk said.

  “More sarcasm?”

  “Why do you keep accusing me of being sarcastic? I’m not that kind of person. I meant what I said. You did a good job on this case.”

  “This wasn’t the way I expected it to turn out.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “To feel like a hero,” I said.

  “Is that why you solved the mystery?” Monk asked. “For praise and gratitude?”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Because I have to. I don’t have a choice. But you did.”

  “Maybe not,” I said.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I felt compelled to investigate, but maybe not in the same way that you do or for the same reasons. It’s not clear to me now.”

  “Perhaps it will be next time,” he said.

  “What makes you sure there will be a next time?”

  “My work is never done.”

  “So neither is mine?”

  “You’re my assistant, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then you’re doomed,” he said.