by Lee Goldberg
“I did?” Julie said in astonishment.
“What did you say happens to old styles that don’t sell at the department stores or at the outlet malls?” Monk asked.
“They’re sold out of a truck at a freeway off-ramp,” Julie said.
“And those guys don’t take checks or credit cards,” I said as it dawned on me what Monk was getting at. “It’s a cash-only business. I know from experience.”
“That’s why we couldn’t find any running-shoe purchases on the credit card statements of the three victims,” Monk said. “Because all the victims paid cash for their shoes from some fly-by-night seller.”
“It’s not just guys selling shoes out of their trunks,” I said. “There are all kinds of closeout, overstock, and remainder outfits that open up in empty storefronts for a few weeks at a time and then go away. They are never in one place for long.”
“We need to locate every gypsy shoe seller in San Francisco and show them pictures of the victims,” Porter said. “Maybe someone will remember selling shoes to the women.”
“Or maybe one of the sellers is the Strangler,” Monk said.
“I’ll get the information out to patrol and tell them to keep an eye out for anyone selling running shoes on the street,” Officer Curtis said.
“I appreciate that,” Monk said. “Thank you.”
“If this information leads to the arrest of the Golden Gate Strangler,” I said, “I think Julie should get some of the reward money.”
“You’ll have to take that up with the mayor,” Monk said.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I will.”
“What reward?” Julie said.
“Let me put it this way,” I said. “If you get it, I promise never to buy shoes on sale for you again.”
I took Julie into one of the interrogation rooms and questioned her about her crimes for a while. When I was through with the suspect, Officer Curtis took her down to one of the empty cells, locking her up for ten minutes before cutting her cuffs and setting her free on a technicality. Julie couldn’t have been happier.
Monk was pretty happy, too. He finally had a lead to track in the Strangler case. And I was already thinking of ways to spend the city’s reward money, which put a smile on my face.
We were on our way out of the building when Officer Curtis ran up to us.
“Captain, there’s been a holdup at a minimart near Geary and Van Ness,” she said. “They took a couple hundred bucks and shot the proprietor dead.”
Monk gave me a look. He wanted to go to the scene, but there was no way I was taking my daughter there.
“Do you mind staying here with Officer Curtis for a little while?”
“No problem,” she said.
“Let’s look through some mug books,” Officer Curtis said, leading her away. “That’s always fun.”
At least I knew Julie would be in good hands while I was away. I couldn’t ask for a better babysitter than a policewoman with a gun.
The Speed-E-Mart was flanked by an adult video store and a falafel place on the street level of a shabby, four-story office building that was covered with decades of grime. Hand-painted posters in the minimart window advertised cheap beer, cigarettes, and lottery tickets.
The harsh glow from the fluorescent bulbs inside the market spilled out into the street, bathing the police cars, sidewalks and asphalt in a dull yellow light.
A woman stood outside the store, leaning against the wall and nervously smoking a cigarette. She was in her thirties, wearing faded jeans and a red Speed-E-Mart clerk’s vest over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. The dark circles under her eyes were as ingrained on her face as the grime on the building.
Standing beside her was a uniformed cop in his fifties, his gut slopping over the edge of his pants and straining the buttons on his shirt. He had his notebook out and was making some notations in it with a stubby pencil. The officer saw us coming and met us at the entrance to the minimart.
“I’m Sergeant Riglin,” the officer said. “Are you Captain Monk?”
“Yes, I am,” Monk said. “This is my assistant, Natalie Teeger. What happened here tonight, Sergeant?”
“A couple of black guys came in, held up the place. The cashier, who was the owner of the market, emptied the register, and they shot him anyway. The bastards. The name of the deceased is Ramin Touzie, age forty-seven.”
Monk tipped his head toward the woman. “Who is she?”
“Lorna Karsch, age thirty-four, works nights here as a clerk.” Riglin referred to his notes. “She was in the storeroom when it went down, came out when she heard the shots, and saw two black individuals exiting the premises.”
“There’s a blue stain on the cuff of her right sleeve,” Monk said, adjusting both his sleeves.
“Yeah, so?” Riglin said.
“There isn’t one on her left sleeve,” Monk said.
“Is that important?” Riglin asked.
It was if I ever wanted to get home tonight. Monk wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the case as long as her sleeves didn’t match.
“Would you like me to ask her to change her shirt or stain her other sleeve?” I said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Riglin said.
“I wish I were,” I said.
“It’s a beautiful blue,” Monk said.
“What is?” I asked.
“The stain,” Monk said. “Deep, vibrant, and rich.”
“Uh-huh,” Riglin said. “Is there anything else, Captain?”
“Who called the police?” Monk asked.
“She did,” Riglin said, gesturing to Lorna. “So did the guy who runs the porno shop next door.”
“Do we have any security-camera footage of the shooting?”
Riglin shook his head. “The clerk says the VCR broke a couple of days ago. The owner was gonna buy a new one tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Monk said. “I’d like to look inside. Has anything been moved?”
“No, sir,” Riglin said.
Monk and I went into the store. The cashier’s counter was to the left of the front door, facing the four cramped aisles of groceries and the refrigerators and freezers that lined the back of the store. The drawer of the cash register was open.
We peered over the counter. Ramin Touzie was crumpled in the tight space between the counter and the wall, a gunshot wound in the center of his chest, his head resting against the side of a plastic trash can. He was wearing a Speed-E-Mart vest over a rugby shirt.
Monk cocked his head, something catching his eye. He walked around the counter, removed a pen from his pocket, and used it to lift out an open box of Ziploc bags from the trash can. Those were the same brand that Monk bought by the case.
He set the box of Ziploc bags down on the counter.
“It’s a crime,” he said.
“You’re talking about the box of Ziploc bags?”
“What else?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “How about the dead guy behind the counter?”
“Why would someone open a box of Ziploc bags, take one or two out, and throw the rest of them away?” Monk said. “It’s unconscionable.”
“Maybe that’s why those two guys came in, stole his money, and shot him,” I said. “As punishment for wasting Ziploc bags.”
“What kind of world are we living in?”
Monk looked into the trash can again and scowled. I followed his gaze. There was an open box of aluminum foil inside, with most of the roll still left.
“It’s so wasteful,” Monk said.
“I’m going to assume you mean the senseless taking of a human life and not the loss of a couple feet of aluminum foil.”
Monk walked to the back of the store and stopped in front of the door that led to the storeroom. There was a handwritten sign on the door that said, No Public Restrooms.
He stared at the sign for a long moment, turned around to face the front counter, and nodded to himself.
“What?” I said.
&nb
sp; “Now I get it,” Monk said.
“Get what?”
“What happened here,” he said, and walked out.
I didn’t know there was anything mysterious about the robbery, except the identity of the two robbers. Was it possible that somehow Monk had already figured that out?
He walked over to Officer Riglin and Lorna Karsch, who flicked her cigarette stub onto the sidewalk and ground it under her heel. Monk winced but didn’t do anything about it.
“Ms. Karsch? I’m Captain Monk. Could you tell me what you were doing right before you heard the gunshots?”
“I was in the back room, like I told him,” she said, gesturing to Officer Riglin. “I was unpacking a box of Doritos. The nacho-cheese ones.”
“What were you doing before that?” Monk asked, sniffing the air.
“Unpacking Big Slurp cups and stacking them by the drink machines,” she said.
“I see.” Monk leaned forward and sniffed her. She would have taken a step back if there weren’t a wall behind her. “What did you do after you heard the shots?”
“I opened the door and saw these two big black guys running out of the store. They were both in those puffy jackets, you know, like the rappers wear. And one of the guys was carrying a gun in his hand.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I went up to the counter to check on Mr. Touzie and saw all that blood,” she said. “I called nine-one-one and sat beside him, holding his hand until the police got here.”
“You didn’t go anywhere else?”
“I was comforting him,” she said. “The man was dying right there in front of me. I wasn’t going to leave him alone.”
“That’s very touching,” Monk said. “Did you know you smell like a toilet bowl?”
“What did you just say to me?” Lorna said.
“What did you just say to her?” Riglin said.
“You smell like a toilet bowl,” Monk said. “A very clean one, of course, with water the same deep blue as that stain on the damp end of your sleeve.”
She looked at her sleeve. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“My favorite toilet bowl cleaner,” Monk said. “2000 Flushes with Spring Meadow fragrance. I’d recognize the wonderful scent and beautiful shade of blue anywhere, though judging by the tint, you’ve got only one hundred fifty-three flushes to go before it needs to be replaced.”
Officer Riglin took a step forward and jabbed his finger at Monk’s face. “You may outrank me, but if you call her a toilet one more time, I’m going to knock you on your ass. This lady just watched her boss die in front of her.”
“Because she shot him,” Monk said.
“You’re a lunatic,” Lorna said.
“You said you were in the storeroom unloading boxes when the robbery happened and that you stayed by your boss’s side until the police got here. So when did you stain your sleeve?”
“It was earlier,” she said, “when I was cleaning up.”
“Which was when?” Monk pressed.
“Before I was unpacking the Doritos,” she said.
“You said you were putting out the Big Slurp cups before that,” Monk said.
“I was,” Lorna said. “And before that I was cleaning the bathroom. What difference does it make?”
“The difference between guilt and innocence,” Monk said. “Here’s what really happened. There weren’t any robbers. You shot your boss, emptied the cash register, and called nine-one-one. You quickly wrapped the gun and the money in aluminum foil, sealed them in Ziploc bags, and hid them in the toilet tank, staining the end of your sleeve in the colored water. If you hadn’t left a perfectly good box of Ziploc bags and a full roll of foil in the trash, you might have gotten away with it.”
“You don’t believe that crazy story,” Lorna said to Officer Riglin.
“It’s easy enough to check,” Officer Riglin said. “I’ve had to go to the bathroom for the last half hour anyway.”
Officer Riglin started toward the store.
“I want a lawyer,” she said. “I’m not saying another word.”
Officer Riglin turned around, handcuffed Lorna Karsch, and read her her rights.
“I’m sorry about what I said to you, Captain,” Officer Riglin said. “I was out of line.”
“It’s okay,” Monk said. “I have that effect on some people.”
Officer Riglin led Lorna away.
“That was pretty amazing, Mr. Monk,” I said. “You can stop worrying about your mojo. You’ve still got it.”
“God, I hope so,” Monk said. “Go back in the store and get some Lysol, a roll of paper towels, and a box of trash bags. I’ll stay here and secure the scene.”
“What scene?”
Monk pointed to Lorna Karsch’s crushed cigarette stub. “It could leave a permanent stain.”
10
Mr. Monk and the Secret Rendezvous
Ever since Monk discovered a while back that the kindly old woman I used as a babysitter murdered her husband and buried him in her backyard, day care has been a problem for me.
It took me a while, but I finally found Chelsea, a nineteen-year-old junior college student who took classes in the morning and was free to watch over Julie in the afternoon. She and Julie even did their individual homework together, which was a wonderful motivator for my daughter. If something important came up on weekends, I’d usually be able to draft Chelsea into service then, too.
On Sunday I arranged for Chelsea to take Julie and Katie bike riding in Golden Gate Park, not only freeing me up to work with Monk, but also burning off the “free day” debt I’d incurred only yesterday with Katie’s mother.
I picked Monk up at ten a.m. and drove him down to police headquarters, where Cindy Chow and her psychiatric nurse and Frank Porter and his granddaughter and Jack Wyatt and his anger-management counselor were waiting for us.
Chow was busy dismantling her phone (Why? I don’t know), while Jasper Perry took notes on his PDA. She wasn’t wearing the aluminum foil or the radio on her head. I figured there was something about the police station that prevented alien beings, secret government agencies, or even Oprah Winfrey from reading her mind.
Porter was wearing the same clothes he had on the day before, and so was Sparrow. So either they’d spent the night on one of the cots in the back room or they were trying to cut down on their loads of laundry.
Wyatt leaned back in his chair with his feet up on his desk, trying his best to ignore his anger-management counselor, whom I recognized from the scene of the hit-and-run. The counselor’s arm was in a sling, and his eyes were kind of glazed over, probably from the painkillers.
As I looked at the assembled detectives, it suddenly occurred to me that every one of them had their own personal assistant (or enabler, counselor, or watchdog, depending on your point of view). All of us sidekicks should get together and talk shop, I thought. We could share war stories about our long hours, lack of benefits, and miserable salaries. We could even form our own union, the International Association of Detectives’ Sidekicks, to address our concerns.
What would all the brilliant, eccentric detectives out there do if their beleaguered costars decide to stage our own Blue Flu?
Monk faced his squad of detectives, Officer Curtis, and all of us underpaid, underappreciated, and, in at least one case, bullet-ridden sidekicks. Monk cleared his throat and shifted his weight between his feet.
“Good morning,” he said. “Since there has been a lull in the killings, I think we should take this opportunity to clean up the squad room, straighten the pictures on the walls, align the furniture in rows, organize our desks, sort our paper clips by size, and equalize our pencils.”
“Equalize our pencils?” Wyatt said.
“He wants you to make sure they’re all sharpened and the same length,” I said.
Monk smiled approvingly at me, presumably pleased by my appreciation of his worldview.
“Oh.” Wyatt took all his pencils in his hand
, broke them in half, and dumped them in the trash. “Done.”
“Try to control your anger,” his counselor mumbled.
“I did, Arnie,” Wyatt said to him. “If I was angry, I would have shot the pencils.”
Arnie swallowed hard. I was wondered if Arnie had been shot by accident. I was sure Arnie wondered the same thing.
“What day is it?” Porter asked.
“Sunday,” Sparrow said.
“That’s good to know,” Porter said. “What year?”
“Two thousand seven,” Sparrow said.
“No, really,” Porter said. “What year?”
“Two thousand seven,” Sparrow said.
“That’s not possible,” Porter said. “I’ll be dead by then, and there will be Holiday Inns on the moon.”
“Have you swept the room for bugs?” Chow asked.
“No,” Monk said.
“Then it’s a good thing I did,” she said, taking a device that looked like Mr. Spock’s tricorder out of her purse and setting it on her desk. “We’re clear. But you never know when a drone might pass overhead.”
“What’s that?” Sparrow said.
“Robotic surveillance craft employed by the government to pick up transmissions of all kinds, including brain waves,” Chow said. “It operates with sophisticated software designed to search for specific words or thoughts and then lock onto the sender, logging everything for later examination.”
Jasper nearly dislocated his thumbs trying to type all that on his tiny PDA keypad.
“Any new developments in your homicide investigations?” Monk asked the detectives.
“John Yamada, the roadkill from yesterday, was going through an ugly divorce,” Wyatt said. “His estranged wife, who still happens to be the beneficiary of his one-million-dollar life insurance policy, reported her car stolen two days ago. When we locate her car, I’m betting we’ll find some of her husband in the tire treads.”
“I’d like to talk to her,” Monk said.
“I found out Allegra Doucet had a rich client, a guy named Max Collins, who made all his investments based on her astrological advice,” Chow said. “He isn’t so rich anymore. He’s lost millions, thanks to her.”
