Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out

by Lee Goldberg

  Stottlemeyer would have liked for the five of us to visit Bob Sebes without attracting the attention of all the reporters who were staked out in front of the house. But Monk made that impossible.

  Monk refused to go inside the house, which he referred to as “a hotbed of virulent tinea pedis,” without wearing a crime scene technician’s white jumpsuit, goggles, gloves, and booties to protect himself. So Monk borrowed a suit from the crime lab and was wearing it when we walked up to the front door.

  Anna Sebes was on her way out, but changed her plans when we arrived and she saw how Monk was dressed. It conveys a very negative message when a group of somber-faced detectives show up at the door with someone outfitted for the collection of forensic evidence. And she clearly didn’t appreciate the sudden attention our arrival sparked among the press, who were yelling out questions and jostling for position outside the gate for the best shot with their cameras.

  “Is that outfit really necessary?” she said to Monk. “You’re creating the impression that a crime has taken place.”

  “One has,” Monk said.

  “My husband is innocent,” she said. “He’s not a swindler or a killer.”

  “Your husband is a plague,” Monk said. “If you were smart, you’d be wearing one of these, too.”

  She reluctantly led Stottlemeyer, Disher, Ingo, Monk, and me into her home.

  Bob was sitting on the couch in his den, his bare feet up on the coffee table, watching Deal or No Deal on a massive flat-screen TV. His den was lined with sports memorabilia and vintage movie posters, which Ingo strolled around admiring as if he was in a museum. There was a snack bar along one wall that included a popcorn machine, soft drink dispenser, and glass display case filled with candy. Whoever said crime doesn’t pay obviously had never met Bob Sebes.

  “I hope you don’t eat off that table,” Monk said, holding his hand up in front of him, warding away the image of Bob’s bare, blistered, scaly feet.

  Bob switched off the TV with his remote but didn’t bother to get up. “What can I do for you gentlemen today?”

  “We’re here about the murder of Lincoln Clovis,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I heard about that on the morning news,” Bob said. “Someone desperately wants me to go to jail.”

  Monk raised his hand. “That would be me.”

  “I’m talking about whoever is killing the people who actually committed the crime that I am accused of,” Bob said. “This is all about covering up their tracks and tightening up their frame on me.”

  “You killed Russell Haxby and Lincoln Clovis,” Monk said.

  “Haxby was murdered up in Marin County, Clovis was down in San Mateo, and I’m stuck here under house arrest,” Bob said. “How could I have killed either one of them?”

  “You weren’t here last night,” Monk said.

  “I never left. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Ask him.” Bob gestured to Ingo, who was scrutinizing a framed baseball mitt, his back to us.

  Stottlemeyer smacked Ingo on the shoulder to get his attention. Ingo whirled around.

  “Sorry. I was just admiring your collection. Did that mitt really belong to Willie Mays?”

  “Forget about the mitt,” Stottlemeyer said. “Check out his ankle bracelet.”

  Ingo started toward Bob’s feet when Monk let out a cry.

  “Halt!”

  Ingo froze. “What?”

  “Do you have a death wish?” Monk said. “You can’t get near those without protection. I’m wearing protection and I still wouldn’t touch them.”

  Ingo sighed. “Actually, I can see the Triax XG7 8210 just fine from where I’m standing. It obviously hasn’t been tampered with. But I knew that before we left headquarters. I’m still not sure what we’re doing here.”

  “We’re arresting a murderer,” Monk said.

  “He just told you that I didn’t leave,” Bob said.

  “Actually, he said your ankle bracelet wasn’t tampered with,” Monk said. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Actually, it is,” Ingo said.

  “I know you weren’t here last night,” Monk said. “Because you’re here right now.”

  Stottlemeyer scratched his head. “You’re not making a hell of a lot of sense, Monk.”

  “I am so glad to hear you say that, Captain,” Disher said. “I thought it was just me.”

  “I understand what Monk is saying,” I said.

  “You do?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I do,” I said. “It’s simple. Bob Sebes couldn’t have been here last night and that monitoring unit proves it.”

  “You just contradicted yourself,” Disher said.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. “Tell them, Mr. Monk.”

  And then Monk did something extraordinary. He shook his head and smiled at me.

  “You tell them, Natalie.”

  “But it’s your moment,” I said.

  “It’s our moment. You understand what I’m thinking. Do you know how long I’ve wanted someone to understand where I’m coming from? Until now, it’s only happened once in my life and I thought it would never happen for me again.”

  I was afraid he’d tell me that he loved me. And he probably did, but not in the same way he’d loved Trudy. Or that I loved Mitch.

  But I knew what he meant. I was also thrilled that for once things had clicked for me at the same time they did for Monk. That had never happened for me or for anybody else before, at least not since his wife, Trudy, was killed. We all were always at a loss to understand how Monk had figured things out until he told us.

  “Please, Natalie,” he said. “Share with everyone what we are both thinking.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Anna said. “Nobody cares what you’re thinking.”

  “I do,” Stottlemeyer said and regarded me with a strange expression on his face. I think it might have been envy.

  I looked at Anna Sebes. “Did you know that the XG7 8210 on your husband’s ankle not only detects where he is but how much alcohol he drinks?”

  “Why should I care?” she said, but she obviously did. And I knew why.

  “Because Bob was drinking last night, and since he’s seriously allergic to alcohol, that should concern you very much. One drink and he could go into anaphylactic shock, just like he did on that cruise with you a few years ago.”

  “You should be dead,” Monk said to Bob. “But since you’re not, and no paramedics came rushing in here last night to save your life, you obviously weren’t the one drinking.”

  “Time out,” Disher said. “You’re saying that he somehow got the XG7 8210 off of his ankle, put it on somebody else and snuck out of the house, got past all of the cops and reporters outside, murdered Lincoln Clovis, and then snuck back in?”

  “I’m saying Bob Sebes wasn’t here last night or he’d be dead,” Monk said. “I don’t know how he disabled the monitoring unit or got in and out of the house undetected.”

  “He didn’t,” Ingo said, shaking his head, refusing to accept the notion. “He couldn’t have.”

  “Maybe he has a secret tunnel under the house,” Disher said.

  “There is no secret tunnel,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “How do you know? The entrance could be hidden behind a secret panel in the wall activated by adjusting a picture, pulling a book off a shelf, or pressing just the right spot.” Disher began walking around the room, testing his theory by knocking, pulling, pressing, and adjusting things.

  “We would have detected any attempt to tamper with the XG7 8210 before he even got it off his ankle,” Ingo said, still shaking his head. I thought he might start stomping his feet, too. “He could not have removed the unit and attached it to someone else. It’s impossible. So the secret tunnel is irrelevant.”

  “I’d still like to find it,” Disher said.

  What struck me during all of this back-and-forth was that Bob Sebes didn’t look like a man who’d just been exposed as a murderer. He was distracted, like his thoug
hts were somewhere else entirely.

  Something was very, very wrong with how this was unfolding.

  “It’s so pitiful, Adrian, that it’s almost funny,” Bob said. “You are so eager to arrest me for two murders that I didn’t commit that you are missing the simplest, most shameful explanation for what happened.”

  “What’s that?” Monk asked.

  “I was here last night and I was drinking.”

  “So why aren’t you dead?” I asked.

  “I wanted to be,” he said dolefully. “But Anna saved me.”

  “Your wife wasn’t here,” Disher said, knocking on the wall. “She left yesterday afternoon and didn’t get back until after midnight.”

  Sebes nodded. “After she left, I started thinking about all the mistakes that I’ve made, about how my ego and inattention to the business gave Haxby, Clovis, and others the opportunity to mount a massive fraud right under my nose. My life and reputation are ruined and I will lose everything. But the worst part of it all is the hell that Anna, an innocent bystander, the love of my life, is going through. I decided that the least I could do was end this ordeal for her and leave her with what little I still had that the prosecutors couldn’t take—my life insurance. If everything had worked out, I would have been long dead by the time she got home and this nightmare would have been over for me.”

  Anna joined her husband on the couch and took his hand. “And my nightmare would have just begun. I don’t blame you for any of this and I certainly don’t want to lose you, Bob. We’re in this together, no matter what happens.”

  “Your explanation is that your drinking was a suicide attempt,” Monk said.

  He stated the obvious, but I believe he was simply thinking out loud, making the declaration so he could hear it, study it, and see if it was the missing piece that would solve the mystery and restore order.

  Tears began to stream down Anna’s cheeks. “I went to the movies last night. Two stupid comedies, just to take my mind off of things. If only I’d known what Bob was thinking. When I got home, I found him lying on the floor, his face swollen, the empty martini glasses on the table. I was terrified. Thank God I always carry EpiPens with me now in my purse, just in case some fool puts wine sauce on Bob’s steak or something. So I injected him with all the pens I had until he came around.”

  I knew about EpiPens. A friend of mine was allergic to bee stings and carried some EpiPens around with her. They were premeasured doses of epinephrine in spring loaded, auto-injecting syringes that she could jam into her thigh, even through her jeans.

  “Why didn’t you call 911 and get him to a hospital after that?” I asked. “He could have died.”

  “The last thing we need on top of everything else is the world ridiculing Bob for attempting suicide,” she said. “The media would twist it into an admission of guilt.”

  “I do feel guilty,” Bob said. “But not for stealing two billion dollars or killing anybody. I didn’t do that. My crime was hubris and stupidity.”

  Monk rolled his shoulders, then cocked his head from side to side. “Nope, you’re still the guy.”

  I believed it, too, even if I couldn’t prove it.

  “His explanation makes a lot more sense than yours,” Ingo said.

  “That’s enough,” Stottlemeyer said to Ingo.

  “But he cast aspersions on the Triax XG7 8210,” Ingo said. “That can’t go unchallenged. It’s—”

  “Get out of here,” Stottlemeyer said, cutting him off. “And don’t say a word to anyone, especially the reporters outside, about what has occurred here today. Do I make myself clear?”

  Ingo nodded and marched out.

  Stottlemeyer turned to Disher. “You can stop knocking on the walls now.”

  “But I haven’t found the secret door,” Disher said.

  “There isn’t one,” he said.

  “Maybe it’s on the floor,” Disher said, and started stomping around.

  Stottlemeyer grabbed him by the arm. “Stop. Stand still. Take your notebook and the pencil out of your pocket and make notes.”

  Disher did as he was told.

  Stottlemeyer took a deep breath and turned to Bob and Anna Sebes. “Do you know anybody who might have wanted Lincoln Clovis dead?”

  “Him,” Monk said, pointing at Bob.

  Stottlemeyer sighed. “I wasn’t talking to you, Monk. In fact, it’s time for you to go.”

  “But we’re not done here,” Monk said.

  “You are,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ll see you back at the station.”

  Monk didn’t argue. He turned and walked out of the room. I hung back for a moment, making sure to catch Stottlemeyer’s eye with my angriest look. I did, but he didn’t wither under it. If anybody withered, it was me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mr. Monk Is Unappreciated

  We waited over an hour in Stottlemeyer’s office for him to return. Monk occupied himself by sweeping the floor, dusting the shelves, and organizing everything.

  There was a time when I would have wondered how Monk could humiliate himself by cleaning Stottlemeyer’s office after the captain had just treated him so rudely.

  But now I was familiar enough with Monk to understand that he wasn’t cleaning the office for Stottlemeyer, he was doing it for himself. It was a way to relax, to clear his mind, and to create an oasis of order amidst all the disorder around him.

  I didn’t have any handy rituals or activities to relieve myself of all my anxiety, frustration, anger, and fear. So I sat on that horrible vinyl couch, stewing in it all.

  Aside from my money woes and uncertain future, I was upset that Sebes was getting away with murder. I knew that Monk was right, and that Sebes was lying about his suicide attempt. But I had no idea how Sebes had outsmarted the sophisticated monitoring device strapped to his ankle, or how he got past all the reporters and cops outside his house. And judging by how intensely Monk was cleaning, he didn’t know the answers, either.

  I was also sure that the murder wasn’t the only thing on Monk’s mind. He was broke, unemployed, and homeless. And it was unlikely that Stottlemeyer would let Monk stay at his place much longer.

  I had no answers, and going over all the questions only made me more anxious, frustrated, and scared. But I couldn’t stop myself from doing it anyway. I guess that’s what Monk felt, on a much bigger scale, every minute of every day about everything.

  Maybe we were on the same wavelength, as he put it, in more ways than I cared to admit.

  When Stottlemeyer and Disher finally returned, the captain regarded his clean, orderly, shining office as if it had been ransacked instead.

  “This is my private space, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “It was a messy private space.”

  “Did I ask you to clean it?”

  “I did it as a courtesy,” Monk said.

  “The courteous thing to do would have been to leave my things alone,” he said. “That goes for my office and my home.”

  “Oh, spare me.” I’d had enough. I got up off the couch. “We didn’t sit here for an hour so we could listen to more of your whining.”

  Stottlemeyer turned to me. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. You told us to wait here and you know Mr. Monk. If you didn’t expect him to do you this courtesy, then you’re a lousy judge of character and you have no one to blame but yourself. So let’s move on, shall we?”

  Monk couldn’t have looked more astonished if I’d taken out a gun and shot the captain.

  Disher whistled, or at least he tried to. It came out sounding more like he was blowing his nose. “Wow, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

  “I certainly did. I was summoned at three thirty in the morning to a crime scene by someone I don’t work for and who I don’t owe a damn thing,” I said. “But like a fool, I went anyway.”

  “She’s menstruating,” Monk said.

  All three men nodded knowingly, as if that explained everything, whic
h only made me angrier, because it was sexist, patronizing, and not true.

  “That has nothing to do with it, Mr. Monk. I don’t appreciate being treated like crap and you shouldn’t, either.”

  “Please don’t use the c-word,” Monk said, and then, by way of apologizing to the others, he added: “She’s menstruating.”

  They nodded again.

  “Stop that,” I said. “You have no idea how insulting that is, and if you do, and you continue anyway, then you’re pigs.”

  “I’m sorry if I was abrupt with you and Monk when we were questioning Sebes,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I couldn’t have Monk distracting us any longer with his dead end.”

  “He’s the guy,” Monk said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Monk. He is not the guy—he can’t possibly be the guy. You’re wrong.”

  “He’s never wrong about murder,” I said.

  “He is this time,” Stottlemeyer said. “Unless Monk can tell me how Bob Sebes managed to get that monitoring unit off without activating all those alarms, put it on somebody else, and sneak out of the house. And how he snuck somebody else in, whoever the hell that somebody is, to wear the monitor and have a few drinks, and snuck the guy out again.”

  “The secret tunnel could explain the in-and-out stuff,” Disher said with authority. “But not the monitor thing.”

  “There is no secret tunnel,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “We don’t know that,” Disher said. “Because it’s still secret until we find it.”

  “The only person to leave that house was Anna Sebes,” Stottlemeyer said. “And she went in and out the front door.”

  “Maybe she killed them,” Disher said. “She was out when Haxby was killed, too.”

  Monk shook his head. “With her arthritis, she couldn’t have tied the rope into a noose or lifted Clovis up onto the railing. And it still doesn’t explain Bob’s drinking.”

  “Bob explained it, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Pretty convincingly, too.”

  “He didn’t convince me,” Monk said.

  “And that’s why I had to throw you out,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’ve become a hindrance to this investigation. There are other suspects.”