Mr. Monk on the Couch (3 page)

The ceilings were low, the doorways were arched, the fireplace was white brick, and the floors were hardwood. The furniture was contemporary and practical, not the least bit comfy-looking or inviting. The house had all the personality and warmth of the waiting room of an accountant’s office.

Monk cocked his head from side to side, held his hands up in front of him, and moved slowly and deliberately into the kitchen, weaving and dipping and swaying with almost balletic grace.

Devlin watched him, frowning with disapproval. “What is he doing?”

“Monk tai chi,” Stottlemeyer said.

“He’s trying to spot anything that’s uneven, odd, or out of balance,” I said.

“That’s what we think,” Stottlemeyer said. “But we aren’t entirely sure.”

The kitchen was small and neat, with linoleum floors, a cottage-style table, and white tiled countertops with a floral tile backsplash. The coffeemaker, toaster, and other countertop appliances were metallic and sleek and were all the same brand. There was a row of spice jars on the counter near the gas stove, but they were just for show. I deduced that because the labels were yellowed and the jars were all full.

That conclusion didn’t reveal anything about the murder, at least not to me. I was just trying to keep my detecting senses sharp. But being in the kitchen made me think of the leftover pizza and ice cream in my refrigerator and the blubber I’d packed on in the past few weeks.

I sucked in my gut.

“It really isn’t noticeable,” Monk said as he walked around the kitchen table.

“What isn’t?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“The weight Natalie has gained,” Monk said.

How did he know what I was thinking? But the instant I had that thought, I realized it was a simple deduction. We were in the kitchen and I was sucking in my gut. I might as well have announced what was on my mind.

“Could we please not discuss my weight?”

Stottlemeyer gave me a quick once-over. “You look great to me.”

“That’s because you’ve gained even more weight than her,” Monk said. “So much that you’ve had to buy new clothes.”

“That’s not why I bought them. My clothes were old,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m updating my look.”

“And your waist size,” Monk said, scrutinizing the table. “You’re wearing your belt two notches looser.”

There was an empty cereal bowl, a plate, and a coffee cup on the table. A box of granola was out, as was a carton of milk. Coffee was warming in the pot on the coffeemaker.

“Forget about my belt and concentrate on the crime scene,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Which is outside,” Devlin said. “You know, where the body is.”

But Monk wasn’t listening to her. He moved to the back of the kitchen, where a doorway led to a tiny laundry room. Right inside the doorway were two trash cans. I presumed that one was for trash, the other one for recyclables. Monk studied them for a moment.

Stottlemeyer leaned toward me and whispered, “It’s my wife and all that home cooking. I can’t stop eating. It’s like I’m making up for all those microwave dinners I had when I was single.”

“Without my microwave,” I said, “I’d starve.”

“This is a waste of time,” Devlin said. “While we’re standing around here talking about diets, I’ve got a corpse decomposing on the sidewalk and there’s a killer out there who is covering his tracks.”

Stottlemeyer ignored her and kept his eye on Monk, who took out a pen from his pocket and lifted the lid of each can. Monk closed the lid of the trash can quickly, as if something might leap out and grab him, but he lingered over the recycle bin for a moment, studying the stack of newspapers inside.

Then Monk took a step back, rolled his shoulders, and gestured to me for a disinfectant wipe, which I gave him from my purse.

We all stood there watching him as he cleaned the edge of his pen, put it back in his pocket, and then threw the wipe out in the trash can.

“Arrest the paperboy,” Monk said.

Devlin lowered her head and sighed wearily. Stottlemeyer rubbed his temples with the thumb and index finger of his right hand and then spoke.

“I thought we were past that, Monk. We’re trying to solve a murder here.”

“I already have,” Monk said.

Devlin jerked her head up. “You have?”

“Arrest the paperboy,” Monk said.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Stottlemeyer said. “Tell me who the killer is, and after we arrest him, we’ll arrest the paperboy.”

“You can do both at once,” Monk said. “The paperboy is the killer.”

CHAPTER THREE

“I
didn’t see that coming,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Because it’s insane,” Devlin said and marched up to Monk, getting right in his face. “The paperboy? Really? Is that the best you can come up with?”

Monk took a step back. “You ought to talk with your dentist about gingivitis.”

“You ought to talk to your shrink about joining the real world,” Devlin said, then turned to Stottlemeyer. “Why do you put up with this, Captain? This is a simple case. You called him down here before I, or anybody else, had a chance to work it. And for what? The paperboy? Not being able to land a newspaper on the porch doesn’t make him a killer.”

“It does in this case,” Monk said.

“How do you figure that?” Devlin asked.

“Dach has yesterday’s newspaper in his recycle bin but not today’s.”

“That’s because he hasn’t read it yet,” Devlin said.

“So where is it?” Monk asked.

“Maybe he liked to read on the toilet,” Devlin said, “and the newspaper is in his bathroom.”

“It’s not,” Monk said.

“You haven’t checked,” she said.

“No, I haven’t, but you can,” Monk said. “Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

“Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right, it’s not in the house. Maybe it’s outside somewhere.”

“It’s not,” Monk said. “It’s the only newspaper on the street that wasn’t delivered.”

“You don’t know that,” Devlin said.

“I do, but you can confirm it for yourself by going door to door,” Monk said. “Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

Stottlemeyer shot me a smile behind Devlin’s back. He was enjoying this. I wasn’t, so I glowered at him instead, which only made him smile more, because he enjoyed that, too.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s say he never got his paper. So what? Maybe the killer took it so
he’d
have something to read in the can.”

“The killer took the newspaper, but not for reading material. Dach liked to read his newspaper with his breakfast. So he set the table and then went outside to get the paper.”

And with that, Monk headed out the door, playing the part of Garson Dach. We trailed after him.

“But as soon as he stepped outside, he saw that his car had been vandalized, so he rushed outside and bent down to examine the damage to his tires and headlights,” Monk continued, squatting down in front of the car. “That’s when the paperboy drove by, tossing out Sunday papers willy-nilly. He didn’t see Dach. He tossed his paper just as Dach stood up and hit him in the head with it.”

“The paper was huge this morning,” I said. “It would have been like getting hit with a slab of concrete.”

Monk nodded. “Dach fell, smacking his head against the pavement, compounding the injury. The paperboy came over, checked Dach’s pulse, and realized he was dead. So he snatched the newspaper and drove off, quickly and haphazardly tossing out the rest of his papers as he fled so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself by not making his deliveries.”

Once again, Monk had solved the case by spotting a detail I’d missed. Not something that was there, but something that
wasn’t
.

“So it was just an accident,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Until he tried to cover it up,” Monk said. “Then it became a crime.”

“Oh come on,” Devlin said. “It’s a guess, that’s all it is. An absurd guess based entirely on
one missing newspaper
.”

“And a big mess,” Monk said. “The newspapers on the other half of the block are at least on the driveways. The paperboy didn’t go entirely willy-nilly until after he passed this house.”

“It’s still just a guess. That doesn’t mean you’re right,” Devlin said, looking to Stottlemeyer for support, which I knew she wasn’t going to get.

“Monk’s right,” he said.

“We don’t know that,” she said.

“I do and so will you once you bring in the paperboy. If you hurry, maybe he’ll still have the bloody newspaper on him when you catch him.”

Devlin scowled but acknowledged the captain’s order with a nod and hurried off. Monk looked after her.

“I miss Randy,” he said.

“As I recall, it took a while for Randy to warm up to you, too,” Stottlemeyer said.

“But she scares me,” he said.

“I won’t let her shoot you,” the captain said.

“I’d rather be shot than get gingivitis.”

“I won’t let her kiss you, either, though I could kiss you myself for solving this case so fast. Thanks to you, I might be able to get back home before lunch.”

“You still have to catch whoever vandalized Garson Dach’s car,” Monk said.

“It can wait,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m sure Lieutenant Devlin will be glad to do it on Monday.”

“Maybe I’ll get Lieutenant Devlin a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some dental floss and give her instructions on their proper use,” Monk said. “That should go a long way toward establishing a cordial working relationship between us.”

“I wouldn’t give her floss,” Stottlemeyer said. “She might try to strangle you with it.”

“That’s what you did,” Monk said.

“That’s why I’m warning you,” Stottlemeyer said. “Just be patient with her. She’s a terrific cop, but all those years in vice working undercover haven’t given her a lot of people skills.”

“Or patience,” I said.

“Or the awareness of the importance of good dental health,” Monk said. “She could have a stroke.”

“From swollen gums?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Oral bacteria can seep into the bloodstream and inflame the blood vessels in the brain, causing a massive ischemic stroke.”

“You’re kidding,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s one of my greatest fears,” Monk said.

“Meaning it’s in your top hundred,” I said.

“Greatest fears are the top thousand. Mind-numbing, physically paralyzing fears are the top hundred.”

“And what are the top ten?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Instant-death fears,” Monk said.

“Meaning?”

“I’d prefer instant death to even the remote possibility of experiencing the possibility of experiencing them.”

“So what will you charge the paperboy with?” I asked in a heavy-handed attempt to get Monk’s mind off his instant-death fears.

Stottlemeyer shrugged and glanced at the corpse. “I’ll leave that to Dach’s friends in the DA’s office. I’m sure they’ll come up with something creative.”

“Whatever the charge is, his days tossing newspapers are over,” Monk said. “It will be a lesson to paperboys everywhere. Dach’s death won’t be in vain.”

“I’m sure that will be a comfort to him, wherever he is,” Stottlemeyer said. That’s when his cell phone rang. He waved us off as he answered it, and we started back toward the car.

I turned to Monk and whispered, “So, where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The blubber. My thighs? My waist? My chin? All of the above?”

“Oh hell,” Stottlemeyer said behind us.

Monk and I turned around. And from the crestfallen look on the captain’s face as he listened to his caller, I knew that he wouldn’t be getting home for lunch.

And neither would we.

The Excelsior Hotel rented rooms by the hour, the day, the week, and the month to the immigrants, drug dealers, prostitutes, and poor people of the Tenderloin, a crime-ridden neighborhood tucked between the Civic Center and Union Square.

The Tenderloin was just as seedy as it had always been, despite the best efforts of developers to turn all the old buildings into upscale lofts, offices, and coffee bars. The Excelsior was on the front lines of the gentrification invasion. The hotel, a dive bar, a shoe repair shop, and a discount cigarette store were on one side of the street. On the other side was a wannabe Starbucks and a renovated old office building that had been turned into “luxury condominiums” but was 70 percent unoccupied, thanks to the financial downturn.

We double-parked in front of the Excelsior behind Captain Stottlemeyer’s car and followed him inside.

The lobby was faded and decaying, much like its tenants, who lazed around on the vinyl furniture, smoking cigarettes, napping, and watching
Dr. Phil
on the TV.

The front desk was enclosed in a cage. The squirrelly manager, unshaven and in a sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his tattooed arms, sat behind the iron mesh, reading manga and drinking Red Bull.

As downtrodden as the place was, it was definitely clean. It smelled like the walls and floors had been doused with buckets of chlorine, but I suppose it was better than the alternative.

Monk took a deep breath. “Why can’t the whole world smell this fresh?”

“It’s not fresh,” I said. “You’re breathing powerful chemicals.”

“It’s better than breathing germs,” Monk said.

“Chemicals can kill you even faster than germs.”

“But you’ll die cleaner.”

“You’re still dead.”

“A clean death is much better than a dirty death,” Monk said, then turned to Stottlemeyer. “What kind do we have here?”

“A natural death, or so the ME told me on the phone. We won’t know for sure, of course, until after the autopsy. But there’s nothing about the body that screams murder.”

“So what are we doing here?” I asked.

“It’s standard operating procedure in cases of unattended deaths to treat them like possible homicides, especially when they happen in a place like this,” the captain said. “And I figured as long as you were around when I got the call, you might as well come down and make sure we aren’t missing something.”

“What do we know about the victim?” Monk asked.

“His name is Jack Griffin, he checked in three weeks ago, and paid cash for a month’s rent,” Stottlemeyer said. “That’s all we’ve got. He’s in room 214.”

“That’s a good room,” Monk said.

“You haven’t seen it,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s an even-numbered room on the second floor,” Monk said. “It has to be one of the best in the building.”

“I don’t think that’s saying much,” I said.

We followed Stottlemeyer up the narrow staircase to the second floor. The thin carpet in the hallway was so stained and trampled that it was impossible to tell what the original color once was. The walls were a sickly yellow.

The door to room 214 was open. Two uniformed police officers and two morgue attendants with a collapsible gurney stood outside in the corridor, presumably waiting for us to be done with the body so they could get it out of there. The four men stepped aside so we could go in the room, Monk leading the way, doing his Monk tai chi.

I decided to ignore him and concentrate on my own observation of the room. To our right was a narrow closet halfcovered with a tattered curtain. There was a denim jacket with a fake-fur collar hanging inside and a gym bag on the floor.

To our left was a small bathroom, the toilet squeezed between the shower and the sink. A shaving kit and several pill bottles were on the counter. One was Advil, another appeared to contain vitamins, and another was labeled “Apricot Extract.”

In front of us was a window that overlooked the street. The thin, moth-eaten curtain did little to keep out the light. I could see through it to the luxury condos across the way.

To the left of the window was a single bed, the scratched headboard screwed to the wall under an adjustable, mounted reading lamp. The bedspread looked like it was made from the same material as the carpet and was just as stained and colorless.

There was a stack of paperback Westerns, a canister of Pringles potato chips, two cans of mixed nuts, and a bunch of bruised bananas on the nightstand and two tall bottles of water and a pair of old, fat binoculars on the floor.

At the foot of the bed, to our right, a small TV was bolted to the top of the four-drawer, wood-laminate dresser, which was nailed to the floor.

There was also a writing desk with a lamp bolted to the desktop. The desk chair, a denim shirt draped over the back, was the only piece of furniture that wasn’t bolted in place.

Finally, I focused my attention on the dead man, whom I’d forced myself to ignore while I looked over the room.

He was on his back, wearing a white T-shirt, brown corduroy shirt, old jeans, and a pair of stained canvas tennis shoes. He was a Caucasian man, but his skin was dark and leathery and clung to his bones. His hair was sun-dried like straw. It was hard to believe he’d been dead only a day. He looked like an unwrapped mummy.

His hands were rough and calloused, covered with tiny scratches and scars. In his right hand, he held a snapshot that was curled against his palm.

As I leaned close to try to get a look at the picture, I picked up the scent of almonds and my pulse quickened.

I glanced over at Monk, who stood on the other side of the bed, to see if he’d picked up the scent, too.