Mr. Monk on Patrol (17 page)

Monk hated it because nothing matched. He liked symmetry, consistency, and uniformity, none of which was present in the intermingling of Sharona’s and Disher’s lives and possessions. Life wasn’t neat.

That was a reality Monk could not, and would not, accept. But at least he was polite about it.

“You live like animals,” he said.

“We love like animals, too,” Sharona said with a mischievous grin, “so I hope you’re a sound sleeper.”

That completely grossed him out. He covered his ears and began singing “100 Bottles of Windex on the Wall” to clear his head.

He deserved it.

Sharona showed him to her son Benjy’s room, where Monk would be staying. The room was decorated with comic book posters and filled with shelves of graphic novels, DVDs, and CDs. Benjy was about the same age as my daughter, Julie, and was traveling through Europe with some of his friends before figuring out what he wanted to do with his life.

I’d be bunking on the leather couch in the den, Disher’s man cave, which was dominated by a huge flat-screen TV, a PlayStation, and a Wii. There was also a computer in the corner that Sharona told me I was welcome to use.

With the sleeping arrangements assigned, Sharona declared that the first order of business would be to go out and buy us some clothes and toiletries (on the city’s dime, of course).

Monk disagreed with Sharona’s priorities. He felt that the immediate crisis was “detoxifying and disinfecting” their “domestic cesspool” of a home.

In other words, he wanted to clean the place.

Sharona didn’t take offense. In fact, she thought it was a great idea and so did I. Nothing relaxed Monk more than cleaning, and it would keep him occupied and out of trouble for the rest of the day and perhaps well into the night, if he didn’t collapse from exhaustion first.

Her only requirements were that Monk had to promise to stay out of their bedroom, not to incinerate anything, and not to throw out any dirty, flawed, or mismatched dishes or clothing.

Monk was fine with avoiding their bedroom but he chafed against the rest.

“Perhaps I should save all the filth, grime, and fungus for you, too,” he said. “You can sell it at Ellen Morse’s store.”

But he ultimately agreed to her terms.

She made us waffles for breakfast, much to Monk’s delight, and then she and I headed out to the Short Hills Mall, leaving him with the dishes, which he was happy to wash.

I have to admit that it was a pleasure to get away from Monk for a while. Being cooped up with him nonstop, and with virtually no sleep, for almost three straight days had been exhausting on physical, emotional, and psychological levels.

And Sharona understood, better than just about anyone else could, exactly what I was going through.

So she took charge at the mall. I didn’t have to explain Monk’s peculiar needs when it came to clothing and toiletries. They were as much second nature to her as they were to me. She even still remembered his measurements.

Shopping for him was easy. He wore the same thing every day. White shirts that were a hundred percent cotton with exactly eight buttons, a size sixteen neck and a thirty-two-inch sleeve. Pleated and cuffed pants with a thirty-four-inch waist and a thirty-four-inch inseam. Brown Hush Puppies loafers, size ten.

We purchased four identical sets of clothes for him because three sets was an uneven number and two sets was too few.

Then it was time to go clothes shopping for me.

I was too tired to fight Sharona when she picked out stuff that was brighter, tighter, and more revealing than I would ordinarily purchase for myself. I figured it was her money, or at least the city’s, and if it made her happy to dress me like her twin sister, so be it. I’d give the stuff to Goodwill when I got home. Besides, I didn’t get much, since I figured now that Monk had brought the crime wave in Summit to an end, we’d be heading back home in a day or two.

With the clothes shopping out of the way, we got all of our toiletries and bought Monk his essentials—a thousand packets of Wet Ones disinfectant wipes, a couple of hundred Ziploc baggies, a box of latex gloves, a pocket-size can of Lysol Disinfectant Spray, a small tape measure, and a key chain–size level.

We lugged everything to the car, then treated ourselves to an early lunch at the California Pizza Kitchen in the mall.

But as soon as I sat down in the booth, I found myself struggling to stay awake.

Sharona told me how worried she was that Disher could lose his job now that the police department had been tarnished not just with scandal but with murder.

I’m sure I would have offered sympathy and good advice if I hadn’t been fighting just to stay awake. As it
was, I barely heard a word that she said. I was so tired I couldn’t even eat. Chewing would have taken too much energy.

Sharona saw that I was fading fast, so she had our food wrapped up to go and hustled me to the car.

I fell asleep on the drive back to the house, and Sharona told me later she’d been tempted to leave me in the driveway in her car with the windows rolled down. But she shook me half-awake, something I don’t remember at all, and led me sleepwalking inside, where I collapsed on the couch in the den.

What I didn’t know was that Monk had fallen asleep, too, sitting in a recliner, wearing an apron over his police uniform and clutching a feather duster in his rubber-gloved hands as if it were a teddy bear.

It turned out to be a good thing that both Monk and I slept through most of the day, tucked away in seclusion at Sharona and Disher’s house. It kept us both out of the public eye and away from the news media, which had been provoked into a frenzy by the arrest of two police officers for murder, arson, burglary, and a bunch of other charges in a town that had already made headlines for rampant corruption in its city hall.

While I was dreaming of sleeping in a huge canopy bed with big fluffy pillows and thick white comforters in a room with wide-open windows, the thin drapes fluttering in the breeze off the impossibly blue waters of the Mediterranean—yes, I dreamed of sleeping, that’s how exciting my fantasy life was—poor Chief Randy Disher was being grilled by reporters and the irate New Jersey state attorney general. Disher was doing his best to save his reputation and persuade the outraged and anxious authorities in Trenton not to swoop in and take over Summit.

But as we were soon to find out, by the time he came home for dinner, he’d managed to accomplish both, not because he was media savvy or politically adept, but through honesty and some quick improvisation born out of sheer desperation.

I was awakened by the smell of food. I sat up on the couch feeling stiff and heavy-headed, like one of the
Peanuts
characters, only I wasn’t nearly as animated. My stomach growled, angrily demanding attention. So I got up and staggered in my stocking feet into the kitchen, where Sharona, Disher, and Monk were gathered, preparing spaghetti and meatballs. I knew without even looking that each noodle would be the same length and that each meatball would be perfectly round.

Sharona unwrapped our uneaten salads from lunch and put them into bowls so they could be shared while Disher set the table.

Monk wore a
KISS THE COOK
apron over his uniform and was carefully laying out noodles on the plates when he saw me come in.

“No shirt, no shoes, no service,” he said.

“This isn’t a restaurant, Adrian,” Sharona said.

“The germs and bacteria on her fungal feet don’t know the difference,” Monk said.

I didn’t have the energy or the will to argue, so I went back to the den, put on my shoes, and when I returned, the food was already on the table.

I sat down and looked at my plate. The twenty noodles, two meatballs, and dollop of sauce were all served separately. I mixed them together, eliciting a gasp and a look of disapproval from Monk.

“You’re a guest in someone’s home, not a hobo in a railroad car,” Monk said, then turned to Sharona and Disher. “I apologize for her lack of manners.”

“No apology necessary,” Sharona said as she combined her spaghetti with the meatballs and sauce. “We’re all animals here.”

Monk turned away, only to be assaulted by the sight of Disher doing the same thing. “Is this Summit? Or Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“You sound like the people who were on my back today,” Disher said.

“Seems to me they have good reason,” Monk said.

“Mr. Monk, you’re talking to a close friend who has welcomed you as a guest in his home. How can you be so insensitive and rude?” I turned to Sharona and Disher. “I apologize for his lack of manners.”

“No apology necessary,” Disher said. “Because Monk is right.”

“Of course I am,” Monk said.

“The corruption in this town is so widespread,” Disher continued, “I was certain that after people heard about Lindero and Woodlake, they’d march on police headquarters with torches and the authorities in Trenton would invade.”

“So why haven’t they?” Sharona asked.

“Because I told everybody that I have things under control and that the arrest of Lindero and Woodlake proves it. I rooted out the corruption in city hall first and then I brought in two experienced law enforcement professionals from outside New Jersey to do the same thing in my own department.”

“That’s a brilliant spin on events,” I said. “I had no idea you were such an adept politician.”

“I never had a chance to prove it before,” Disher said. “My leadership qualities were squelched in Frisco. Here I have a chance to shine.”

“Or become the object of national ridicule,” Monk said.

“Thanks for the support,” Disher said.

“How can you say you’re rooting out corruption when you have a store on your main street that’s selling excrement?” Monk asked.

“Ellen’s store is the least of my problems,” Disher said.

“It should be your top priority,” Monk said. “It’s emblematic of the rot that permeates this city and is a beacon for criminals, perverts, and lunatics.”

“I’m proud of you, Randy,” Sharona said, reaching across the table and giving his hand a squeeze. “When this is all over, the public may elect you mayor.”

“I don’t want the job,” Disher said. “I’m a cop.”

“Speaking of cops,” I said, “how did it go with Lindero and Woodlake?”

“Lindero lawyered up fast, but Woodlake cracked the second he was alone in the interrogation room. He wants to cut a deal and get a lesser sentence in return for testifying against Lindero.”

“There is no honor among thieves,” Sharona said.

“And you can find them all shopping at Poop,” Monk said.

“Woodlake says the reason they only stole cash, assembly-line jewelry, and electronics was so they wouldn’t have to work with any fences to move their merchandise,” Disher said. “They didn’t want crooks to know that they were, well, crooks themselves. So they simply sold the stuff on craigslist, eBay, and other places like that under fake names.”

“Which one of them killed Pamela Goldman?” Sharona asked.

“Apparently neither one of them,” Disher said. “Woodlake admits they’re burglars but says they aren’t killers.”

“So they lobbed that Molotov cocktail into Mr.
Monk’s room because they thought he was chilly,” I said.

“It was meant to scare him off,” Disher said, “not kill him.”

“So I suppose Woodlake says Pamela’s death was an accident,” Sharona said. “Or that it was her fault for walking in on them unannounced.”

“Nope,” Disher said. “He says they didn’t kill her.”

“Of course he does,” Monk said. “But the evidence says otherwise.”

“He says they didn’t burglarize that house, either,” Disher said, “and that they have an alibi for the time of the killing.”

“Is it convincing?” Sharona asked.

“No, but it’s a new one on me,” Disher said. “Woodlake says they were busy burglarizing another house at the time she was killed.”

“Have you tried to confirm it?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Disher said. “That’ll be your job when your shift starts tomorrow.”

“Shift?” I said.

Disher reached into his pocket and tossed something shiny across the table to me. I caught it out of reflex. It was a badge.

“Welcome to the Summit Police Department,” Disher said.

Disher tossed a badge to Monk, too.

Monk caught it, immediately pinned it on his uniform, and then smiled with pride.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re telling me we’re actually detectives of the Summit Police Department now?”

“No,” Disher said. “Of course not.”

I sighed with relief. “That’s good to hear. For a minute there, you had me worried.”

“We can’t afford detectives,” he said. “You’re uniformed police officers.”

“Cool,” Monk said.

“No, it’s not, it’s insane. We can’t be police officers,” I said.

“With Lindero and Woodlake in jail, I’ve lost a third of my force,” Disher said. “I need two officers I can depend on and I need them now. I have nowhere else to turn.”

“You’re not thinking this through,” I said. “We haven’t been trained.”

“I have,” Monk said.

“I haven’t,” I said.

“You’ve been working as a de facto San Francisco homicide detective for years now,” Disher said to me. “I know you can do the job.”