Mr. Monk on Patrol (6 page)

“Still consistent with my theory. They could have been bloodshot from not wearing sunglasses or from allergies or from getting paint in them. Tear gas from an exploding dye pack is not the only explanation.”

“You’re forgetting that red dye has a substantially different composition than latex paint.”

“And you could see that chemical difference just by glancing at the flecks?”

“I’m not blind,” he said as he grabbed the water bottle back from Sharona and took another sip. “Paint flecks and dye flecks also have markedly different textures.”

“Markedly,” Sharona said, nodding with agreement. “You didn’t know that, Natalie?”

She was just teasing me but I was in no mood for it. I didn’t like being reminded that my deductive skills were still lacking.

Then again, Monk might know the chemical and textural differences between dye and paint, but he didn’t know Facebook from the phone book, couldn’t win a taste test between Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi, and wouldn’t recognize Lady Gaga if she showed up at his front door and belted out a song.

So what if I didn’t know all the arcane stuff that he did. That didn’t make me inept. It just meant I would miss some things that he wouldn’t.

And vice versa. Let’s see how he’d do on a murder case where the solution depended on knowing what Diet Pepsi tastes like, knowing the entire Lady Gaga songbook by heart, and being able to navigate Facebook.

I couldn’t wait for that case to come along.

I glanced at the flat-screen monitor behind the counter at the gate. We had only a few minutes before boarding. It was time to raise the issue that I’d been avoiding.

“We’ll be boarding soon, Mr. Monk. Have you thought about how you want to deal with the flight?”

“I’ve already prepared my last will and testament,” Monk said. “If that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“What I meant was, do you want Dioxynl? Or maybe a tranquilizer?”

“I am not taking any drugs,” he said.

“It will make the flight less stressful for you,” I said, “and everybody else on the plane.”

“I don’t want to die a junkie,” he said.

“One pill won’t make you a junkie, Adrian,” Sharona said.

“It’s how it starts,” Monk said. “Today you have an aspirin, tomorrow you’re a crack whore.”

“But if you’re going to die today, it won’t come to that,” she said, “so what’s the difference?”

“I don’t want my senses to be impaired. I may need them.”

“For what?” she asked.

“Using the parachute,” he said.

“Passengers aren’t given parachutes,” I said.

“Still?” he said, exasperated. “It’s been years since I notified the FAA about that issue.”

“You really expect airlines to give each passenger a parachute?” Sharona said.

“It makes more sense than equipping every seat with a life vest for flotation,” he said. “That’s like giving people parachutes on boats.”

I had to admit that his argument made a certain amount of sense to me, which was frightening. I’d clearly been working for him too long.

They started boarding our flight a few minutes later
and Monk seemed a bit weak-kneed as he got to his feet and surprisingly subdued as we walked down the Jetway to the plane.

I’d prepared myself for the arguments to come. For instance, I was ready to tell him that he shouldn’t think of the three-seat rows in the plane as odd-numbered, but rather as six-seat rows cut in half, and since six is an even number, it all balanced out in the end. Besides, at least the plane was divided symmetrically.

But I didn’t have to make that argument or any others, because by the time we got to our seats, Monk could barely stand, and he was out cold after we got him buckled into his window seat.

I took the seat beside him and Sharona took the aisle. She was smiling with smug satisfaction.

“While I was talking to Mr. Monk, you put something in his bottle of water, didn’t you?”

She nodded. “Adrian will sleep all the way to Newark.”

“He’ll be angry,” I said.

She waved off my concern. “He’ll thank me later.”

While Monk slept, Sharona told me about life in Summit, which was only a thirty-minute train ride from midtown Manhattan, so while it felt like a small town, it was essentially an upscale bedroom community for people who worked in New York City.

It was a great place to live.

The main drag was Springfield Avenue and appeared much the same today as it had for decades, a picture-perfect example of small-town USA. But if you looked a bit closer, you’d see that the coffee shops and mom-and-pop stores were being squeezed out by fancy cafés, art galleries, and boutiques selling designer clothing and home décor.

The town’s roots as a pastoral farming community were still evident in the rolling hills, tree-lined streets, and lush landscaping around the homes, many of which dated back to the early 1900s and had been impeccably restored and maintained.

That takes big bucks and there was plenty of that in Summit. The residents tended to be highly educated, well paid, and totally self-absorbed professionals with busy lives.

So as long as the schools were good, the streets were clean, the crime rate was low, and no demands were made on their time or money, the citizens didn’t pay any attention to what was happening in local government.

And why should they? Everything was orderly, smooth, and peaceful, requiring nothing from them except prompt payment of their property taxes.

So thanks to the apathetic citizenry, the politicians were able to pillage the treasury without anyone noticing or caring until a clerical error and an overzealous new police chief stripped away the facade to reveal the corruption under the surface.

“But enough about the town,” Sharona said. “Let me tell you about Randy Disher.”

“You’re forgetting that I know him,” I said. “We worked together for years.”

She shook her head. “I thought I knew him, too, when I was working for Adrian. But I really didn’t. What you saw was this eager-to-please, goofy guy totally wrapped up in being a cop and proud of it.”

“And he isn’t that guy?”

“Oh, he was. But I didn’t know then where it was all coming from. He’s this incredibly sincere, warm, passionately loyal man who had nothing else to focus those qualities on except the job and his boss, so they became a substitute for what was missing in his life.”

“The love of a good woman,” I said.

“It seems so clear now, but it took me ten years, and remarrying a guy I divorced, moving away, and divorcing him a second time, to discover that my Prince Charming was right in front of me all the time. I can’t believe I blew him off for so long.”

“Why did you?”

“Mainly because he was a cop. Until I started working with Adrian, they were people I was brought up to avoid. It was a hard habit to break. Besides, he had that ridiculous cop swagger, which was laughable because he was so sweet. I couldn’t take him seriously.”

I knew what she meant. It was often hard for me to see Randy as anything but comical. But she was right, part of it was how hard he tried to be tough, only to be undone by his boyish good nature. Oddly enough, it was his likability, not his toughness, that made him such a good cop.

Captain Stottlemeyer often said that people opened up to Disher in ways they never would to any other cop, perhaps because they sensed, on some level, his inherent decency.

“He’s the sweetest, most attentive and honest man I have ever known,” Sharona said. “But his good nature gets him into trouble.”

“He’s too trusting,” I said.

“He always wants to see the best in people, which is strange for a cop. Most of the cops I know assume everyone is a dirtbag, and they are usually right.”

“So how has Randy changed now that he has you?”

“He’s calmed down. He’s less eager to please, more willing to take charge, even if that means alienating people.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Have you changed?”

“I used to come on strong. I’d get into people’s faces
before they could get into mine. But I’m a pussycat now.”

“So I’ve noticed,” I said.

“Don’t judge me by how I handle Adrian,” she said. “That’s different. Now that I’m with Randy, I’m trying really hard to be more aware of other people’s feelings and work not to piss everybody off. We’re living in a small town, Randy has a high-profile job, and I know what I do reflects on him.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Well, now that I’m with him, I’ve got a lot less to be angry about.”

“So he wasn’t the only one acting out because he didn’t have somebody to love.”

She gave me a look. “When did you become a junior shrink?”

“About the same time I became a junior detective,” I said. “It’s required when you’re working with Mr. Monk, but I don’t need to tell you that. How does Randy like being the chief?”

“He loves it. It’s a small force, only six officers, so he’s really been able to make it his own. There isn’t much crime in Summit, nothing compared to what he dealt with in San Francisco, so he’s been able to relax a little but still wow everybody with what a good cop he is. Then the scandal hit and changed everything. Now I’m afraid everyone is expecting way too much from him. And that he’s expecting too much from himself.”

“Enough about Randy,” I said. “What about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve ever been,” she said. “Randy is a real calming influence.”

I glanced over at Monk, snoozing away. It was a shame he hadn’t heard Sharona’s remark.

“It’s called being in love,” I said.

“Which used to feel like the flu until Randy came
along. He’s the first man in my life who didn’t give me headaches and cramps from the stress and a sore throat from the yelling.”

“Are you working?”

“Yeah, as a private nurse for some people in town, dropping in on them each day, administering their meds and checking their vitals, that kind of thing. And I get to come home each night to a good man who treats me like a queen.”

“You can’t beat that,” I said.

“No, I can’t. I don’t want to lose this life, Natalie, not after it took me so long to get it. That’s why it’s so important to me that Randy emerges from this scandal on top. It’s why we need Adrian.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Randy doesn’t need to be concerned about neglecting the police department while he’s running the local government. No crime will go unsolved while Mr. Monk is in town. He’ll keep Summit clean.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“By the time we leave, Mr. Monk will have the birds cleaning up their own droppings.”

“Oh God,” she said in mock horror, “what have I done?”

We touched down hard in Newark at two a.m. and the jolt awakened Monk, who sat up straight in his seat and gripped his armrests for dear life.

“Taking off is the part I hate most,” Monk said.

“Then you can relax,” I said, “because we’ve just landed.”

Monk looked out the window and saw for himself that we were heading toward the terminal, not away from it. When he turned back to us, he saw Sharona smiling at him.

“Welcome to New Jersey,” she said. “You slept the whole way.”

“You slipped me a mickey,” he said.

“I did,” she said. “Do you feel an overpowering desire to score some crack?”

“I used to trust you,” Monk said, then shifted his gaze to me. “Were you aware of what she was doing?”

“No,” I said. “But I think you’re treating Sharona unfairly.”

“She drugged me,” Monk said. “That’s an unforgivable betrayal.”

“You didn’t feel that way when you drugged your brother with sleeping pills, kidnapped him, and dragged him across state lines in a motor home,” I said.

“Adrian did that?” Sharona said.

“He did,” I said. “It was a birthday present for Ambrose.”

“Some present,” Sharona said.

“That was an entirely different situation,” Monk said.

“No, it wasn’t. You did it to get Ambrose from one place to another with as little drama and discomfort as possible,” I said. “In fact, what you did was worse. You took him away against his will.”

Monk squirmed a little in his seat. “I did it for his own good, to get him out of the house so he could experience new places he’d never been to before.”

“Have you ever been to New Jersey?” I asked.

“Hell no,” Monk said.

“I rest my case,” I said.

“For the remainder of this trip, you’re tasting all of my food and water before I do,” Monk said.

“I’d be glad to, but we both know that you’re not going to eat or drink anything that I’ve tasted first. So you’ll just have to take your chances. Or starve.”

The stewardess announced that we’d arrived, told everybody they could make calls on their cell phones while we taxied for a few minutes, and relayed some information about connecting flights.

“Look at the bright side, Adrian,” Sharona said. “We didn’t crash. You’re alive.”

“In New Jersey,” Monk said. “I might have been better off dead.”

“How can you say that?” she said. “You don’t know anything about New Jersey.”

“I know it’s so poisonous that there are over one hundred and twelve New Jersey locations on the EPA’s priority cleanup list of the most toxic sites in the nation,” Monk said. “With another twenty-nine under consideration to be added.”