Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (ready player one ebook .TXT) 📗

This place was definitely full of antiques. You wouldn’t find any Knightrider lunch boxes here. There were pottery, furniture, paintings and knickknacks everywhere, mostly from Europe, with price tags from three to four figures.

Although the store was small, there was nothing dusty or dingy about it—a fact that I’m sure Monk appreciated. All the items were thoughtfully laid out and illuminated by pinpoint halogens, as if on museum display.

The cash register was on a carved wooden desk in the front of the store to the left of the door. There was a bloodstain on the carpet and blood spatter on the wall.

Monk glanced up at the security camera, rocked his head from side to side, then glanced at the open register.

“Why did he hold up the store?” Monk asked.

“Why does anybody rob a place?” Dozier said. “For the money.”

“But this isn’t really a cash business. These are high-priced antiques,” Monk said. “People usually pay for them with credit cards.”

“The only thing the perp saw was the expensive stuff and didn’t think it through,” Dozier said. “We aren’t dealing with Professor Moriarty here. We’re talking about some hophead looking for cash to buy his next fix.”

“But he was smart enough to hit a store that was obscured from view,” Monk said, “and to shoot the owner when the jackhammers were going.”

“Trust me. You’re overthinking this,” Dozier said. “I’ve seen a hundred homicides just like it. Let me show you the video.”

Dozier led us into the back room, a windowless, cramped space dominated by a large table covered with packing materials: UPS mailing labels, scissors, tape guns and rolls of bubble wrap. Suspended over the table were enormous bags of Styrofoam popcorn with funnels at the ends for filling the empty spaces in cardboard boxes.

The bits of popcorn were all over the floor and tabletops, and charged with static electricity. As soon as we walked in, we had pieces of Styrofoam clinging to our ankles.

There was a woman sitting on a stool. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose was red and her cheeks were moist from the tears. She was obviously the wife—a short, thin woman in her thirties. But even in her grief, she somehow managed to project refinement and intelligence. Perhaps it was the way she sat with her back perfectly straight, her chin up and her eyes focused on the African-American detective taking her statement. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to swipe away the two bits of Styrofoam that clung to her leg.

In fact, I was surprised Monk hadn’t beaten me to it, but he was busy trying to shake off the popcorn that was clinging to him. Judging by Monk’s reaction, you’d think they were bloodsucking leeches instead of bits of Styrofoam.

“You might want to step outside, Mrs. Davidoff,” Dozier said, nodding toward a VCR and monitor on a shelf. “We need to view the tape again.”

Mrs. Davidoff stood up and regarded Monk. “Why are you wearing that mask?”

“My sinuses,” Monk said. “I’d like to keep them.”

That was when Monk collided with a stack of boxes piled up by the door to the alley for the UPS man. His peripheral vision wasn’t great with that mask on.

Mrs. Davidoff caught the boxes before the stack could topple over. “Be careful,” she said. “These are fragile antiques awaiting shipment.”

“I’m sorry,” Monk said.

Mrs. Davidoff turned to Dozier. “The UPS man should be arriving soon. Will you allow him to pick up these boxes? If they don’t go today, they may never go. I don’t think I can ever come back to this store again.”

“No problem,” Dozier said. “I’ll personally make sure they’re sent.”

“Thank you,” she said and walked out with the other detective.

“Classy lady,” Dozier said. “She’s holding up well now but she’s going to have a hard fall. I’ve seen it before.”

Dozier turned on the TV and hit PLAY on the VCR. The video, taken from above and behind the front desk, was in crisp, clear color. There was no audio. We saw a man every bit as elegant as Mrs. Davidoff sitting at the desk, doing some paperwork. He had a bald spot on the top of his head that he tried to hide with a comb-over.

Monk wasn’t paying much attention to the video; he was busy restacking the boxes according to size. At least it temporarily distracted him from the Styrofoam clinging to his ankles.

I looked back at the monitor just as the robber stepped into the frame. He was tall, with big shoulders, a barrel chest and a ski mask over his face. His turtleneck sweater, ski mask and gloves were all black. Because of where the desk was situated, he was only visible from above the waist.

Mr. Davidoff looked up. The robber held the gun sideways, the way gang members do in the movies, and motioned to the register. Mr. Davidoff opened the register and scooped out the few bills that were inside. The robber kept motioning to the register. The owner lifted out the cash tray, presumably to prove there was no more money there. And that was when the robber shot him. It was startling even without the sound.

I looked back at Monk, who glanced up at the monitor just as the robber was running out of the store.

“It’s a good thing Mrs. Davidoff hasn’t seen this,” Dozier said. “Imagine seeing your own spouse getting killed.”

I could. And I have imagined that. If there’s a tape that exists of Mitch getting killed, I hope I never find out about it.

Dozier fast-forwarded the video to the point where Mrs. Davidoff came out. According to the time code, it was five minutes after her husband was killed. She ran to her husband’s side and screamed, which was even more creepy and powerful in silence.

“Freeze it,” Monk said.

Dozier did. Mrs. Davidoff’s frozen, anguished