Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Goldberg, Lee (best books to read for self development TXT) 📗

look. “What do you think they are thinking?”

“Men are idiots,” I said.

“Men are men,” Stottlemeyer said.

“What are you going to do now?”

Monk squeezed past Stottlemeyer to examine the clothes on the other bed.

Stottlemeyer sighed. “We’ll question the hotel door-men, concierges, and busboys—they’re usually the guys who put the clients in touch with the ladies in exchange for a commission. They’ll give us a name. We’ll round up all the hookers in the area and question them. And we’ll talk with the escort services. Meanwhile, we’ll keep our eye on the pawnbrokers and fences who’d be most likely to move the stolen merchandise.”

“It sounds like a lot of work,” I said.

“That’s how it gets done most of the time,” Stottlemeyer said, watching Monk, who took out his pen and began to examine the clothes with it. “How did things go at the convention?”

“We met some interesting people and learned a lot about the show.”

“What did you learn about Stipe’s murder?”

“You’d have to ask Mr. Monk about that,” I said.

Stottlemeyer looked at Monk, who was using his pen to lift up one of the sleeves of the victim’s discarded shirt.

“Well?” Stottlemeyer said.

“When did the maid discover the body?” Monk said.

“After lunch. She came in to clean the room and there he was,” Stottlemeyer said. “I was asking you about your investigation of the Stipe murder.”

“So she hadn’t cleaned the room since yesterday.”

“Yes, Monk, that would be the logical assumption.”

“Actually, sir, she didn’t clean the room yesterday,” Disher said, stepping in. “Emilia, the maid who ordinarily handles this floor, called in sick today with a stomach flu. Paola—that’s the maid who found the body—usually cleans on the seventh floor. Paola took a double shift to cover for Emilia today.”

“Thank you, Randy,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned back to Monk. “The ME is waiting to take the body.”

Monk nodded and stepped between Stottlemeyer and me to examine the clothes in the closet. I peered behind Monk to look at the captain.

“Which other Beyond Earth people are staying here besides Stipe?”

The captain peered behind Monk to answer me.

“Kingston Mills, the executive producer of the new show, and Judson Beck, the star. But the really interesting thing is that Stipe’s ex-wife Arianna showed up here last night with her divorce lawyer, Howard Egger.”

“Why did she do that?”

“I don’t know,” Stottlemeyer said. “We were going to ask her about it when this came up. In fact, we were just about done with this crime scene when you arrived.”

Monk leaned back from the closet.

“The victim has antacids, a jeweler’s loupe, sixty-five cents in change, and three bits of lint in the left front pocket of his overcoat.”

“That’s fascinating,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk held his hand out to me. “Do you have any lint?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“We need another piece of lint and I’m lintless,” Monk said. “I’m always lintless.”

Stottlemeyer narrowed his eyes at Monk. “You want to put another piece of lint in Bozadjian’s coat pocket?”

“And one penny,” Monk said.

“That’s bizarre even for you.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Monk said.

“Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, “you can’t.”

“I’m respecting the dead.”

“You’re contaminating the crime scene. You can’t add stuff to the victim’s personal belongings.”

“I know that.” Monk took an evidence bag out of his pocket. “We’ll put our lint and our penny in here so it’s with the other stuff, but separate.”

“What does it matter if he’s got three pieces of lint and sixty-five cents? He’s dead.”

“So that means we stop caring? What about this man’s family? What would they think if they knew we showed such callous disregard for him?”

Stottlemeyer took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then jammed his hand in his pocket. He pulled his hand out, sorted through his loose change, and dropped a penny in the evidence Baggie.

“Happy now?”

“You don’t have any lint?”

Stottlemeyer looked down at his open palm. “Isn’t that lint?”

“That’s a crumb,” Monk said.

Disher dug around in his pockets. “I have lint.”

He opened his hand and showed it to Monk, who took a pair of tweezers from his breast pocket, carefully picked up the lint, and dropped it into the Baggie.

Monk placed the Baggie in Bozadjian’s coat, patted it gently, and smiled at us.

“There,” he said. “That’s better. Can’t you feel it?”

“I feel cracks forming in my skull,” Stottlemeyer said. “Are we done here?”

“Not quite.” Monk went into the bathroom and looked into a large toiletry bag that was on the counter near the sink.

We watched as Monk took out a separate vinyl case from the toiletry bag and unzipped it to reveal several tiny syringes, some vials, and a red box that was marked NEEDLE CLIPPER/BIOHAZARDOUS WASTE and had a pinhole at one end.

“Bozadjian was using drugs,” Monk said.

“That’s insulin, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “He was a diabetic. The hooker probably took his MedicAlert bracelet with the rest of his stuff.”

Monk cocked his head at the spare bed, crouched in front of one of the corners, and untucked the blanket.

Stottlemeyer groaned. “Now what are you doing?”

Monk motioned to the top sheet, which was folded around the corner and tucked under the mattress.

“Admiring the way this sheet is tucked in,” Monk said, motioning to the top sheet, which was folded around the corner in a half-triangle formation. “It’s like Emilia gift-wrapped the mattress. She should get a raise.”

“I don’t really give a damn. I’d like to get out of here and the ME is ready to take the body.”

“Just one more thing,” Monk said and left the room. We all followed him.

“No, Monk, no more things. It’s time to go,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk approached the maid. “Can you show me the last room you cleaned?”

Paola looked at Disher, who looked at Stottlemeyer, who looked