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

if I have this right, shortly after you left your lesbian lover for the married man who artificially impregnated you, you went up to Sacramento to argue that it was time we liberalized our notions of marriage.”

Her face turned dark red. She was flushed with anger, not embarrassment. I’m sure she saw nothing wrong with her behavior.

“I don’t see what any of this gay bashing and character assassination has to do with Ellen’s murder,” Sally said.

“Considering all the hypocrisy and contradictions in your story,” Sharona said, “a cynical person might argue that you went to that hearing in Sacramento just so you’d have an alibi while your ex-girlfriend was murdered.”

“Do you really think I’ve benefited from any of this?” Sally said. “Whoever killed Ellen has made my life a living hell. My private life is now public and Christian’s marriage has crumbled.”

“Freeing him to be with you,” Sharona said. “Another win.”

“His kids hate him now,” Sally said. “And although he’s got tenure, this has probably ruined any chance he has of being the new chairman of the university’s gender-studies department.”

“Isn’t that where Ellen worked?” I said.

“They were colleagues,” Sally said. “That’s how she knew him well enough to ask for his sperm.”

“That must have been an interesting conversation,” Sharona said. “Why him?”

“Christian was married and fertile,” Sally said. “He wasn’t likely to try to assert any parental rights and Ellen liked his kids. They were bright and attractive.”

“So why wasn’t she the one who was inseminated?” I said.

“Medical problems,” Sally said. “She couldn’t have children.”

“This chairmanship position,” Sharona asked, “was that something Ellen wanted, too?”

Sally’s face was so red now, she looked like a tomato being devoured by the king of cockroaches.

“Yes,” Sally said.

“So you’ve got the kid, you’ve got the man, you’re probably going to get the house,” Sharona said, “and if things really go well, your man will get the chairmanship, too. Yeah, this murder certainly was a big tragedy for you.”

“Where was Dr. Bayliss when the murder happened?” I asked.

This question seemed to brighten Sally’s mood considerably. She gave me a smug smile. “He was delivering a lecture in front of fifty students.”

So there.

I was tapped out. I think Sharona was, too.

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Monk?” I said into the phone.

“Yes,” said Monk over the telephone speaker, “when can we get the hell out of this godforsaken city?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mr. Monk Finds the Holes

Dr. Christian Bayliss’ office was on the first floor of Haines Hall, one of UCLA’s original four redbrick buildings on either side of Dickson Plaza. They were built in that Romanesque style that screams education and pricey tuition.

His office had none of the imposing grandeur promised by the exterior of the building. It was just plain white walls, scuffed linoleum floors, acoustic tile ceilings and a sliver of a window. There was barely enough room for his desk, a small sagging bookcase and the man himself.

I’ve been in roomier elevators.

Sharona and I squeezed in, brushing against the spare sport jacket, shirt and slacks he had hanging on the coatrack.

Dr. Bayliss had the perfect teeth of a television anchor-man, a chin prominent enough to merit landmark status and the beginnings of a potbelly, which was pulling his shirttails out of his pleated slacks.

We introduced ourselves, reminded him that Lieutenant Dozier had sent us and then told him why we were there. He took it all in surprising good humor.

“I’m glad to help. While I was waiting for you, I Googled Mr. Monk,” Dr. Bayliss said. “He’s quite a remarkable man. What I can’t figure out is why he’s taken an interest in this case.”

“The gardener accused of killing Ellen Cole is my husband, ” Sharona said. “And I used to be Adrian’s assistant.”

“I see,” Dr. Bayliss said. “So actually the police don’t really have any doubt about who is guilty.”

“They do now,” Sharona said.

That wasn’t true, but I wasn’t going to correct her. It was better for our interview if Dr. Bayliss was a little uncertain of his standing.

“Is Mr. Monk going to be joining us?” he asked. “Or are you investigating under his imprimatur?”

Wow. “Imprimatur.” I guess he wanted to remind us he was the only professor in the room. It was a shame that I’d left my thesaurus at home.

“He’s out in the hall,” I said.

“Why doesn’t he come in?”

“He wanted us to check to see if you were covered with insects first,” I said.

“We met your girlfriend. Adrian was afraid she might have given you a live cockroach tie clip for Christmas.” Sharona leaned out the door and waved Monk over. “It’s okay, Adrian. The guy is bug-free.”

Monk still seemed hesitant to enter and stood with one foot in the office and one in the hallway. It wasn’t entirely by choice. The office wasn’t big enough for the four of us anyway. To make room, Sharona almost had to stand in the garbage can, which contained the latest issue of the Daily Bruin.

“Why are you wearing a gas mask?” Dr. Bayliss asked.

“Why isn’t everyone?” Monk said.

“I don’t see any smoke,” Dr. Bayliss said. “And as far as I know, the air in this room is safe to breathe.”

Monk stared at him in shock. Or at least I think he did. It wasn’t too easy to see his face through that mask.

“Have you looked outside lately?” Monk said. “There’s a toxic cloud hanging over the city.”

“That’s just the smog,” Dr. Bayliss said, tucking in his shirttails, which showed a hint of blue ink.

“Calling it by another name doesn’t change the facts,” Monk said.

“But let’s change the subject,” I said. “We didn’t come here to talk about air quality. We want to ask you about your relationship with Ellen Cole.”

“We were