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

an experience I was eager to repeat, certainly not during one of the rare weeks when I had the house to myself. Monk would put a kibosh on any romance I might have. Even simple pleasures like eating ice cream out of the carton would be impossible with him around.

“It’s just two nights,” he said. “Maybe three.”

“Three?”

“Four at most,” Monk said.

I was about to give him all the reasons why this was a terrible idea, and why it wasn’t going to happen, when my cell phone rang. It was Lieutenant Randy Disher.

“This is Lieutenant Randy Disher, SFPD,” he said.

He always said that, even though he knew I would instantly recognize his voice even if my caller ID didn’t inform me who was calling. He just liked hearing himself say it. I think he even identified himself that way when he called his mother. He probably flashed his badge when they met face-to-face.

There was only one reason Randy Disher ever called me.

“Where’s the corpse?” I asked with a weary sigh.

He told me.

2

Mr. Monk and the Glimpse of Hell

Unless you live in a cave, or are Adrian Monk, you’ve not only seen a Burgerville restaurant, you’ve probably eaten in them a couple hundred times. It’s as inevitable as life, death, and high cholesterol.

As unhealthy and unimaginative as Burgerville food is, you can’t deny that the fanciful, hamburger-shaped restaurants have become an inextricable part of American popular culture.

I’d always imagined that their national headquarters would be the world’s biggest hamburger, perhaps surrounded by a complex of buildings shaped like fries, a shake, and a soft drink. So I was deeply disappointed to discover that Burgerville’s corporate offices were housed in an unremarkable five-story building hidden in the shadows of the more distinctive skyscrapers that surrounded it in the financial district.

I came through the revolving door and found Captain Leland Stottlemeyer in the wood-paneled lobby, leaning against the donut-shaped reception desk and talking to the fat uniformed guard sitting in the center. The two of them were smiling and appeared relaxed as they talked, so I brilliantly deduced that this wasn’t the first time they’d met.

It was nice to see Stottlemeyer smile for a change. A pained expression seemed to be a required part of his professional demeanor, though in the months leading up to and following his divorce, he’d carried the same look around off duty as well. Only in the last couple of weeks had he begun to loosen up a little as the stress in his personal life eased and he settled into being single.

Stottlemeyer was in his late forties and had a bushy mustache that got bushier as his hairline receded. If his hairline continued its retreat, in a few years his mustache would be so thick that he’d have to breathe exclusively through his mouth.

The captain turned to me and jerked a thumb towards the guard, who looked to be about his age and easily twice his weight. I figured the guard was probably making the most of his employee discount at Burgerville restaurants.

“Natalie, I’d like you to meet Archie Applebaum,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’s a security guard here, but back in the day he used to walk a beat in the Tenderloin.”

“Leland and I went through the academy together,” Archie said, offering me his pudgy hand. I shook it. “He rose up the ranks and me, well, I got sidelined by a bad back.”

“Once a cop, always a cop,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’ve demonstrated that by the way you secured the crime scene before we got here.”

“I just used common sense,” Archie said.

“Your average rent-a-cop would have hopelessly messed things up,” Stottlemeyer said. “But you’re the real deal.”

“Except nowadays I wear a plastic badge, like something you’d buy for your kid. I’m surprised they don’t give me a cap gun, too.”

“Your badge may not be silver, but I bet your pay and your pension plan are a lot better than mine.”

“I’d trade it all to be back on the beat,” Archie said.

“I hear you.” Stottlemeyer turned to me. “Where’s Monk?”

“I had to parallel park,” I said by way of explanation.

He groaned knowingly. The captain was the only person, with the exception of Monk’s previous assistant, Sharona Fleming, who truly understood my daily misery.

Archie shifted his gaze between Stottlemeyer and me, trying to read the situation.

“What am I missing?” the guard asked us.

“You remember a cop named Adrian Monk?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Wasn’t he the guy who ticketed a hundred people outside a movie theater for not lining up according to their height?”

“That’s him,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’s the best detective I’ve ever known. But right now, he’s outside measuring the space between Natalie’s car and the ones around hers.”

“What for?” Archie asked.

“He wants to make sure my car is perfectly centered, ” I said. “Then he’s going to check the other cars on both sides of the street.”

“If they aren’t all equally spaced, he’s going to demand that we find the drivers and have them align their cars properly,” Stottlemeyer said. “Or if we can’t find the drivers, he’ll want me to have the cars towed.”

“You’re kidding,” Archie said.

“God, I wish I was,” Stottlemeyer said.

“So what are you going to do?” Archie asked.

“Shoot him or shoot myself,” Stottlemeyer said. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Stottlemeyer went outside and I followed him.

We found Monk crouched between my Jeep Cherokee and the Volkswagen parked in front of it. He rose up when he saw us and examined his tape measure.

“You’re going to have to move your car forward half an inch, Natalie,” he said. “But you did a much better job than the scofflaws parked on this street. There isn’t a single car that isn’t a good four inches out of alignment.”

“There isn’t a law anywhere in the penal code requiring