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

brush of doom,” Monk said. “Do you think it could be the same man?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Monk said.

“Positive,” I said. “The painter looked completely different.”

“What painter?” Disher asked.

Stottlemeyer dismissed Disher’s question with a wave of his hand.

“Maybe it was a cunning disguise,” Monk said. “We know the assassin likes disguises.”

“Why would the hit man who shot Brandon Lorber, killed Conrad Stipe, and gunned down the cabdriver be standing outside Mrs. Lorber’s house today disguised as a painter?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Monk said. “But all the paint in the world can’t hide that man’s black soul.”

“What’s James Brown got to do with this?” Disher asked.

“We’re talking about a painter,” I said, “not the Godfather of Soul.”

“Not necessarily,” Monk said. “There could be an organized-crime angle to this.”

“It’s been a long day, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “My suggestion is that you get some rest and tackle this fresh tomorrow.”

Monk squinted at the two drawings some more. “Maybe you’re right. But tomorrow I may want to talk to this Godfather of Soul and see what he knows.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stottlemeyer said.

24

Mr. Monk Makes a Mistake

I took Monk back to Ambrose’s house. On the way, I thought about reminding Monk of the large contribution his brother had made to the investigation. But then I remembered how close I’d come to being fired and decided to keep my mouth shut for a change. Monk was right when he chewed me out—he wasn’t paying me to meddle in his personal life.

Monk let himself in without bothering to knock. We found Ambrose in the kitchen, sitting at the table with two open cans of 7-Up in front of him, reading the newspaper. On the front page was a picture of Mr. Snork aiming his gun.

“Hello, Natalie,” Ambrose said. “It’s a distinct pleasure to see you again.”

It was nice to know I was distinct. “Thank you, Ambrose.”

“I’ve already had dinner,” Ambrose said. “But I’ve saved some linguine for you both. There’s eighty-eight noodles left for you. You could split it evenly.”

“That’s a very tempting offer,” I said, “but I’m afraid I have plans for dinner.”

My plan was not to eat it with the Monks.

“Forty-four noodles is more than enough for me,” Monk said. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“No thank you, Mr. Monk,” I said, heading for the door. “I should really be getting on my way.”

“How did your investigation go?” Ambrose asked.

I stopped. I had to hear how Monk answered this. Monk looked at me, then at his brother. “Thanks to you, Ambrose, it went very well.”

“Me?” Ambrose said. “What did I do?”

“You saw what nobody else did, that the killer had made a big mistake. He wore a first-season uniform with second-season ears. It helped us to discover that Stipe’s murder had nothing to do with Beyond Earth. We approached the sellers you identified and were able to generate a sketch of the killer without his Mr. Snork disguise.”

“Tell me everything.” Ambrose sat up straight in his seat. “Talk slowly and don’t leave out a single detail.”

I couldn’t leave now. So I sat down, took the two 7-Ups that Ambrose offered me, and listened as Monk recounted the events and developments of the day.

Ambrose listened attentively to every word and even took notes. I looked at his work and was surprised to see that it included annotated footnotes referencing various publications and the dates and times of previous conversations with Monk and me regarding the investigation. I don’t know why he was doing it, exceptthat he was a Monk and they have this thing about noting the details.

“You made some amazing deductions, Adrian,” Ambrose said when Monk was finished.

“I could have made them a lot earlier if I’d listened to you,” Monk said. “You’re a great detective.”

“I’m not really sure what I am, but I’m certainly not a detective,” Ambrose said. “I don’t have your worldly experience, adventurous spirit, or fearless, devil-may-care attitude towards life.”

Monk was fearless?

I have a list somewhere that he gave me of the 222 things he’s afraid of. Number 222 on the list is: Having a list that ends on the number 221 or 223.

But I didn’t think this was a good time to contradict Ambrose’s impression of his brother, not if I wanted to keep my job.

“You have all those same qualities,” Monk said. “You’d discover it for yourself if you’d just leave the house and go out into the world.”

Ambrose shook his head. “I’m not you, Adrian. I don’t have your strength.”

“I’m not strong,” Monk said.

“I could never go through what you have,” Ambrose said, then looked at me. “Or you. I’d be destroyed.”

“We are,” Monk said.

“A piece of us, maybe,” I said. “But it was worth it, Ambrose. Love always is.”

Ambrose shook his head. “No, you’re both special people. Especially you, Adrian. You’re the best detective on earth and I’m proud of you.”

Monk stared at him as if seeing his brother for the very first time. “You are?”

“Of course I am,” Ambrose said. “Who wouldn’t be? I’m sure there are thousands of people who look up to you. I’m just one of them.”

“No, you’re not,” Monk said. “You’re my brother.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t admire you, does it?”

I leapt out of my chair and hugged Ambrose and then I hugged Monk. It was like hugging two mannequins, but I couldn’t help myself. It was such a great turning point for them and I wanted them to feel it.

They both looked a little shocked by my show of affection.

“Why did you do that?” Monk said.

“I’m your surrogate hugger,” I said. “I gave you both the hugs that you two should have given each other.”

Ambrose looked at Monk. “Is she okay?”

“She