“I owe you an apology, Lieutenant,” Monk said.
“For what?” Disher asked him.
“You were way ahead of me on this one,” Monk said.
“I was?” Disher said.
“I was still so emotionally disturbed by my stained carpet that I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to appreciate that you’d seen the key to the whole case.”
“It’s completely understandable, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Who among us wouldn’t be completely rattled by a coffee stain on the carpet?”
“Thank you, Captain,” Monk said, totally missing that he was being patronized.
“So what was it that I saw?” Disher asked.
“The deadly triangle—the two shots to the chest and the one to the head,” Monk said. “You noticed right away that Lorber was shot by a coldly efficient, professional killer.”
“So I was right,” Disher said.
“Yes, you were,” Monk said.
“I actually solved a case before you,” Disher said proudly, then glanced at Stottlemeyer. “Have you ever done that?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I don’t like to flaunt my deductive skills. That way people will underestimate me and let their guard down,” Disher said. “But beneath the surface thrives a keen intellect. I’m like Columbo, only without the overcoat, the cigar, and the glass eye.”
Stottlemeyer glared at Disher. “What I meant was that a professional killer would have known that Lorber was already dead.”
“That’s why he shot him,” Monk said.
“I don’t follow you,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Have you had some caffeine?” Monk asked.
“It won’t help,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Here’s what happened,” Monk said. “The hit man was hired to kill Lorber. He was to be paid half up front and half when the deed was done. But when he got there, Lorber was already dead, cheating the killer out of his payday.”
“So he made it look like a man who died of natural causes was actually murdered,” I said.
“Exactly,” Monk said.
“Isn’t it usually the other way around?” I said.
“That’s why nobody would have questioned that it was murder,” Monk said.
“You did,” I said.
“But nobody else would have, including me and Columbo over there,” Stottlemeyer said, glancing at Disher. “When we find the corpse of someone who has been shot twice in the chest and once in the head, it’s usually a safe assumption that it’s murder.”
“Not anymore,” Disher said sadly. “Now the easy ones aren’t even going to be easy.”
“We’ll just have to count on your keen intellect to see us through,” Stottlemeyer said. “Does anyone know besides us and the medical examiner that Lorber died of natural causes?”
“No,” Disher said.
“Let’s keep it that way,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I’m confused and I’ve had plenty of caffeine,” I said. “What do Stipe and the cabbie have to do with it?”
“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Monk said. “After shooting Lorber, the hit man walked a few blocks away and hailed a taxi to the airport. The same taxi then picked up Stipe and took him to his hotel.”
“We know all that,” Stottlemeyer said. “What we don’t know is why the hit man came back from wherever he went and killed the cabbie and Stipe.”
“The cabbie could identify him,” Disher said.
“But Stipe couldn’t,” I said.
“I think that the hit man left something incriminating behind in the cab,” Monk said. “Something that both the cabbie and Stipe saw and that could tie the hit man to Lorber’s murder.”
“But Lorber wasn’t murdered,” I said. “The hit man killed the cabbie and Stipe just so they couldn’t tie him to a murder that never happened.”
“Yes,” Monk said.
“But he knew the Special Desecration Unit would be relentlessly pursuing him,” Disher said, “and that once we took him down, he would do hard time. That was too terrifying for him to contemplate.”
“What was the incriminating thing that the hit man left behind?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“I don’t know,” Monk said. “But he somehow found out that the next rider in the cab was Conrad Stipe and that he was in town for a Beyond Earth convention. So he disguised himself as Mr. Snork and made sure he was seen shooting Stipe in front of cameras and witnesses. He wanted to be sure we’d go looking for the killer in the wrong direction.”
“Let me get this straight,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re saying the whole Beyond Earth thing was nothing but a distraction and that Stipe was killed simply because he picked the wrong cab to take him to his hotel.”
“It’s all about Brandon Lorber,” Monk said. “We need to find out who wanted him dead and hired a hit man to do the deed.”
“But there are so many people with a reason to want Stipe dead,” Disher said.
“The hit man got lucky,” Monk said.
“If the hit man hadn’t killed Stipe and the cabbie, the worst thing he could go down for would be desecrating a corpse,” Stottlemeyer said.
“That’s a big crime,” Disher insisted.
“Not as big as murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re making a lot of leaps here, based on nothing but chewing gum and candy wrappers, especially without the incriminating item you’re guessing is at the center of all this. Are you sure you’re right?”
“Always,” Monk said.
If the shooter was a professional killer, it certainly explained why Mr. Snork looked so relaxed when he shot Stipe and why his aim was so good. But it also proved something else that struck Monk a lot closer to home.
“Not always, Mr. Monk,” I said. “Lieutenant Disher isn’t the only person you owe an apology. You owe Ambrose one, too.”
“I don’t see why,” Monk said.
“Ambrose gave you an important clue and you ignored it.”
“What clue was that?” Disher asked.
I looked sternly at Monk. If he didn’t tell them, I would and he knew it.
“The hit man was wearing a season-one Beyond Earth uniform with season-two ears,” Monk said. “The reason they didn’t
