“Has it occurred to you that the murder might have nothing to do with my daughter or Clarke’s sleazy affair?” Betty asked.
“No,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Clarke was general counsel for San Francisco Memorial,” she said. “He made a lot of enemies over the years winning malpractice suits brought against the hospital by patients. Maybe one of them had enough and sought revenge. It happens on Boston Legal all the time.”
“If you’ve seen it on TV, then it must be possible,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll have to look into that.”
“Do you have any other questions?” Emily said, struggling to her feet. Disher gallantly gave her a hand. “I have to go pick up my daughter at nursery school and tell her that her father is dead.”
“I think we’re done for now,” Stottlemeyer said. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Trotter. We’re sorry for your loss.”
“It’s my daughter’s loss,” Emily said. “I already lost him.”
I got up and started to follow Stottlemeyer and Disher to the door. But Monk didn’t move. I looked back at him, sitting on the sofa with the folded napkin on his lap.
“It’s time to go, Mr. Monk.”
“You go,” he said. “I’m staying.”
“We’re done asking questions,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m not,” he said.
“You have to,” I said.
“I’d rather not,” Monk said.
Emily looked at Stottlemeyer. “Is he crazy?”
“He might be solving a murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “Is that it, Monk? Are you on to something?”
“Her cookies are square,” Monk said. “Her napkins are folded and ironed. There’s no dust anywhere. All the furniture is covered in plastic. It’s paradise.”
My idea of a paradise doesn’t include plastic slipcovers, but maybe I don’t have much of an imagination.
“Thank you,” Betty said. “That’s what every home should be.”
“I can’t go,” Monk said.
“You can’t stay, Mr. Monk,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t live here,” I said.
“I’d like to.” Monk looked imploringly at Betty. “Can I?”
“You want to live with me?” Betty said in disbelief.
“I accept.” Monk leaned back on the sofa, making himself comfortable. His body squeaked against the stiff plastic.
“That wasn’t an invitation,” I said.
“Of course it was,” Monk said to me before turning back to Betty. “You don’t have any cannibals living nearby, do you?”
“Cannibals?” Emily said. “Is he insane?”
Stottlemeyer marched up to Monk, grabbed him by the arms, and yanked him off the couch.
“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’s having some personal problems.”
Stottlemeyer led Monk out the door. Disher followed, and I was right behind them, when Betty spoke up.
“Wait,” she said.
Betty took four cookies off the plate, set them on a napkin, and handed them to me. “Take these with you. Maybe they will make your friend feel better.”
“Thank you,” I said and walked out.
Stottlemeyer, Monk, and Disher were waiting for me in front of the car.
“That was pathetic,” Stottlemeyer said to Monk, who began to weep tearlessly, which only seemed to irritate the captain even more. “You can’t go on this way.”
“I know,” Monk whined. “Let me go back.”
“You take a step towards that house and I will shoot you,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I could be so happy there,” Monk said.
“You’re fired,” Stottlemeyer said.
“What?” Monk said.
“You heard me. You’re humiliating yourself and the department. You’re a mess.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You hate messes. So clean this one up,” Stottlemeyer told him. “That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”
I had to admire the logic of Stottlemeyer’s approach. I’m pretty convinced that no one understood Monk, or handled him better, than the captain did. He just lacked the patience for it.
“I need help,” Monk said.
“Then get it,” Stottlemeyer said. “Do whatever you have to do, but do it now, before it’s too late.”
“What about this case?” Monk said.
“We’ll just have to muddle on without you,” Stottlemeyer said. “You weren’t exactly a big help today anyway, were you?”
The captain and Disher got into their car and drove off. I regarded Monk.
“He’s right,” Monk said, watching them go.
“So what are you going to do?”
“The only thing I can do,” Monk said and rolled his shoulders. “Pack your bags, Natalie.”
“Where are we going?”
“I have an appointment tomorrow at four p.m. with Dr. Kroger,” he said, “and I am going to keep it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Monk Takes Flight
A better person than me would have stopped Monk from chasing his shrink all the way to Germany. What Monk was proposing was an extreme and disturbing case of stalking. The sensible thing to do would have been to stop him for his own good.
Maybe.
And maybe not.
There was another way to look at the situation. Monk started to fall apart the instant Dr. Kroger announced his trip, and it was getting worse with each passing hour. I was convinced that the only thing that would stop his inevitable slide into total madness, and mine along with it, was Dr. Kroger’s wisdom, compassion, and guidance.
And yet it was Dr. Kroger’s unavailability that was causing all of Monk’s misery.
So in a twisted way, going to Germany was the only logical solution for Monk.
I know I was right because as soon as Monk decided to go to Germany he became more focused and, for the first time in twenty-four hours, almost relaxed.
I wasn’t fooling myself, though, about the obstacles in front of us.
It was a twelve-hour flight
