“You’re blessed,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “My wife left me and my last steady girlfriend turned out to be a cold-blooded murderer.”
“I guess life has a way of evening things out,” I said.
“With my help,” Monk added.
Stottlemeyer heard that. I could tell from his sigh. “Could you ask Monk to pick up the extension?”
I did. Monk got on the line in the kitchen. We could see each other through the open doorway.
“I want to report two officers who are shirkers,” Monk said. “Flagrant shirkers.”
“I’ve got a murder here, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s a tricky case. I could use your help on this one.”
“I’ve secured this crime scene,” Monk said. “I can’t just walk away. Vital evidence could be lost.”
Stottlemeyer sighed again. I could visualize him rubbing his temple, fighting a growing Monkache in his skull.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Monk. If you come over here, I’ll reassign Randy to the Sock Recovery Task Force and send him to your place to lead the investigation.”
“You have a Sock Recovery Task Force?” Monk said.
“We do now,” Stottlemeyer told him.
Monk smiled. Balance was being restored.
Any other cop would have been pissed off about being taken off a homicide case and sent to Monk’s apartment to look for a lost sock. But not Lieutenant Randy Disher, the captain’senthusiastic and loyal right-hand man. Disher was just thrilled to be heading a task force, any task force, even if it existed in name only to satisfy the crazy obsessions of a single psychologically disturbed ex-cop.
It was still a task force. And Disher was the top dog.
Disher didn’t say this to me, but it was evident from the way he bounded into Monk’s apartment, with his notepad out and a big smile on his face.
“What have we got?” Disher asked.
Monk told him. Disher took detailed notes.
“Can you describe the sock?”
“White, tube-style, size ten to twelve,” Monk said. “For the left foot.”
“That’s a pretty common sock,” Disher said. “Would you be able to identify it if you saw it again?”
“Absolutely,” Monk said.
I wondered how he’d do that, but I kept my mouth shut.
“I’m on it,” Disher said. “I’ll develop a detailed timeline, retrace your steps from the laundry room, and question the suspects.”
“What suspects?” I asked.
“The ones that will emerge in my investigation,” Disher said.
“It’s a lost sock, Randy,” I said.
Monk leaned close to Disher and spoke in a whisper. “I would start with the new tenant in apartment 2C.”
“Why?” Disher whispered back.
Monk tipped his head towards the window. The three of us looked outside. A young man in his twenties was making his way down the sidewalk on crutches. He was missing his right leg.
“That’s him,” Monk said. “He’s obviously an unbalanced individual. I knew it instinctively the instant I saw him.”
“He’s missing a leg,” I said. “That’s not a crime or a reflection of his character.”
“He doesn’t have a right leg,” Monk said. “So he’d only be interested in socks for his left foot. And you’ll notice he’s wearing a white sock.”
I didn’t notice. “That doesn’t make him a thief.”
“The day after he moves in, one of my best left socks is stolen,” Monk said. “Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
So that was what this was all about. The new tenant had upset the delicate balance of Monk’s world. He couldn’t stand the idea that someone with just one leg was living above him. It had probably been all Monk could think about since the man moved in and that irrational anxiety had manifested itself in a lost sock.
I felt like a detective who’d just solved a case.
“I’ll question him,” Disher said, tipping his head towards the man outside.
“You’re not serious,” I said. “You’ll offend him.”
“I’ll use finesse,” Disher said.
“There is no way to ask a one-legged man if he stole his neighbor’s sock and not be offensive.”
“I don’t see how it’s any more offensive than asking the same question of someone who has both legs,” Disher said.
“You’re right,” I said. “So if I were you, I wouldn’t ask anybody that question.”
“But you aren’t wearing a badge,” Disher said. “I am. Being a cop means asking the tough questions.”
“He doesn’t shirk his responsibility,” Monk said.
I didn’t want to be there when Disher started his questioning.I visited Monk’s apartment almost every day and I wanted to be able to face his neighbors without embarrassment or shame.
“You wouldn’t want to shirk yours either, Mr. Monk. You have a murder investigation to consult on.”
Monk nodded. We got the address of the crime scene and the names of the victims from Disher.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Monk said.
“You don’t know anything about the case yet,” I said.
“It’s a murder,” Monk said. “How hard could it be?”
“It’s not like it’s a lost sock,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said.
Monk had no ear for sarcasm. Thank God for that. If he did, I probably would have been fired years ago.
CHAPTER THREE
Mr. Monk Takes the Cake
Eric and Amy Clayson were a beautiful couple leading a beautiful life. They were in their thirties, with fashion-model, airbrush-perfect bodies and complexions, living in a wonderful, very contemporary Telegraph Hill apartment in that was full of light and had a spectacular view of the bay. The Claysons were the ideal twosome pictured in advertisements for every product or service that promised
