“Sure,” Stottlemeyer said.
Monk started to go, but Walker stepped in front of him, blocking his way, and held out his hand.
“I owe you one,” Walker said.
Monk shook his hand, then motioned to me for a disinfectant wipe. I gave him one. “As it happens, I could use the federal government’s help on a case.”
“What is it?” Walker said, watching Monk wipe his hands. It obviously offended him.
“I’m missing a sock,” Monk said.
Walker narrowed his eyes at Monk. “Are you messing with me?”
“I never make a mess,” Monk said.
“But he does a hell of a job cleaning them up,” Stottlemeyer said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr. Monk Sees His Shrink
Even though Walker was indebted to Monk for solving the murder in less than thirty minutes (fast even by Monk’s standards), the marshal was unwilling to dedicate the full resources of the Justice Department to finding a lost sock.
“Our resources are stretched a little thin and we have to prioritize,” Walker said. “We’re fighting a war on terror at the moment.”
“You don’t think thousands of missing socks is terrifying?” Monk asked. “Our enemies could be using psychological warfare to undermine the stability of American society.”
“By making socks disappear,” Walker said.
“It’s insidious and ingenious,” Monk said.
Walker didn’t buy it. I couldn’t blame him. I had a hard time imagining Osama sitting in his cave thinking of ways to steal my socks.
But Walker’s refusal to help didn’t dim Monk’s spirits. He still enjoyed his post-crime-solving high. At least he’d set part of the world right. His sock drawer would come next.
When we got back to Monk’s place, the crime scene tape was gone and we found Disher sitting to the right of the one-legged man on the front steps of the building. They were both drinking from cans of Coke and smiling.
Monk whispered to me as we approached the building from my parked car. “Randy has shrewdly lulled the suspect into a false sense of security to lower his defenses. He’s going in for the kill.”
I’ll admit I was surprised to see them hanging out together. I’d assumed the one-legged guy would be offended by Disher’s questions and the thinly veiled—not to mention ridiculous—accusations they probably contained.
Monk covered up his right eye with his hand as we neared the steps and turned his head at a slight angle to regard the two men.
“Hey, Monk, back so soon?” Disher said.
“I solved the case,” Monk said.
“I solved mine, too,” Disher said and whipped out a plastic evidence bag from behind his back. Inside the bag was a white sock. “Look familiar?”
“It’s my sock.” Monk took the bag. “Thank you, Randy.”
“My pleasure. This is Nick,” Disher said, motioning to the new tenant. “And this is your neighbor Adrian Monk and his assistant, Natalie Teeger.”
Nick offered me his hand. I shook it.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said.
“Thanks,” Nick said. “It’s really peaceful and everybody here is so friendly.”
“Why isn’t he in handcuffs?” Monk said, ignoring Nick’s outstretched hand.
“Because he didn’t do anything,” Disher said. “The culprit is static electricity. Your sock got stuck inside the dryer. After you left, Mrs. Sandowsky in 2B did a load. The sock got mixed with her stuff. Is something wrong with your eye?”
“No,” Monk said.
“So what’s the problem?” Disher asked.
“The problem is that there is no problem,” Monk said. “I can see everything that’s in front of me and not in front of me. Would you mind sitting to his left?”
Monk gestured to Nick without looking at him. Disher moved to the other side of Nick. The legged side.
“You thought I stole your sock?” Nick said to Monk.
“No,” Monk said.
“Are you being honest with me?”
“No,” Monk said.
“Nick was just telling me about his adventure climbing alone on Mount Kilimanjaro,” Disher said with boyish eagerness. “He got his leg stuck between two boulders and had to cut it off with his pickax to save himself.”
“My God,” I said. I remembered reading an article about him in the San Francisco Chronicle a few months back. It was a horrifying and yet undeniably captivating tale.
“And you left it there?” Monk said.
“Yeah,” Nick said.
“You should go back and get it,” Monk said.
“It’s a little late for that.”
“You know what they say—it’s never too late to pick up your leg,” Monk said.
“Actually, it is,” Nick said.
“That’s not what they say,” Monk said. “And they wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Disher asked.
“They are the people you should listen to when they say something,” Monk said. “They know what they are talking about.”
“I ate it,” Nick said.
“You ate it?” Monk said, looking at Nick despite himself and then turning away, repulsed. “Your own leg?”
“Amazing,” Disher said. “I thought I was tough, but you’re like five times tougher.”
“I had no choice, Randy. I was alone in the snow for days. I had no idea how long it would take them to find me. It was a matter of survival,” Nick said. “Life or death.”
“You should have chosen death,” Monk said.
“What Mr. Monk means is that he admires your bravery and sympathizes with your sacrifice,” I said, hustling Monk past them. “You’ll have to stop by sometime for coffee.”
Monk gasped. “What if he wants something to eat?”
I hoped Nick hadn’t heard that. I hurried Monk into his apartment and closed the door behind us.
“How could
