Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Goldberg, Lee (best sci fi novels of all time .txt) 📕

“The sooner Monk grades her cleaning, the sooner we can get out of here,” I said.

Stottlemeyer nodded at Paola, giving his consent. She unlocked the door to the room across the hall and stood to one side while Monk went in.

He crouched at the foot of one of the beds and untucked the blanket. The top sheet was tucked in a way that made the corners of the bed seem square, with tight, sharp creases in the fold.

“Excellent work,” Monk said to Paola. “You were taught to make beds by your father, who was in the Salvadoran military.”

She nodded shyly.

“You learned well,” Monk said. “You could bounce a peso off that bed.”

“We don’t have pesos in El Salvador,” Paola said. “We have colóns.”

“Yes, but a colón wouldn’t bounce on this bed,” Monk said. “A peso would.”

“Good to know.” Stottlemeyer turned to Disher. “Tell Dr. Hetzer he can take Mr. Bozadjian to the morgue now.”

“That’s not Mr. Bozadjian,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer gave him a look. “Do you know John Bozadjian?”

“No,” Monk said.

“Then how do you know that’s not him?”

“Simple. Because that man didn’t stay in that room,” Monk said. “And that room is registered to John Bozadjian.”

“Isn’t that the victim’s stuff in the closets and the bathroom?” Disher said.

“Yes, those are definitely his clothes and toiletries.”

“So what makes you think he’s not John Bozadjian and that he wasn’t staying in that room?”

“It’s obvious,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer rubbed his temples. “I hate it when he says that.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s never obvious until he explains what the hell he’s talking about, and then I feel like a damn fool for not seeing it myself.”

Monk went back into the victim’s room. “This man was killed for his jewelry.”

“That’s exactly what I said happened here.” Stottlemeyer looked at me. “You heard me, right?”

I nodded. “That’s definitely what the captain said, Mr. Monk.”

“I’m not talking about his watches and rings,” Monk said. “I’m talking about the diamonds.”

“What diamonds?” Disher asked.

“The ones that this man was selling and that he was killed for,” Monk said. “He was never with a prostitute and he was never in this room.”

“He’s in this room now,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’s right in front of you.”

“I meant he was never in this room when he was alive,” Monk said. “And everything we see in front of us proves it.”

Stottlemeyer, Disher, and I looked around the room for a long, quiet moment.

“I don’t see it,” Disher said and glanced at me. “Do you see it?”

I shook my head and looked at the captain. He looked at Monk.

“Don’t just stand there, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Tell us what happened.”

He did.

11

Mr. Monk Sets the World Right

Monk spent much of his life in a state of despair. That despair appeared to be caused by many things, but I believe that essentially it all came down to one thing.

Disorder.

It was all around him and nothing he did seemed to change it.

Except when it came to murder.

The only time Monk conquered that despair, and all felt right in his world, was the moment when he solved a murder and told us how he did it.

It was during his summation, his explanation of how the homicide was committed and who did it, that he restored order, that he set right what was in disarray.

In that moment, Monk was a different man.

He was strong, confident, and secure.

Because he was right. And therefore, for a painfully short time, so was the world.

It made me feel good to see him at peace, and yet it also saddened me because I knew how short-lived it would be.

That brief moment was now.

“ ‘John Bozadjian’ is a fake name that the killer used to rent this room, presumably because that was the name on the stolen credit cards he used to pay for it,” Monk said. “The victim was staying on the seventh floor in the room where he was killed. The victim’s room is now occupied by the killer, who, if he hasn’t checked out already, will be wearing the victim’s MedicAlert bracelet on his left wrist.”

“The seventh floor?” Stottlemeyer said. “Isn’t that where this maid usually works?”

“She’s the one who moved the body down here in her linen cart after the murder and helped stage the scene,” Monk said.

Paola let out a little gasp and took a few steps back into the hallway, looking around as if she might run. But with officers at both ends of the hall, there really wasn’t anywhere for her to go.

“Well, if I didn’t know you were right before, I do now just from the expression on her face,” Stottlemeyer said, turning to Paola. “Do you want to tell us what happened, or are you going to make him do it?”

Paola chewed on her lower lip but said nothing. I knew Monk was relieved, for all the reasons I just shared with you.

He didn’t want to be robbed of his moment. I think Stottlemeyer knew it, too, and was having some fun of his own.

“Sorry, Monk. I’m afraid you’re going to have to do all the heavy lifting.”

“The victim was a diamond dealer,” Monk said.

“You got that from the loupe in his pocket,” Disher said.

Monk shook his head. “It simply confirmed what I already knew from looking at the right-hand sleeves of his shirts and jackets.”

He took out his pen, went to the spare bed, and lifted up the right sleeve of the victim’s shirt.

“If you look closely, you can see abrasions and scratches on the cuffs. That’s because he always had his merchandise case chained to his right wrist.”

Now that he mentioned it, I could see the marks. I wouldn’t have, though, if he hadn’t pointed