Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (books for students to read .TXT) 📕

has been stealing clothes and other items from the student store,” Monk said. “He removes the security tags later, but he does a bad job of it. That’s why he’s got holes or ink stains on all his clothing.”

“You’re mistaking the work of moths and leaky pens for criminal behavior,” Dr. Bayliss said. “I need to buy moth-balls but I simply refuse to wear pocket protectors.”

“Nice try,” Monk said. “The problem is your holes and ink stains are mostly on shirttails that you try to hide by tucking them into your pants. Or they’re on the coattails of your jackets, where they won’t be as easily noticed. Moths aren’t nearly so selective. Besides that, the ink is a unique dye used by security devices.”

The officers looked at the sport jacket and shirt hanging on the coatrack and at the clothing Dr. Bayliss was wearing.

Beads of sweat started to form on the doctor’s upper lip.

“Surely you don’t believe any of this,” Dr. Bayliss said to the officers. “It’s craziness.”

“If you look at the glasses he’s wearing, as well as the two others on his desk, you’ll notice the frames all have broken arms that were glued back together,” Monk said. “That’s because he snapped the arms when he clumsily removed the security tags. And the clothes and frames are brands sold at the student store.”

I was convinced.

Sharona was convinced.

The officers were convinced.

And so was Dr. Bayliss.

“You better come to the station with us,” Officer Tran said sternly. “The detectives will want to talk with you.”

Dr. Bayliss swallowed hard. “Perhaps I should call my lawyer first.”

“Perhaps you should,” the officer said.

We didn’t get Dr. Bayliss for murder, at least not yet, but it felt satisfying to nail him for something anyway since there was so much he was doing in his life that was just plain wrong. Unfortunately, this might have been the only thing that was punishable by law.

“I’m going to start walking back to San Francisco now,” Monk said. “You can pick me up on your way.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mr. Monk Goes Home

True to his word, we found Monk walking down West-wood Boulevard toward Wilshire, where the on-ramp to the northbound San Diego Freeway was.

Los Angelenos are a jaded bunch, but even they were distracted by the sight of a man strolling down the street in a gas mask. When we pulled up in my car, Monk was attracting the kind of stares usually reserved for movie stars and half-naked women.

He was either oblivious to the attention or simply didn’t care. Monk got into the backseat of the car, slammed the door and locked it.

“Are we home yet?” he said.

“It’s a six-hour drive,” I said as we went through the center of Westwood Village down toward Wilshire Boulevard.

“We can’t go home yet,” Sharona said. “You haven’t found Ellen Cole’s murderer.”

“I can’t do it here,” Monk said.

“But this is where the murder occurred,” she said.

“Look at what the toxic air has done to the people who live here. They inject themselves with Botox, walk around with their pants hanging open and cockroaches crawling all over their bodies, and mate with anything,” Monk said. “If we stay here much longer, breathing this air, we’re going to turn out just like them.”

“But you aren’t breathing their air,” I said.

“Mark my words, in another five years, everybody in Los Angeles will have three eyes, tails and webbed feet,” Monk said. “They ought to quarantine the entire city.”

“Trudy grew up here,” Sharona said.

I thought that was a very low blow, but Sharona was a desperate woman and her husband was in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, so I was willing to be forgiving. I hoped that Monk was, too.

“She got out in the nick of time,” Monk said. “But God help her parents.”

“You need to investigate Sally Jenkins and Dr. Bayliss some more,” Sharona said.

“They didn’t do it,” Monk said.

“You nailed a guy for murder whose alibi was that he was in the space shuttle orbiting the Earth at the time of the killing,” Sharona said. “Don’t tell me you’re intimidated by a woman who has the entire California State Senate as witnesses that she wasn’t in LA at the time of the murder. That’s a pitiful alibi by comparison.”

“I believe her,” Monk said.

“She could have hired someone,” she said.

“Then why bother framing Trevor for it?” Monk said.

“What about Dr. Bayliss?” Sharona said. “He only has a lecture hall full of students to back him up. You can figure out how he was able to be in two places at once if you put your mind to it.”

“He’s a sicko freak,” Monk said. “But he’s right. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose from killing Ellen Cole.”

“He had more to gain than Trevor,” Sharona said. “And he’s in jail.”

“Maybe the doctor’s wife did it,” I said. “She had to be outraged about Ellen Cole ruining her marriage.”

“Wouldn’t she have killed her husband or Sally instead? ” Monk said.

“It was Ellen who asked for the sperm,” Sharona said.

Monk cringed at the mention of the word, shook it off and continued. “But it was Sally who had the baby and ultimately stole her husband. It would be pointless to kill Ellen.”

“Okay, if it was none of them, then the killer is still out there somewhere,” Sharona said. “You can’t leave until you’ve talked to the other people in Ellen Cole’s life.”

“What other people?” Monk asked.

“I don’t know,” Sharona said. “We’ll have to find some.”

“You find them,” Monk said, “and have them call me.”

Sharona turned to me. “Pull over.”

It was a simple request, but not so easy to do on Wilshire Boulevard. I had to turn onto Sepulveda, which paralleled the freeway and ran alongside