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

“Were you serious about the alligator?” Disher asked.

“I wish I wasn’t,” the captain said, “but I’ve learned to trust Monk’s hunches.”

“It’s not a hunch,” Monk said. “It’s a fact.”

“But is it murder?” Stottlemeyer asked.

Monk rolled his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said, “it is.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mr. Monk and the Other Shoe

Even though Monk had declared the case a murder, Captain Stottlemeyer wasn’t prepared to commit more police resources to the Webster investigation until he got the medical examiner’s official determination.

I could understand Stottlemeyer’s reluctance.

He was stuck with a dead guy on a nude beach who might or might not have been killed by an alligator. While that situation raised some big questions (like “How did the guy get to the beach?” and “Where did the alligator come from?”), there wasn’t actually anything pointing to murder except Adrian Monk’s opinion.

Granted, Monk had never been wrong about this kind of thing before, but the powers that be at the SFPD weren’t as confident in his abilities as Stottlemeyer and I were. So if Stottlemeyer wanted to keep his job, he had to play the politics and take a wait-and-see approach until after the autopsy.

But Monk didn’t have to wait.

Nor could he.

Monk would have been eager to investigate this case even if he wasn’t actively avoiding the prospect of returning to Los Angeles to solve Ellen Cole’s murder, though I’m sure that was an extra motivation. This particular death was just too intriguing for him to ignore.

I wasn’t too happy about the way things were working out. My job security would remain uncertain as long as Trevor was in jail, Sharona was in the picture and Ellen Cole’s murderer was still free. But I couldn’t honestly blame Monk for the delay. The alligator attack was a legitimate case, not a stalling tactic. And getting a head start on the investigation meant he’d solve the mystery that much quicker.

Monk wanted to learn more about Ronald Webster to see if there was something in the man’s life that might explain the bizarre circumstances of his death.

So we started at the shoe store where Webster worked. I was surprised to discover that the store was in my neighborhood, just two doors down from Sorrento’s Pizza.

I’d never bought any shoes at the store, but I’d window-shopped there a few times. They carried lots of fancy Italian brands and running shoes that cost more per pair than the yearly salaries of the Chinese factory workers who made them.

I wish I could say that I didn’t buy the shoes as a deeply felt political statement, but it was mostly because they were way too pricey for me on my Monk salary.

Then again, so was a pack of bubble gum.

There were three customers, two salespeople and one cashier in the store when we went in.

I was never entirely comfortable in situations like this, where Monk intended to question people who didn’t know who he was or his connection to the police.

The problem was that we didn’t have any official standing,which meant that often the people we were meeting with had no reason to talk with us, certainly not about things that were usually intensely private matters.

So getting them to open up took a little finesse. As we walked into the store, I was still thinking about what approach to take.

There were several table displays interspersed among the chairs where people sat trying on shoes. The back wall was covered from floor to ceiling with perhaps a hundred shoes staggered on clear plastic shelves.

Monk went straight to the back wall and approached the salesman standing there, waiting to be helpful.

“May I help you, sir?” the salesman asked with a smile as synthetic as his blazer. His name tag identified him as Maurice.

Monk picked up one of the shoes on display. “Where’s the other shoe?”

“We have plenty more where that came from,” Maurice said, “and in several handsome styles. Would you like to see them?”

“This is the shoe for the right foot,” Monk said. “Where is the shoe for the left foot?”

“I’m sure it’s in the back somewhere,” Maurice said.

“Why isn’t it out here?”

“These are just samples, sir,” Maurice said. “But it would be my pleasure to find a pair in your size.”

“I want the other shoe that goes with this one,” Monk said and began pointing at the individual shoes on the wall. “And that one, and that one, and that one, and that one, and—”

“You want to try on every shoe on this wall?” Maurice interrupted,giving up any attempt at sustaining his synthetic smile. But I was beginning to see an approach that I could take to get the information we wanted.

“I want to see them up on that wall,” Monk said.

“Why?”

“People have two feet,” Monk said.

“I’m aware of that, sir,” Maurice said.

“Shoes come in pairs.” Monk motioned to the wall. “Those aren’t pairs.”

“Like I said, sir, these are samples.”

“How can you break up a pair of shoes?” Monk said.

“It’s easier and more attractive to display one shoe in each style on the wall.”

“But you’re a shoe professional,” Monk said. “You of all people should respect the rule of the unbreakable pair.”

“The rule of the unbreakable pair?” Maurice asked.

“Breaking up a pair is a crime against nature,” Monk replied.

“You’re telling me this display of shoes is a crime against nature.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“You’ll have to forgive my friend,” I said, pulling the salesman aside and lowering my voice. “But Ronald Webster usually takes care of him. Ron is so good with people. Is he here today?”

“He hasn’t shown up,” Maurice said. “In fact, his priest called this morning looking for him.”

“His priest?” I said. “Isn’t that kind of odd?”

“Ronald never misses morning mass at Mission Dolores, ” Maurice