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

In the context of observing one of Monk’s rules about things, like the proper way to rake leaves, it was the truth.

But we weren’t talking about raking leaves. We were talking about raking in cash and committing a murder to hide it.

“Then you are one terrible CFO,” I said. “The police forensic accountants have put you under an electron microscope. We know all about the overpriced buy-out of franchises that were secretly owned by Lorber’s brother-in-law and the pillaging of the marketing fund, among other things. It’s your job to know where the money is going around here, isn’t it?”

“What I meant to say was that I wasn’t involved in any financial irregularities,” Cahill said. “It was all Brandon’s doing. He manipulated the figures I was given, he lied to me, and he paid off my subordinates to feed me inaccurate information. I was shocked by the extent of his criminal activities, which is why I’ve been cooperating fully with the Justice Department for the last few months.”

Monk walked over to Cahill’s desk and examined the shredder.

“So you’re going to blame all the shenanigans on Lorber when the crimes here become public,” Monk said. “I can understand why you would. Lorber won’t be here to defend himself or to point the finger at you instead.”

“Lorber takes the fall, you take the company,” I said. “His murder has worked out well for you.”

Cahill started to speak, but Monk interrupted him.

“Nice shredder,” Monk said. “May I try it?”

“Go ahead,” Cahill said and pointed his finger at me. There appeared to be more muscles in his finger than in my leg. “You think I’m coming out of this unscathed? I’m going to be pilloried in the press. I’m going to lose millions of dollars in stocks and everything I had in the employee pension plan.”

Monk took a piece of blank notepaper off of Cahill’s desk and fed it into the shredder, which spit it out in tiny strips. Cahill pointed to the shreds with his big finger.

“That might as well be my future as a CFO,” Cahill said, “unless I can somehow save this company. But the odds aren’t in my favor.”

Monk took two of the shreds, held them up to the light, then dropped the strips back in the trash.

“It could be worse,” Monk said. “You could be going to jail.”

“Not likely,” Cahill replied. “I have immunity from prosecution in return for my testimony.”

“I’m sure that immunity doesn’t extend to murder,” Monk said.

“If you’re looking for someone with a motive to kill Brandon, you don’t have to look any further than his own house,” Cahill said. “His wife gets everything, and now that Brandon is dead, nobody can take it from her. If he was alive, he would have been prosecuted and his assets would have been seized. She’d have lost the Pacific Heights mansion, the yacht, the Gulfstream, the house in Hawaii, the house in Vail, and the his-and-hers matching silver Bentleys. She would have had to go back to strutting her surgically sculpted ass on the catwalk.”

“She was a model?” I asked.

“She was a stripper,” Cahill said. “Brandon met her in a Dallas strip club fifteen years ago and left his wife for her. She was a gold digger. She has very expensive tastes, which I doubt Brandon would have been able to afford once the government got through with him.”

“Do you think she’d kill to keep it?” I asked.

“She loves her Bentley a hell of a lot more than she loved him,” Cahill said. “Gold diggers don’t stick around once the gold is gone. They go looking for a new place to dig.”

“I don’t know why people would pay to see someone take off their clothes,” Monk said as we went back down the stairs. I could have told him, but he didn’t give me the chance. “I would pay a naked person to put their clothes on.”

Now that was interesting. “Would you watch them do it?”

“I wouldn’t even be in the same zip code,” Monk said. “And I would still cover my eyes.”

“Then what is it you’d be paying for?”

“Peace of mind,” Monk said. “I would know that there’s one less naked person in the world.”

“I didn’t know nudity was a big problem,” I said.

“Huge,” Monk said. “Bigger than global warming.”

“Maybe they’re taking off their clothes because it’s getting so warm.”

But I could tell from the contemplative look on his face that my flip remark wasn’t going to put an end to his musing on this issue.

“Why would someone marry a naked person?” he asked.

This was like having a conversation with my daughter. She was always asking me weird questions that weren’t so easy to answer. Not too long ago, she asked why we couldn’t put sick people to sleep like dogs. My daughter is very pragmatic when it comes to death, which scares me a bit, since she’s likely to be the one taking care of me in my old age.

I answered Monk the way I would have answered Julie if she’d asked me the same question.

“Everybody is a naked person,” I said.

“I’m not naked,” Monk said.

“Not now,” I said. “But you can’t be dressed at every moment.”

“Of course you can,” Monk said.

“At some point during the day even you have to take your clothes off, Mr. Monk.”

“No, I don’t.”

“How’s that possible?”

“It’s required in a civilized society. You’re supposed to dress and undress in stages,” Monk said. “You always leave one piece of clothing on at all times throughout the process. Didn’t you read the manual?”

“What manual?”

“The one my mother gave me and that your mother gave to you, of course,” Monk said. “You might want to brush up on your skills by reading the revised edition that you gave Julie. A lot