Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii by Goldberg, Lee (librera reader .TXT) 📕

lot?” I asked. “Why wait until they are rented?”

“To avoid getting caught in the act and to draw less attention,” Monk explained. “The lots are under constant surveillance and there are people around them twenty-four hours a day. Not only that, but if they always hit the newest cars on the lot, it would be noticed right away. But when it’s seemingly random accidents and thefts of rental cars out on the road all over the island, something that happens every day here, neither the rental agencies nor the police are likely to make the connection.”

“He’s right,” Kealoha said. “And there’s one body shop in Kapaa that gets most of the rental car repair work.”

I remembered the rental agent at the Grand Kiahuna Poipu telling us that. Now it all made sense.

Monk handed Kealoha the knife. “Something tells me that car repair is not their primary business.”

“I wonder how many years this has been going on right under our noses?” Kealoha shook his head in amazement. “I’ll bust the shop tonight. You wanna come along?”

Monk glanced at me. “I don’t think so. This is our last night in Hawaii, and a drug bust doesn’t seem like the right way to spend it.”

I smiled at Monk. “Thank you.”

He shrugged.

“I’m gonna miss you, Mr. Monk. You are one hell of a detective,” Kealoha said. “How come you aren’t on the SFPD anymore?”

“Creative differences,” I said.

“You ought to move here,” Kealoha said. “We’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

“Really?” I said.

“With him on the payroll, we could lay off half the force,” Kealoha said. “We’d save a fortune on manpower, not to mention lowering the crime rate by half.”

Monk did one of his full-body shivers. “As appealing as that job offer is, I’ll pass.”

“Excuse us a moment.” I pulled Monk aside so we were out of earshot of Kealoha. “You really should seriously consider this, Mr. Monk. He’s offering you your dream. Don’t you want a badge again?”

“I have no desire to be the sheriff of hell,” Monk said.

“What if I moved here with you?”

“You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do it for myself and Julie. If someone paid me to live here, I’d jump at the chance. It would be an adventure in paradise.”

“You’d live someplace where your daughter had to wear mud shirts and eat food off the ground?” Monk said. “Who are you kidding? I would never expect you and Julie to endure that kind of hardship just so I could be a cop again.”

“It wouldn’t be a hardship; it—”

He interrupted me. “That’s very kind of you, Natalie, and I’m touched. But come on, look at this place.”

Before I could argue, he turned back to Lieutenant Kealoha. “It was a nice offer, Lieutenant. But my life is in San Francisco.”

“Well, I hope you’ll come back to visit us soon,” he said.

“I certainly will,” Monk said, and then added in a whisper that only I could hear, “when dogs start using restrooms.”

26

Mr. Monk Goes Home

The two of us had dinner together again at the Royal Hawaiian. Afterward Monk returned to the bungalow to finish straightening up, and I went to the hotel’s beachfront bar to sample some more of their tropical drinks.

The bar was lit by torches and moonlight. There was a band, some hula dancers, and a warm breeze off the water. The drinks were smooth, sweet, and plentiful. Best of all, since the patrons were mostly couples, I was left alone to enjoy the night without getting hit on by anybody.

I missed Julie but I would have gladly stayed another week if given the opportunity. With all the things that had happened since we’d arrived, I’d hardly had any time to enjoy the resort or explore the island. And yet I was certainly relaxed, more so than when I arrived. Between the night air, the music, and all the drinks, I could have been poured into bed that night. As it was, I returned to our bungalow after an hour at the bar and went to bed content.

I was awakened early on our last morning by the sound of splashing in our pool. Since I was the only resident of the bungalow who swam, I figured either a seal had found its way into our backyard or we had an intruder swimming laps. I put on my bathrobe and went out barefoot to see what was up.

I was surprised to see Monk doing a pretty decent backstroke across the pool. He smiled when he saw me.

“Dive in and I’ll race you,” he said.

It was the first time I’d seen Monk shirtless. And if he was aware of me looking at his nakedness, he certainly wasn’t bashful about it.

“We’re leaving here in two hours,” I said. “Don’t you have to pack?”

“How hard is that? You just throw everything into a suitcase and zip it up.”

Now I understood what was going on. Monk was high. He must have taken his preflight dose of the anti-OCD drug Dioxynl already.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet. I just got up.”

“I’m starving.” He climbed out of the pool. “The buffet opens in five minutes. Let’s go before there’s a line.”

He looked around a moment before he realized he didn’t have a towel.

“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll get you a towel.”

“Forget about it,” he said, and started walking toward the living room.

“You’ll drip water all over the house.”

He waved off my concern. “It’s water, not acid. It’ll be dry in five minutes. You have to learn to relax, babe.”

Monk was lucky I wasn’t holding a heavy object.

I showered, got dressed, and finished my packing. When I came out of my room, I found Monk waiting for me in his freshly laundered golf clothes, his suitcases by the front door, ready to go.

We left our bags with the bellhop and went to the buffet. There was already a short line, but it moved fast. Monk grabbed a plate and piled it high with scrambled eggs, white rice, sausage, hash browns, bacon, ham, melon, and pineapple, all