expenses.”
“What about my car?” I asked, tipping my head towards my Buick Lucerne, a sheet-metal catfish that you have to be a card-carrying member of the AARP to drive. It was gift to me from my clueless father, who also threw in a Ferrante and Teicher CD so I could, and I quote, “crank up the hi-fi and give the stereophonics a real workout.”
“You can drive your car back and I can follow in the Lexus,” she said, “Or vice versa. Whatever you like.”
“I think we are going to be very happy at Intertect,” I said, and handed her the keys to my Buick.
I hoped she enjoyed listening to Ferrante and Teicher’s rockin’ piano version of the theme from You Light Up My Life while she drove . It was one of Monk’s favorites.
Monk got right to work that afternoon and so did Danielle, who stuck around after she delivered the car. They sat on opposite ends of his dining room table. While he went through the files, she read his indexed lists of personal phobias and made copious notes. I read the Lexus owner’s manual and People magazine.
“The case of the missing diamonds was an inside job,” Monk said, closing a file and sliding it down the table to Danielle, who looked up, stunned.
“Was it the cleaning lady, the pool man, their son with the online gambling problem, her sneaky ex-husband, his bitter ex-wife, or the contractor who was building their home theater?”
“It was none of them,” Monk said.
I didn’t know any of the facts of the case but I didn’t need to. I was more interested in Danielle’s reaction to her first experience with Monk’s process, which has less to do with deduction and more to do with noticing the mess.
“Who else is left?” she asked.
“The dog trainer.”
“But the trainer worked with the dog in the backyard,” Danielle said. “He didn’t have any access to the house.”
“The dog did,” Monk said. “The trainer taught the dog to steal the diamonds and bury them in the backyard.”
“The dog?” she said incredulously.
“That explains why there was dirt in the house,” he said. “The dirt really bothered me.”
“That’s a surprise,” I said.
“I don’t remember seeing any dirt,” Danielle said.
“There were some grains,” he said.
“Grains?” she said.
“Mr. Monk can detect dirt that isn’t visible to the naked eye,” I said. “Or even the most powerful electron microscopes.”
“The trainer plans to retrieve the diamonds the next time he works with the dog,” Monk said, and checked his watch. “Which is in two hours.”
“Incredible,” she said, reaching for her phone. “I need to call Nick so we can catch the trainer in the act.”
“While you’re at it, you should tell Mr. Slade that the insurance company is right: The tennis pro is faking his arm injury,” Monk said, sliding her another file. “His sling is on his right arm.”
“That’s because that’s the arm he injured when he tripped over the crack in the country club’s parking lot,” she said. “He can’t bend or extend it. His doctors say his arm is locked at a ninety-degree angle.”
“And yet in the surveillance photos, you can clearly see his keys are in his right pocket,” Monk said. “How does he get them out if he can’t straighten his arm?”
She opened the file and squinted at the picture. We both did. If I had a bionic eye, I might have seen the keys, too.
“How could we have missed that?” she asked.
“You’ll find yourself asking that question a lot around Mr. Monk,” I said. “But there’s another question you’ll be asking even more often. . . .”
Monk picked up another file. “And you can tell Mr. Slade that the spy at Joha Helicopters who is selling trade secrets to the competition is Ulrich Sommerlik, the disabled engineer.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“That’s the one,” I said to her. “I’m thinking of putting the question on a little sign that we can just hold up.”
Monk opened the file
“What about my car?” I asked, tipping my head towards my Buick Lucerne, a sheet-metal catfish that you have to be a card-carrying member of the AARP to drive. It was gift to me from my clueless father, who also threw in a Ferrante and Teicher CD so I could, and I quote, “crank up the hi-fi and give the stereophonics a real workout.”
“You can drive your car back and I can follow in the Lexus,” she said, “Or vice versa. Whatever you like.”
“I think we are going to be very happy at Intertect,” I said, and handed her the keys to my Buick.
I hoped she enjoyed listening to Ferrante and Teicher’s rockin’ piano version of the theme from You Light Up My Life while she drove . It was one of Monk’s favorites.
Monk got right to work that afternoon and so did Danielle, who stuck around after she delivered the car. They sat on opposite ends of his dining room table. While he went through the files, she read his indexed lists of personal phobias and made copious notes. I read the Lexus owner’s manual and People magazine.
“The case of the missing diamonds was an inside job,” Monk said, closing a file and sliding it down the table to Danielle, who looked up, stunned.
“Was it the cleaning lady, the pool man, their son with the online gambling problem, her sneaky ex-husband, his bitter ex-wife, or the contractor who was building their home theater?”
“It was none of them,” Monk said.
I didn’t know any of the facts of the case but I didn’t need to. I was more interested in Danielle’s reaction to her first experience with Monk’s process, which has less to do with deduction and more to do with noticing the mess.
“Who else is left?” she asked.
“The dog trainer.”
“But the trainer worked with the dog in the backyard,” Danielle said. “He didn’t have any access to the house.”
“The dog did,” Monk said. “The trainer taught the dog to steal the diamonds and bury them in the backyard.”
“The dog?” she said incredulously.
“That explains why there was dirt in the house,” he said. “The dirt really bothered me.”
“That’s a surprise,” I said.
“I don’t remember seeing any dirt,” Danielle said.
“There were some grains,” he said.
“Grains?” she said.
“Mr. Monk can detect dirt that isn’t visible to the naked eye,” I said. “Or even the most powerful electron microscopes.”
“The trainer plans to retrieve the diamonds the next time he works with the dog,” Monk said, and checked his watch. “Which is in two hours.”
“Incredible,” she said, reaching for her phone. “I need to call Nick so we can catch the trainer in the act.”
“While you’re at it, you should tell Mr. Slade that the insurance company is right: The tennis pro is faking his arm injury,” Monk said, sliding her another file. “His sling is on his right arm.”
“That’s because that’s the arm he injured when he tripped over the crack in the country club’s parking lot,” she said. “He can’t bend or extend it. His doctors say his arm is locked at a ninety-degree angle.”
“And yet in the surveillance photos, you can clearly see his keys are in his right pocket,” Monk said. “How does he get them out if he can’t straighten his arm?”
She opened the file and squinted at the picture. We both did. If I had a bionic eye, I might have seen the keys, too.
“How could we have missed that?” she asked.
“You’ll find yourself asking that question a lot around Mr. Monk,” I said. “But there’s another question you’ll be asking even more often. . . .”
Monk picked up another file. “And you can tell Mr. Slade that the spy at Joha Helicopters who is selling trade secrets to the competition is Ulrich Sommerlik, the disabled engineer.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“That’s the one,” I said to her. “I’m thinking of putting the question on a little sign that we can just hold up.”
Monk opened the file
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