Mr. Monk Helps Himself by Hy Conrad Page A

maneuver of calling him Adrian, had made last night’s marathon phone session a lot easier.
    The call had begun with him refusing to do anything that made him uncomfortable, as if no one else in the world did uncomfortable things. I know it’s much harder for him than it is for the rest of us. But somewhere around eleven thirty, he began to realize that his friends needed him to step up right now—the captain, Devlin, me, and especially Ellen—at least just a little.
    “Are you going to tell Ellen about this?” he asked as we celebrated our day of investigation with two tall glasses of water.
    “I will,” I assured him. “She’ll be so proud of you.”
    “It’s your fault,” Monk said, and he meant it. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”
    “It’s called a partnership.”
    Monk tilted his head from side to side. “I could have walked inside, you know, except for that sign on the door. ‘Poop.’ In big brown letters. She should change the name.”
    “Adrian, this is not about her changing. It’s about you changing.” He still winced when I used his name. I had to remind myself not to overuse the magic.
    “Me changing? Well, the first thing I’d change is the name of her store.”
    I didn’t pursue it. He had already done so much I didn’t want to overload him. I held up my glass and we air-toasted. Much more sanitary than a real toast. “Clink,” I said, and he clinked me back. “Now, how about those lightbulbs?”
    As Monk went to fetch his cleaning supplies from the closet, I switched on the TV and began to flip through to the music channels. Monk was fond of Bach when he cleaned. There was a mathematical precision to Bach’s music that he found soothing. We had tried Mozart once, but Mozart can get a little crazy.
    On my way to the classical end of the dial, I happened to slowly flip by CNN. A handsome, big-featured face was on a split screen with Wolf Blitzer and I made the mistake of stopping.
    “Our books are open,” Damien Bigley told the CNN host. “We intend to cooperate fully with any investigation. It is inconceivable that Miranda would have done anything to hurt the good name of BPM. Ours is a philosophy based on ethical behavior and honesty.”
    Wolf seemed unimpressed. “We have reports from an unnamed source that your wife admitted to these financial misdeeds in her suicide note.”
    “That is totally untrue,” Damien replied, handling it more calmly that I would. Where do reporters ever get these inside sources? “Miranda mentioned the pain and heartache her actions would cause her family and friends. Nothing more.”
    “So, are you denying these charges?”
    Damien brushed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and looked sincerely at the camera. “As far as I know, no charges have been filed. We are going through an audit, scheduled months ago. And we’re cooperating fully with the state district attorney.”
    Wolf looked straight ahead on the split screen, which was his version of looking Damien in the eyes. “Mr. Bigley, do you believe your wife capable of embezzling from her company?”
    Damien looked away. “The economy has been hard on everyone,” he said. “But Best Possible Me was Miranda’s life. How could anyone steal part of their own life?”
    “He’s lying.” The voice startled me.
    Monk stood behind me, his arms loaded with a lightbulb-cleaning kit he had bought online from Japan. “You can tell by his eyes. He knew what was going on, whatever it was.”
    “Exactly.” I snapped off the set. To hell with Bach. “That’s the great thing about her suicide. For him. His wife takes the blame and he gets to be with his mistress.”
    “It was still a suicide,” Monk pointed out.
    I cringed. “You don’t think he could have hypnotized her?”
    “It doesn’t work that way. Even under hypnosis, you maintain control.”
    I guess Monk should know. He had once gone to a hypnotherapist for treatment. This was years ago. Through some mistake