Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Lee Goldberg Page A

lifting.”
     
     
    “The victim was a diamond dealer,” Monk said.
     
     
    “You got that from the loupe in his pocket,” Disher said.
     
     
    Monk shook his head. “It simply confirmed what I already knew from looking at the right-hand sleeves of his shirts and jackets.”
     
     
    He took out his pen, went to the spare bed, and lifted up the right sleeve of the victim’s shirt.
     
     
    “If you look closely, you can see abrasions and scratches on the cuffs. That’s because he always had his merchandise case chained to his right wrist.”
     
     
    Now that he mentioned it, I could see the marks. I wouldn’t have, though, if he hadn’t pointed them out to me. But now they were glaringly obvious. I was beginning to understand how Stottlemeyer felt.
     
     
    “The killer murdered the diamond dealer and assumed his identity.”
     
     
    “Why bother?” I asked. “Why not just run off with the diamonds and be done with it?”
     
     
    “Because he wouldn’t be done with it,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’d still have to fence the stolen merchandise, which means taking a big risk and cutting someone else in on the score.”
     
     
    “The killer’s plan was brilliantly simple,” Monk said. “He was going to sell the diamonds to the legitimate buyers and take the money that would have gone to the dealer.”
     
     
    “What if the buyers had already met Bozadjian face-to-face? ” Disher said.
     
     
    “They hadn’t, and the killer knew it, or he never would have done this,” Monk said with a trace of impatience in his voice.
     
     
    Disher picked up on it and looked stung. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. Where’s the proof?”
     
     
    “There’s so much evidence to choose from.”
     
     
    “Like what?” Disher asked.
     
     
    “Like those wineglasses,” Monk said. “The victim was a diabetic. He wouldn’t have had alcohol.”
     
     
    “I know diabetics who drink,” Stottlemeyer said.
     
     
    “Do you know any diabetics who can live without insulin?”
     
     
    “He has insulin,” Stottlemeyer said.
     
     
    “But he couldn’t have taken it,” Monk said, leading us to the bathroom and showing us the victim’s kit. “Here are the syringes, the insulin vials, and the needle clip. Ordinarily, he injects himself, then clips off the needle into this hazardous waste container, then throws out the syringe. He’s been here since yesterday, the room hasn’t been cleaned since he checked in, and yet there are no syringes in the trash. If he’d taken his insulin, there would be.”
     
     
    “He could have taken his shot somewhere else,” Disher said.
     
     
    “Doubtful,” Monk said. “But even if he had, it wouldn’t have done him any good. The insulin is supposed to be kept refrigerated or on ice. These vials aren’t. Why aren’t they in the minibar? And where is the ice pack that goes in his kit? I’ll tell you.”
     
     
    “Of course you will,” Stottlemeyer said.
     
     
    “It’s still in the minibar upstairs. The killer took the vials out of the minibar when he removed the victim’s things, but it didn’t occur to him to look in the freezer for the ice pack also. That was his crucial mistake.”
     
     
    “The insulin thing suggests that he was moved,” Stottlemeyer said, “but it doesn’t prove it.”
     
     
    “You’re right,” Monk said. “It doesn’t. The bed proves it.”
     
     
    “The bed is from upstairs?” Disher said.
     
     
    “Of course not. That would be ridiculous,” Stottlemeyer said, but he hesitated, then turned to Monk. “Wouldn’t it?”
     
     
    “The bed wasn’t moved,” Monk said.
     
     
    Stottlemeyer looked relieved. I think that for a moment there he was afraid Monk was going to contradict him and show that the bed had, indeed, been moved in some fiendishly clever way.
     
     
    “Paola said she walked in to clean this room and found the body,” Monk said. “So how could she have made the victim’s