you might have made.”
“We’re broke,” Bob said.
“That makes three of us,” I said.
“But at least we aren’t being consumed by a flesh-eating fungus,” Monk said. “I guess that proves there really is some justice in this world.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mr. Monk and the Zapper
A s soon as we stepped outside of Sebes’ house, Monk took about a dozen wipes from me and rubbed them on his hands, his face, and his neck.
“Once that man is in prison,” Monk said, “this house has to be burned to the ground and the ashes launched into outer space.”
“Just because he has athlete’s foot?” Disher asked.
“Any athlete with a foot like that would cut it off.” Monk shoved the dirty wipes into a plastic Baggie, sealed it, and handed it to me for later disposal.
“Then he wouldn’t be much of an athlete anymore,” Stottlemeyer said. “Unless his sport was arm wrestling.”
“Or hot dog eating,” Disher said.
“Bob Sebes is the killer,” Monk said. “There’s no question about it.”
“You’re just saying that because he stole all your money, sullied the word clean , and has foot fungus,” the captain said.
“Of course I am,” Monk said. “What more evidence do you need?”
“We usually like to start with a murder.”
“Take me to the crime scene and I’ll prove it’s a homicide.”
“Have you forgotten that the captain fired you?” I said. “You are no longer employed as a consultant to the police department. You aren’t employed at all. You’re broke.”
“So you’re saying that I have plenty of time on my hands to spend at the crime scene.”
“No, that’s not what I am saying.” I looked to Stottlemeyer for some support. “You tell him.”
The captain shrugged. “What could it hurt? A drive out to Tiburon might take his mind off his troubles.”
“Oh, now I get it,” I said, feeling my face flushing with anger. “You didn’t let Mr. Monk in to see Sebes out of sympathy for his plight. You did it because you knew he’d get hooked on this case. You took advantage of him.”
“I want to do this,” Monk said.
“Of course you do, and the captain knew you would.” I glowered at Stottlemeyer. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I would have slapped him but I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the press and get myself arrested for assaulting a police officer. I’d have a hard enough time finding work without a recent, and very public, arrest hanging over my head.
So I glowered at him some more and marched away.
I didn’t speak to Monk as we followed Stottlemeyer over the Golden Gate Bridge to Tiburon. I was too angry at Monk and at the captain to speak without saying something I’d regret. I was also terrified about where my next paycheck was going to come from. It certainly wouldn’t be coming from Monk now.
What kind of job could I find that would take me and Monk as a package deal?
And how long could I afford to keep looking for that elusive job before I had to abandon him and find something just for myself?
But even if I was freed of Monk, what job could I hope to find in this troubled economy? I didn’t have qualifications for much of anything. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even qualified to be Monk’s assistant when he hired me.
I felt a twinge of anxiety in my stomach. That’s where I felt all my twinges, good and bad. It wasn’t a pain or a cramp; it was more like a quiver, the strumming of a taut guitar string. I had so many worries building up in me that it felt like someone was doing an anxiety guitar solo in my stomach.
We followed Stottlemeyer to a house high in the densely wooded hills above Tiburon. The picturesque village still looked a lot like it did a hundred years ago. Many of the original buildings were still intact, while others were refurbished houseboats that were brought ashore when the lagoon was filled in back in the 1940s. Tiburon had a lot of charm.
Haxby’s house was covered with cedar shingles and
“We’re broke,” Bob said.
“That makes three of us,” I said.
“But at least we aren’t being consumed by a flesh-eating fungus,” Monk said. “I guess that proves there really is some justice in this world.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mr. Monk and the Zapper
A s soon as we stepped outside of Sebes’ house, Monk took about a dozen wipes from me and rubbed them on his hands, his face, and his neck.
“Once that man is in prison,” Monk said, “this house has to be burned to the ground and the ashes launched into outer space.”
“Just because he has athlete’s foot?” Disher asked.
“Any athlete with a foot like that would cut it off.” Monk shoved the dirty wipes into a plastic Baggie, sealed it, and handed it to me for later disposal.
“Then he wouldn’t be much of an athlete anymore,” Stottlemeyer said. “Unless his sport was arm wrestling.”
“Or hot dog eating,” Disher said.
“Bob Sebes is the killer,” Monk said. “There’s no question about it.”
“You’re just saying that because he stole all your money, sullied the word clean , and has foot fungus,” the captain said.
“Of course I am,” Monk said. “What more evidence do you need?”
“We usually like to start with a murder.”
“Take me to the crime scene and I’ll prove it’s a homicide.”
“Have you forgotten that the captain fired you?” I said. “You are no longer employed as a consultant to the police department. You aren’t employed at all. You’re broke.”
“So you’re saying that I have plenty of time on my hands to spend at the crime scene.”
“No, that’s not what I am saying.” I looked to Stottlemeyer for some support. “You tell him.”
The captain shrugged. “What could it hurt? A drive out to Tiburon might take his mind off his troubles.”
“Oh, now I get it,” I said, feeling my face flushing with anger. “You didn’t let Mr. Monk in to see Sebes out of sympathy for his plight. You did it because you knew he’d get hooked on this case. You took advantage of him.”
“I want to do this,” Monk said.
“Of course you do, and the captain knew you would.” I glowered at Stottlemeyer. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I would have slapped him but I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the press and get myself arrested for assaulting a police officer. I’d have a hard enough time finding work without a recent, and very public, arrest hanging over my head.
So I glowered at him some more and marched away.
I didn’t speak to Monk as we followed Stottlemeyer over the Golden Gate Bridge to Tiburon. I was too angry at Monk and at the captain to speak without saying something I’d regret. I was also terrified about where my next paycheck was going to come from. It certainly wouldn’t be coming from Monk now.
What kind of job could I find that would take me and Monk as a package deal?
And how long could I afford to keep looking for that elusive job before I had to abandon him and find something just for myself?
But even if I was freed of Monk, what job could I hope to find in this troubled economy? I didn’t have qualifications for much of anything. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even qualified to be Monk’s assistant when he hired me.
I felt a twinge of anxiety in my stomach. That’s where I felt all my twinges, good and bad. It wasn’t a pain or a cramp; it was more like a quiver, the strumming of a taut guitar string. I had so many worries building up in me that it felt like someone was doing an anxiety guitar solo in my stomach.
We followed Stottlemeyer to a house high in the densely wooded hills above Tiburon. The picturesque village still looked a lot like it did a hundred years ago. Many of the original buildings were still intact, while others were refurbished houseboats that were brought ashore when the lagoon was filled in back in the 1940s. Tiburon had a lot of charm.
Haxby’s house was covered with cedar shingles and
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