Read Online Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out by Lee Goldberg - Free Book Online

police department.”
    “It gives you a motive,” Monk said.
    “Is that all you’ve got?” Pete said. “Because if it is, it’s laughable.”
    “I notice that you’re wearing rubber gloves now,” Monk said.
    “Of course I am,” Pete said, speaking in an intentionally patronizing tone of voice, making it clear he felt like he was dealing with a complete idiot. “It’s so investigators like me don’t contaminate the crime scene with our own fingerprints while we are doing our jobs.”
    “But you weren’t wearing rubber gloves at the crime scene,” Monk said. “You were wearing work gloves. That’s because rubber gloves are too thin. You were afraid the piano wire would slice through the gloves and into your fingers while you were garroting Clasker.”
    “No, I wore them because I didn’t want to cut myself on any unforeseen sharp objects or edges while I was reaching under seats,” Pete said, his patience gone and his every word dripping with irritation. “The other reason we professional crime scene investigators wear gloves is protection. If my gloves are the so-called evidence for your inept theory, I think it’s time that you concluded this farce and moved on to more credible lines of inquiry.”
    But I knew Monk was just building up to his “ah-ha” clue and I was sure that Stottlemeyer and Disher did, too.
    “Oh, there’s more. Do you recognize this?” Monk took a Baggie out of his pocket and held it up to Pete.
    “It looks like a toothpick to me,” he said.
    “It’s not just any toothpick,” Monk said. “It’s the one that the captain threw on the street in an act of wanton lawlessness.”
    “We were nowhere near Chinatown,” Disher said.
    “He’s talking about a different kind of wanton, Randy,” Stottlemeyer said, “though I have no idea why.”
    “I am completely lost,” Disher said. “Can we please start over from the beginning?”
    Monk glared at Pete. “Why was your car parked three blocks away from the scene?”
    “Because there was horrible traffic and I don’t have a siren,” Pete replied. “I had to take a roundabout route to the scene and grabbed the first open parking spot I found.”
    “You parked illegally, didn’t you?”
    “I didn’t pay attention to the parking restrictions because I am exempt from them when I am on official police business.”
    “When you got back to your car, you found a parking ticket under your windshield wiper,” Monk said. “You crumpled up the ticket and threw it on the street. You littered. I saw it with my own eyes.”
    “I was tired and irritable. I shouldn’t have thrown the ticket away, even if I didn’t have to pay it, but that doesn’t make me a killer. It makes me a litterbug.”
    “You should have looked at it first before you threw it away. Overnight parking is illegal on the street without a permit. You were cited at four forty-two a.m., several hours before you say that you arrived at the scene.” Monk took the other Baggie out of his pocket and showed him the parking ticket inside. “If you’d kept this, instead of following the captain’s shameful example and throwing it on the street, I might never have suspected that you were the murderer.”
    Pete lowered his head. He was caught and he knew it. His demeanor changed.
    “I’m losing everything. My home, my car, my savings. Even my wife left me,” Pete said. “Clasker ruined a lot of lives but he gets to keep everything in his life that I lost in mine. I couldn’t live with that.”
    “But you can live with murdering the guy,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “I don’t see it as murder,” Pete said.
    “Maybe you don’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I do. And I’m betting a jury will, too. Get him out of here, Randy.”
    Disher stepped forward, handcuffed Pete, and read him his rights as he led him away.
    “That will teach him to litter,” Monk said.
    “I think the bigger crime here was murder,” Stottlemeyer said, taking the two Baggies from