Free Mr. Monk Is Open for Business by Hy Conrad

going to listen.”
    “I don’t even think we have bylaws.”
    “My theory is that the murders were collateral, not part of his original plan. Wyatt Noone went to a lot of trouble setting up his identity. He took a midlevel accounting job just to make ends meet and stay below the radar. Meanwhile, he was working on something big.”
    “Big like what?”
    “An assassination or espionage or corporate espionage. Maybe a massive bank heist where the fictitious Noone would need to disappear at a moment’s notice. But then his coworkers got suspicious. They began to find out things. Noone had to change gears and kill them before the plan fell apart, whatever it was.”
    “He could be a terrorist.” Monk shuddered. “You know how much I hate terror.”
    “And his job, working for an import company? Maybe that’s part of the terrorism. Or the assassination. Something he had to import into the country.”
    Monk made a face I’ve rarely seen him make, curving his lower lip into a frown and opening his eyes a little wider. It meant, hmm, not bad. Very rare.
    “Why didn’t Sarabeth tell us about this?”
    “Maybe she didn’t know; just the others. Or maybe it’s something she doesn’t realize she knows. But this accounts for him taking the extra time in the warehouse to try to kill her. He had to kill them all.”
    “It’s not your worst idea,” he said grudgingly.
    “High praise.”
    “It means I’ll need to have many long talks with Sarabeth to figure out what— Yield, yield, yield! Don’t you see the sign? Signs have meanings.”
    I didn’t even have to look. “That’s a yield sign for the merging lane.”
    “No, it’s for everybody. Everybody has to yield, all the time.” And with that, he white-knuckled his grip on the seat belt and stayed silent for the rest of the ride.
    Sarabeth was still in the private ICU, although technically her improved condition placed her out of intensive care. A burly, confident SFPD patrolman sat in a chair outside her door. On our way in, Monk asked to check his sidearm to make sure it was fully loaded. “You can’t be too careful.” The officer replied that if Monk continued this nonsense, hewould have to take action and the sidearm would no longer be fully loaded. I liked this guy.
    The office assistant was looking better. Three pints of blood had done their job, improving her color dramatically. A nurse, she said, had come in earlier to wash her hair. It was still slightly wet. The style was short, a pageboy that ended just below her ears with bangs that were now swept to the sides. The color was reddish brown. Truth to tell, she was probably my age, not much older.
    “You’re looking better today.” Sarabeth was actually the one who said that to Monk. As I said, she was the nurturing sort.
    “Thanks,” said Monk. “I started using a face scrub.” He settled into the chair next to the bed. I stood a few feet away with a pen and a notepad. “Sarabeth, we need you to tell us everything you know about Wyatt Noone.”
    “The police should know more than I do.”
    “We don’t. That’s why we need your help.”
    There didn’t seem to be much to tell. A little more than a year ago, the four office employees had complained to the parent company in Japan about their workloads. They’d been hoping to get raises; the company was profitable enough. Instead, they got permission to hire a full-time accountant. Mel, the manager, interviewed several applicants and settled on Wyatt.
    “Did the Japanese owners suggest you hire Wyatt?” Monk asked.
    “No. They just said hire someone.”
    “Did Mel check his references?”
    “I assume so. It’s standard procedure.”
    “If Wyatt were a criminal,” Monk said, “what kind of criminal would he be? Other than a killer, I mean.”
    “What kind? Is this like a game? Like what kind of animal would he be?”
    “No, it’s serious. Use your imagination. If last week someone told you Wyatt had committed a crime, what