Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE - Mr. Monk Gets His Kicks
CHAPTER TWO - Mr. Monk and the Unlucky Break
CHAPTER THREE - Mr. Monk and the Reunion
CHAPTER FOUR - Mr. Monk Can’t Decide
CHAPTER FIVE - Mr. Monk’s Assistant Takes a Trip
CHAPTER SIX - Mr. Monk’s Assistant Makes a Discovery
CHAPTER SEVEN - Mr. Monk Takes the Case
CHAPTER EIGHT - Mr. Monk and the Long Drive
CHAPTER NINE - Mr. Monk and the Fly
CHAPTER TEN - Mr. Monk Had a Little Lamb
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Mr. Monk Takes the Case
CHAPTER TWELVE - Mr. Monk and the Brooch
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Mr. Monk Finds the Holes
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Mr. Monk Goes Home
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Mr. Monk Takes a Breath
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Mr. Monk Goes to the Beach
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Mr. Monk and the Other Shoe
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Mr. Monk Goes to Church
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Mr. Monk Hears a Confession
CHAPTER TWENTY - Mr. Monk Goes to the Orthodontist
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Mr. Monk and the Autopsy
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Mr. Monk and the Man Who Wasn’t Himself
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Mr. Monk Tells All
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Mr. Monk and the Big Arrest
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - Mr. Monk Loses an Assistant
CHAPTER TWENTY- SEVEN - Mr. Monk and the Jailbirds
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - Mr. Monk and the Third Summation
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - Mr. Monk and the Happy Ending
The Monk Series
Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu
Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii
Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse
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First published by New American Library,
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First Printing, July 2007
Copyright © 2007 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Monk © USA Cable Entertainment LLC. All Rights Reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Goldberg, Lee, 1962-
Mr. Monk and the two assistants/Lee Goldberg.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-436-23696-6
1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Eccentrics and eccentricities—Fiction. 3. Psychics—Fiction. I. Monk (Television program) II. Title. III. Title: Mr. Monk and the two assistants.
PS3557.O3577M725 2007
813’.54—dc22 2006102819
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To Valerie and Madison, who keep me (relatively) sane
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND AUTHOR’S NOTE
I would like to thank Dr. D. P. Lyle, William Rabkin, Pat Tierney, Sarah Bewley, Ivan Van Laningham, Rhys Bowen, Bob Morris, William Tapply, Carol Schmidt, Peggy Burdick, Mark Murphy, Annette Mahon, Mary Ellen Hughes, Alex Brett, Jack Quick, Robert Thompson and Anne Tomlin for their technical assistance on a variety of murderous topics. Any mistakes or factual liberties are my fault and not theirs, though I suppose they could be accused of aiding and abetting my crimes.
Special thanks to Kerry Donovan, Gina Maccoby, Stefanie Preston and most of all Andy Breckman, the creator of Adrian Monk, for their incredible support and encouragement.
While I try as best I can to stay true to the continuity of the TV series, it’s not always possible, given the long lead time between when my books are written and when they are published. During that period, new episodes may air that contradict details or situations referred to in my books. If you come across any such continuity mismatches, your understanding is appreciated.
I would love to hear from you. Stop by www.leegoldberg.comand say hello. Remember to floss twenty times daily.
CHAPTER ONE
Mr. Monk Gets His Kicks
My name is Natalie Teeger. I’m an honest-to-goodness soccer mom and proud of it. My twelve-year-old daughter, Julie, plays defense on the Slammers in the all-girl league. The kids get together at Dolores Park for practices on Saturdays and games on Sundays.
On this particular Sunday, my boss, Adrian Monk, the legendary detective, was with us at the game. He was too restless to stay at home. For the past couple days, he’d been investigating the brutal beating death of the reviled E. L. Lancaster, who ran the mortgage division of a San Francisco bank.
Lancaster was disliked by just about everyone he’d ever met. He’d even foreclosed on his parents’ home when his father, slipping into senility, missed a couple mortgage payments.
I’m not kidding. Lancaster was that lovable.
The only clue Monk had to work with was a confusing cluster of overlapping bloody footprints belonging to the murderer.
Captain Leland Stottlemeyer’s theory on the footprints was that the victim must have delivered a blow in self-defense that left his attacker reeling and dizzy.
Lieutenant Randy Disher, the captain’s right-hand man, was checking area hospitals for anyone who might have come in with a head wound.
I’ve seen Monk solve a homicide within a few minutes of arriving at the crime scene. But this case had too many suspects and too few clues. The inv
estigation was making Monk even more nuts than usual.
Monk’s basic problem is that he’s obsessed with imposing order on a world that is, by nature, disordered. It’s a problem he’s never going to solve. But he’s not alone in his futile pursuit. We’ve all got the same problem, only not to his degree.
Look at me, for example. My job is to make Monk’s life as orderly as possible so he can focus on bringing order to disorder, which is the method he uses to solve murders, which is how he makes a living, which is how he’s able to pay me.
When I’m not with Monk, I’m trying to maintain some kind of order in my own life and to create a consistent, safe and nurturing environment for my daughter.
So I scramble to pay the bills, to do the laundry, to keep the house clean, to get Julie to school on time, to make sure she gets all her work done, to coordinate all her activities, playdates, to— Well, you get the point, because you’re probably doing it, too.
I can never get ahead of it all. I can never get everything under control. And I never will. I know that, but I keep trying to anyway.
That’s Monk, too.
But I don’t obsess about my failure to get my life under control.
And because I’m unlike Monk, the act of trying to put things in order doesn’t give me a unique perspective on the world around me—one that allows me to see things that others don’t and solve complex mysteries.
I’ve learned to accept that there’s always going to be chaos, that things can never, ever be brought under control and that it’s the unpredictable, disorderly, uncontrollable nature of things that is life.
Disorder is the unexpected. It’s discovery. It’s change. And as hard as we try to bring order to our lives, deep down we all know that it’s that little bit of disorder that makes life exciting.
So why do we constantly keep working to put our lives in order anyway? Why do I?
I don’t know.
But sometimes I wonder if Monk does, because restoring order in all things is his obsession.
I knew the disorder that the Lancaster case represented had to be eating away at Monk. And I was worried about what he’d do to compensate for that anxiety.
So on that Sunday afternoon, I had decided to stop by Monk’s place on our way to the soccer game just to see how he was doing. Julie begged me not to, but I was worried about him.
It turns out I had good reason to be.
I found Monk on his hands and knees cleaning his carpet strand by strand, using a magnifying glass and a toothbrush.
I couldn’t leave him like that, so I made him come along with us, despite Julie’s fervent protests. I couldn’t blame her for objecting. Monk once helped me coach her basketball team, and it was a disaster.
I tried to console Julie by assuring her that this time Monk was going to be merely a spectator in the stands. How much harm could he do?
Little did I know.
We were playing at Dolores Park on a clear, sunny day, with barely a wisp of fog in the air. The park was on the steep hill that divided the Noe Valley neighborhood where we live from the urban bustle of the Civic Center. The spectators not only had a great view of the field, but of the downtown San Francisco skyline as well.
The Slammers were up against the Killer Cleats, the number-one team in the league—also the meanest. The Killer Cleats played soccer as a contact sport, mowing down any kid who got in their way. They were way too rough, and their coach, a big, angry man named Harv Felder, drove them hard, brutally berating any player who didn’t come off the field with an opposing team member’s flesh between her teeth.
The coaches and families of both teams were on the same side of the field, but each on their own set of four-row, metal bleachers.
Early in the first quarter, one of the Killer Cleats got hit in the back of the head with the ball, allowing one of the Slammers to get past her and score a goal.
The ref blew his whistle, calling a brief time-out to give the injured player, a girl named Katie, an opportunity to leave the field.
Katie staggered to the sidelines, trying not to cry, and another Killer Cleat went out to replace her.
“Good defense, Katie. Way to play,” Raul Mendez, our coach, said sincerely to Katie as she passed him. He was the father of four girls and a real sweet guy. The player glanced at him but didn’t acknowledge his comment.
“You call that playing?” Felder screamed at her, getting his face right in hers, close enough so Katie could probably feel his spittle spraying her from between his clenched teeth. “You’re a loser, Katie, a sniveling little worm. You sicken me.”
Katie burst into tears and Felder mimicked her as she lumbered back to her embarrassed parents.
“Boo-hoo-hoo. And you’re a crybaby too,” Felder added. “Get out of my sight before I puke.”
Raul shook his head in disgust. “Hey, man, don’t you think you’re being a little hard on her? They’re just kids. It’s only a game.”
Felder sneered at Raul. “That’s what the losers always say.”
The game resumed and almost immediately one of the Killer Cleats plowed into a Slammer, knocking her on her back and actually running over her to make a goal.
Felder thrust his fist into the air and did a little victory dance.
“I hate that man,” I hissed to Monk.
But Monk wasn’t at my side anymore. He was up in the bleachers trying to convince people to move to different spots so there would be an even number of people on each row. I got up and dragged him back down.
“Please stop harassing the parents,” I said.
“Look at them,” Monk said. “Three sitting in one row, five in another. Only one sitting up top. It’s irresponsible. They should set an example for their kids.”
The Killer Cleats elbowed, kicked and tackled their way through the Slammers to score another goal. The ref never called a single penalty against them. I figured he was either blind or a buddy of Felder’s.
“What about the example he sets?” I said, motioning to Felder, who was doing another one of his victory dances.
“Make ’em bleed,” Felder yelled to his team.
“Our team is getting murdered,” I said.
Monk stared at Felder. “Call the captain.”
“I didn’t mean that comment literally,” I said.
“Call him.” Monk shifted his shoulders and rolled his head. “Tell him to bring handcuffs.”
By the time Captain Stottlemeyer showed up, it was the second half, the score was seven to one, and Monk had nagged all the parents on our team to sit on a single row in the middle of the bleachers.
“You’ll thank me later,” he told them.
I doubted it. In fact, they might even ban me from attending future games. I could feel them glaring at me, but I pretended not to notice.
Stottlemeyer had the same look on his face as the parents. He was wearing a T-shirt, a Windbreaker, and a pair of faded jeans. The captain clearly wasn’t thrilled at being dragged out of his apartment on his day off.
“You better have a good reason for this, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
“We need to have a talk with them.” Monk motioned to the parents on the Killer Cleat bleachers. “They aren’t going to listen to me.”
“You called me down here to rearrange the people on the bleachers?”
“It’s a safety issue,” Monk said.
“Uh-huh.” Stottlemeyer turned his back on Monk, so the captain missed seeing the Slammer goalie get pummeled by the ball and the Killer Cleats score another goal. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait,” Monk said. “You can’t go without arresting the coach.”
“For disorderly seating?”
“For murder,” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer stopped walking and turned around slowly to face Monk again. “I can’t arrest him for winning the game.”
“How about for killing the banker?” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer gave him a look. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants Page 1