Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants, Goldberg, Lee [book series for 10 year olds .TXT] 📗

tomorrow morning and discover that I’ve been strangled with some part of my own anatomy, she’s the first person you should suspect.”

“Only if I don’t get to you first,” I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Monk Tells All

Monk was always doing that, dangling the solution to a mystery in front of my face and then not revealing it to me.

I used to think he did it just to torture me, creating suspense the way a writer might to hold a reader between chapters.

But I don’t really think that was why he did it. I think he only held back like that when he wasn’t entirely convinced that he was right. He needed more time to ponder the clues and double-check his own reasoning. He also wanted to hone his presentation. Telling us what he knew, and how he figured it out, was ninety percent of the fun for him and he didn’t want to blow it.

Perhaps more important, he didn’t want to waste his performance on me and have to tell the same story twice. Tomorrow he’d have an audience of at least two.

So Monk’s delay wasn’t cruelty. It was a combination of insecurity, a flair for drama and sheer laziness.

Understanding that, however, didn’t make the wait any easier to endure and completely ruined my free night.

After I dropped Monk off at his place, I went home, heated up a Lean Cuisine meal, paid some bills and browsed eBay for cheap clothes. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the murders of Ellen Cole and Ronald Webster.

I’m what they have in common.

That was what Monk had said. What did he mean by that?

It was easy to see Monk’s connection to Ellen Cole. She was supposedly murdered by the husband of Monk’s ex-assistant. But Monk didn’t know Ronald Webster and neither did I, though it was kind of strange that the shoe salesman worked in my neighborhood and ate at the same pizza place I did, and that the Jaws of Life used to kill him was stolen from Joe’s firehouse.

Was I the connection to Monk?

I went to bed trying to follow that line of reasoning and the only place it took me was to a dream about an alligator sitting in a hot tub like a person and eating a slice of pizza, bits of cheese and pepperoni getting stuck in the wires of the braces on his pointy teeth.

Rick Springfield climbed into the hot tub at some point, too, and sang a rousing rendition of “Jessie’s Girl” but I was pretty sure that he had nothing to do with the murders.

I arrived at Monk’s door at nine a.m. sharp—at the same time as Sharona. She looked tired and angry. It seemed like it had been months since I’d last seen her.

“How did it go in Los Angeles?” I asked her as we walked in without knocking, like it was our home. In a way, I guess it was.

“The only thing I discovered was that I don’t have what it takes to be a detective,” she said.

“Not everyone can be Adrian Monk,” I said.

“And humanity is worse off for it,” Monk said as he came in from the kitchen. “Imagine how clean and orderly the world would be.”

“You’re not going to be part of this world much longer, Adrian, if you don’t spit out the name of the killer right now,” Sharona said.

But before he could, Captain Stottlemeyer came in behind us, looking a bit disheveled. He was wearing the same clothes that he’d worn the day before.

Either he’d worked all night, which I doubted, or Monk had called him on his cell at his girlfriend’s place, catching the captain before he had a chance to go home, shower and change.

Stottlemeyer probably would have given Monk hell the moment he walked in but he was caught off guard by the surprise of seeing Sharona.

“Hey, Sharona,” he said and gave her a hug. “It’s real good to see you.”

“You, too, Captain,” she said.

“How’s Benji?” he asked.

“He’s doing fine,” Sharona said. “He’d be doing a lot better if his father wasn’t in prison.”

“I was sorry to hear about that,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Don’t be,” Sharona said, turning her gaze to Monk. “Adrian is going to correct that injustice right now, aren’t you? You’re going to tell us who really killed Ellen Cole.”

“Yes,” Monk said, “I am.”

“Wait a minute,” Stottlemeyer said, glaring at Monk. “You got me out of bed on my day off because you said you’d solved the Webster homicide.”

“I have,” Monk said.

“Well, which case are we talking about here?” Stottlemeyer said. “Her case or mine?”

“Both,” Monk said. “The same killer is responsible.”

“Who is he?” the three of us demanded in unison. We sounded like the Rolling Stones.

“Ian Ludlow,” Monk said.

He smiled triumphantly, but his declaration didn’t feel like a revelation. It felt like petty vindictiveness.

“Oh for God’s sake, Monk,” the captain said. “I know you hate that he’s helping us out, and you aren’t getting our complete attention, but this is over the top, even for you.”

“He’s the guy,” Monk insisted.

“How could he possibly be the guy?” Stottlemeyer said.

“Ludlow helped the police investigate the Ellen Cole murder and led them to Trevor,” Monk said. “Now he’s up here, consulting on the Webster investigation.”

“The only reason he’s here is because Randy called him,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Which Lieutenant Disher did because the murder was reminiscent of a scene from Ludlow’s new book,” Monk said.

“So what?” Stottlemeyer said.

“That’s only one of the coincidences,” Monk said. “There’s more. The shoe store where Webster worked is in Natalie’s neighborhood and so is the restaurant where he bought his pizza.”

“That’s nothing, Monk. No, it’s less than nothing,” Stottlemeyer said. “You must really feel threatened by this guy to be seeing connections where none exist.