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

It’s not just sad—it’s pathetic.” Stottlemeyer started for the door.

“Wait, there’s more,” Monk said. “I know how he faked the alligator attack.”

“What alligator attack?” Sharona said.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Okay, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, turning back, “how was it done?”

“Ludlow glued an alligator’s jaws to a hydraulic cutter and used the rescue tool to replicate the thousands of pounds of force in the creature’s grip,” Monk said. “There was no way Webster could free himself, no matter how much he struggled, which is what caused the streaks on the bathroom floor.”

“Webster was killed by somebody using the Jaws of Life,” Stottlemeyer said, mulling it over for a moment. “That explains all of it except why he was killed and who did it.”

“Ludlow did it,” Monk said.

“Your jealousy and insecurity are pathological but at least you figured out the alligator thing. I’ve got to hand that to you,” Stottlemeyer said. “So here’s the deal. I’m just going to forget all the Ludlow stuff. You get yourself some help from Dr. Kroger and we’ll pretend like the rest never happened.”

“It was Ludlow,” Monk said.

“Because Webster sells shoes and had a pizza in the same city where we all live?” Stottlemeyer fumed.

“Because on Wednesday night someone stole the Jaws of Life from the same firehouse where Natalie’s lover works,” Monk said.

I felt my face flush with embarrassment. I don’t know why. I was an adult. I was allowed to have sex.

“He’s not my lover. We aren’t involved,” I said. “Much.”

“Much?” Sharona said.

“We’re revolved,” I said.

“Revolved?” Sharona said.

“You know,” I said, “the typical involved-then-not-involved-then-involved-and-not-involved-again thing. Revolved.”

It was just getting worse. Luckily, Stottlemeyer saved me.

“It’s a weird coincidence. I’ll grant you that, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, kindly ignoring my love life. “But there’s a reason why somebody created a word for coincidences. Because they happen. You have nothing that actually links Ian Ludlow to any of this.”

“Or to Ellen Cole’s murder,” Sharona said, “which is all I really care about.”

“There’s more,” Monk said. “Show them, Sharona.”

“Show them what?” she said.

“The picture I asked you to take last night in Ellen Cole’s house,” Monk said.

Sharona took out her cell phone, which had a camera feature on it, and pulled up a close-up image of a row of books. She showed it to us. We looked over her shoulder. I recognized the titles on the spines of the books. They were Ian Ludlow mysteries.

“Ellen Cole owned almost all of Ian Ludlow’s books,” Monk said. “So did Ronald Webster.”

“I do, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “So do millions of other people.”

“That’s your link between the two murders?” Sharona said angrily. “That’s nothing, Adrian!”

“You aren’t much of a detective. You said so yourself and I must agree,” Monk said. “You’re obviously missing the intricate ways these clues fit together.”

“I’m a detective,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I think she’s right. Worse, I think you’re having some kind of mental meltdown.”

I was inclined to agree.

“There’s more,” Monk said.

“You keep saying that,” Stottlemeyer said. “And there really isn’t.”

“Ludlow confessed to us,” Monk said. “Three times.”

“I don’t remember that,” I said.

“Neither do I,” Sharona said.

“He only confessed to you once,” Monk said to her.

“If he confessed to killing Ellen Cole,” Sharona said, “I would remember it.”

“Ludlow writes four books a year,” Monk said. “When we were at his book signing in Los Angeles, a fan asked him if he was ever afraid of running out of ideas. Ludlow said no, saying he gets his stories from real people.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with Ellen Cole,” Sharona said.

“When he finishes a book, he does book signings, then hangs out with Lieutenant Dozier, waiting until a murder comes along that interests him. But I don’t think he waits.”

“You believe he killed Ellen Cole for a book?” Sharona said.

“He picked her at random, maybe from a crowd at one of his book signings, followed her for a time, then killed her,” Monk said. “He hung around with the police, watched how the case developed and who the people were in her life, then created his own ending by framing Trevor, the least likely suspect, for the crime.”

“You came up with all of this just from Ludlow saying he was inspired by real cases?” Stottlemeyer said.

“There’s more,” Monk said.

“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Stottlemeyer said.

“That’s how he gets his stories. He said he couldn’t make up anything as good as the real conflicts in Cole’s life. And then yesterday, at the morgue, Ludlow said virtually the same thing again,” Monk said. “Later, at Webster’s house, he said he’s always amazed at what he finds when he scratches the surface of an ordinary person’s life. He had no idea that an ordinary shoe salesman’s life could be so complicated.”

“Not as complicated as the way he was killed,” I said.

“Exactly,” Monk said, turning to Stottlemeyer. “You said Ronald Webster’s murder was a case that cried out for me. You were right. That was the whole point.”

“You were the point,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Ludlow murdered Webster in this outrageous way for two reasons,” Monk said. “To make sure you’d bring me in to investigate and so Disher would see the similarity to Ludlow’s book and call the author in to help.”

“So this is all about you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Yes, yes, now you’re getting it,” Monk said. “When I showed up to investigate Ellen’s murder, Ludlow saw a way to add a twist to his story. So he came up here and murdered Ronald Webster, another one of his fans.”

“All so you could be the star of his new book,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Not necessarily the star,” Monk said, “but certainly a major character.”

“Certainly,” Stottlemeyer said. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He sighed wearily and headed for the door.

“Are you