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

“Ronald Webster worked in the same neighborhood where you live,” Ludlow said. “That’s how you picked him at random on Thursday night to be your victim.”

“Until I arrived at the Baker Beach crime scene, I’d never seen Ronald Webster before in my life,” I said.

“That’s a lie and I can prove it.” Ludlow glanced at Captain Toplyn, the man with all the damn evidence bags.

This time, Toplyn held up a bag containing a tiny slip of paper.

“What’s that?” Disher asked.

“The cash-register receipt that was taped to the pizza box in Webster’s kitchen,” Ludlow said. “He went to Sorrento’s for pizza on Thursday night and so did you, Natalie. That’s when you saw him there.”

“I didn’t see him,” I said.

“The time-stamped receipt shows he got a ten-percent discount on his pizza, because he was there the same time you and your daughter were,” Ludlow said. “We know that because he asked for and received the discount offered on Julie’s cast. That’s when you chose him as your random victim.”

“There were lots of people in the restaurant,” I said.

“But he was the one you hit on,” Ludlow said. “He was the one you went to visit at his home after your daughter was asleep. He was the one you murdered.”

“Just because I may have been in the same restaurant at the same time as Webster doesn’t make me a killer,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Ludlow said. “But this does.”

Oh hell, I thought.

We all looked at Toplyn this time without waiting for Ludlow to gesture to him. He was holding an evidence vial containing some kind of green goop.

“What you didn’t know when you stole the Jaws of Life was that there was a small leak in the hydraulic line,” Ludlow said. “We found phosphate ester fluid in your car, the same greenish liquid that Monk discovered on Webster’s bathroom floor.”

So that was why they towed my Jeep. They wanted to give it a forensics once-over.

“It must have been planted in my car by someone,” I said. My explanation sounded desperate and pathetic, which I most certainly was. I could feel myself getting boxed in by the false impression he was creating about me, about my actions, about what I had and hadn’t done.

“But that’s not the only leak that’s sinking your plot,” Toplyn said, startling me. So far, the man had simply been Ludlow’s silent Vanna White, if Vanna were a middle-aged man who favored off-the-rack suits from Wal-Mart. “We found steering fluid in your driveway and it matched steering fluid we found in the parking lot outside Webster’s loft.”

I’d been framed. As neatly and efficiently as Trevor had been. The evidence was so compelling, I was almost persuaded that I had killed Webster.

If only I’d listened to Monk and gone to the car wash when he’d suggested it, there would be no evidence linking me to the murder. I was doomed by my own slovenly ways.

I looked again at Monk, expecting him to rub it in. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t even meet my gaze.

Toplyn stepped forward, taking out a pair of handcuffs. “Natalie Teeger, you are under arrest for the murder of Ronald Webster.”

Toplyn glanced at Disher and motioned to Sharona. The silent command was clear. Disher hesitated, but as he started to step forward to do his duty, Stottlemeyer cut him off.

“No, Randy, I’ll do it.” Stottlemeyer faced Sharona and sighed wearily. “I’m sorry about this. I really am. Sharona Fleming, you’re under arrest for the murder of Ellen Cole.”

Ludlow smiled triumphantly and clicked off the tiny dictation machine he’d had hidden in his pocket. He’d solved another case and simultaneously finished what would be the closing chapter of his next bestseller.

Monk didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t even look at us. He lowered his head and walked away while we were still being read our rights.

CHAPTER TWENTY- SEVEN

Mr. Monk and the Jailbirds

Sharona and I shared a cell with a couple women, who I assumed were prostitutes or drug addicts. They looked haggard, wrung-out, and desiccated.

I thought maybe that was how I would look in a few months.

Before we were put in the cell, we were fingerprinted and booked. Sharona used her one phone call to reach her sister, who agreed to take care of Benji and Julie, which relieved my biggest worry. I hadn’t figured out how I was going to explain to Julie what had happened or ease her fears about what was to come. Mainly because I didn’t know the answers myself.

I used my call to contact my parents in Monterey. I don’t have much money, but I come from a wealthy family. I knew my parents would hire the best criminal attorney in San Francisco to defend us—as soon as they got my message on their answering machine. They were away for the weekend.

At least I hoped it was only for the weekend and not some monthlong Caribbean cruise.

Wherever they were, they were sure in for a shock when they listened to their messages. It’s not every day that your kid is arrested for murder. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if I got a call like that from Julie.

No matter where my parents were, or when they were getting back, one thing was certain: Sharona and I would be spending Sunday night in jail. And, if we were unlucky, the rest of our lives.

I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t even angry anymore. I was too tired. Declaring your innocence loudly and strongly in the face of mountains of contrary evidence is exhausting work.

I was so tired that the concrete bench I was sitting on actually felt comfortable and inviting to me. Sharona sat beside me, almost shoulder to shoulder.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. We just stared at nothing, the situation