Welcome to the series of original mysteries starring Adrian Monk, the brilliant investigator who always knows when something's out of place.... Monk and Natalie have finally settled into a new office routine--but the detectives soon have another problem to deal with: Captain Stottlemeyer's new lieutenant, A. J. Thurman--a man of limited skills whom Monk finds insufferable. Despite Thurman's presence, Monk and Natalie attend the funeral of Judge Oberlin, and it's a good thing. In typical fashion, Monk examines the body in the casket--and finds evidence of poison. The judge was murdered. When Captain Stottlemeyer shows the same symptoms the judge had shown, Monk detects the work of a diabolical killer who wants both men dead. With his friend in danger and an enemy close, Monk will have to put his reservations aside to crack the case in time.

Praise for the Monk novels

“A highly entertaining series....I get a big kick out of the Monk novels.”—Mystery Scene

“Conrad aptly continues to craft these quirky novelizations . . . always funny and entertaining.”—Kings River Life Magazine

“What’s left to say about [the] Monk books? You already know they’re some of the very best TV tie-in books being published today. More than that, they’re some of the very best mystery novels being published today, period.”—Rough Edges

Autorentext

Hy Conrad

Leseprobe
CHAPTER ONE I have made a slow, sad discovery over the past few months. Brace yourself. You might not want to hear this: Office work is boring.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t a shock. But when you fantasize about being a private eye, when you work and plan and visualize yourself opening a real business with real clients walking through the door with exciting, life-and-death problems to solve . . . Well, let’s just say there are a lot of hours in the workday.

The red-and-black signage on the front window of our establishment reads MONK & TEEGER, CONSULTING DETECTIVES. I would be the Teeger. Natalie Teeger, single mom, ex-bartender, ex–blackjack dealer, ex-assistant to a brilliant and dysfunctional crime consultant. The Monk would be Adrian Monk, ex-cop and my ex-boss. We’re in this thing together now, trying to share our modest office space in a mini-mall without annoying each other to death.

Even though my name is listed second, I’m the official boss. I’m the one who took the time and effort to get my investigator’s license. But Monk is the one with the genius for solving any possible or impossible case—except his own case of OCD. You probably know all of this. Right? As I said, I’ve been bored and I’m starting to repeat myself.

Lately we’ve taken to splitting our hours, just to give each other a break. At first I was nervous about it. But Monk surprised me with his ability to open up the shop by himself and deal with the demands of a storefront and not scare away too many clients. He does have this habit of making mortal enemies with the other fine businesses facing onto our communal parking lot. But we’re working on that. Baby steps.

It was exactly one o’clock on a cloudy afternoon when I pulled my Subaru into an empty spot just as Monk and Luther Washington were coming out the door.

As long as I’m saying things you probably already know, I’ll mention Luther. He’s Monk’s driver. Not really a driver. But a year or so ago, Monk met Luther and bought his car service company. Luther stayed on to manage the business and give Monk a free ride whenever he needs one. I’m sure Monk could have avoided the expense of buying a company and simply paid for his rides. But that would have provided Luther with an exit strategy he doesn’t have now. Luther is financially forced to be Monk’s friend. And, except for a few hiccups along the way, I think it’s working.

It seemed to be working on that afternoon when I pulled up. The two of them were acting like a couple of schoolboys, scurrying around the side of the black Town Car. Luther held open the passenger door for Monk, then put on his cap and got behind the wheel. They were almost giggling.

“How was your morning?” I asked through the open window, trying to keep things professional. “Any exciting business I should be aware of?”

“Exciting,” Monk echoed, then seemed to change his mind. “Uh, no. Nothing exciting. We got an inquiry about a child custody case, which I turned down. The landlord came by with a plumber to check out that smell in the bathroom. They said it’s my imagination, but my imagination doesn’t smell like that. I’ll call them again in an hour. Oh, and the hippies next door are still making a racket. You don’t even have to press your ear to the wall to hear their antiestablishment music. It’s practically blaring.”

“Yeah,” said Luther with half a grin. “They’re really causing pain.”

Monk answered that with half a chortle. “Causing pain. Good one.”

Hmm. I wasn’t aware that Luther had even met the hippies. “Okay,” I said, stretching out the word. “What’s up with you two?”

“Nothing, boss,” said Monk, and he rolled up the window. “Go, go,” I could hear from behind the tinted glass as Luther scooted back out of the space.

I watched them drive off, make a right onto Divisadero, and blend in with the downtown traffic. Okay, I thought, heaving a deep sigh. Time to visit the hippies and apologize. For whatever.

The hippies, as Monk called them, owned Paisley Printing, the shop just to the right of ours as you face the parking lot. Peter and Wendy Gerber were probably still in their twenties, thin and scruffy. Back in the seventies, they might have been labeled hippies. Since then, other labels have come and gone to describe their look: granola, new age, sixties retro—or, to quote my father, old-school San Franciscans.

Peter and Wendy were sweet and good-natured, struggling to make ends meet in a business dominated by the likes of Kinko’s and Office Depot, not to mention the surge in desktop publishing. They certainly didn’t deserve to have Adrian Monk holding his nose every time he smelled a whiff of incense, or his pounding on the thin walls every time he heard the music of the old guitar that Peter plucked on during the spells between their printing jobs.

“Natalie,” Wendy called out warmly through the open door. At least she still considered us on speaking terms.

“Wendy. How is everything? I hope Adrian hasn’t been bothering you.”

“Adrian? What a sweet old soul he has. No, I haven’t seen him.” Wendy was a long-haired brunette, but with the kind of frizzy, flyaway hair you might expect on someone my age. She swept back a long strand. “I expected to see him pacing out front, you know, spooking away customers, only we don’t have any customers.”

“Natalie.” Peter was toward the back of the shop, looking up from a laptop. He sported a scruffy three-day growth that always looked the same. “I love it when Adrian pounds the wall. He can’t help but keep time, so it’s like I’ve got my own drum section. Freakin’ cool.”

“My bad. We did have a customer,” Wendy recalled. “Clyde. I forget his last name. African-American dude with a very centered aura.” She held up her hands as if holding the aura for me to examine. “Teeny tiny order but super weird. We wasted all morning getting it right.”

“Time is never a waste,” Peter corrected her. “It’s an artificial construct reflecting the circular flow of the universe. We’re al…