Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 - Mr. Monk and the Termites

  Chapter 2 - Mr. Monk Moves In

  Chapter 3 - Mr. Monk and the Fire Truck

  Chapter 4 - Mr. Monk and the Ruined Weekend

  Chapter 5 - Mr. Monk Learns to Share

  Chapter 6 - Mr. Monk Meets the Queen

  Chapter 7 - Mr. Monk and the Buttons

  Chapter 8 - Mr. Monk Straightens Up

  Chapter 9 - Mr. Monk and the Thirtieth Floor

  Chapter 10 - Mr. Monk Buys Some Flowers

  Chapter 11 - Mr. Monk and the Suspect Smell

  Chapter 12 - Mr. Monk Makes His Move

  Chapter 13 - Mr. Monk Does His Homework

  Chapter 14 - Mr. Monk and the Rainy Day

  Chapter 15 - Mr. Monk Visits His Trash

  Chapter 16 - Mr. Monk Shakes His Groove Thing

  Chapter 17 - Mr. Monk and the Mountain

  Chapter 18 - Mr. Monk Stays Home

  Chapter 19 - Mr. Monk and the Wet Ones

  Chapter 20 - Mr. Monk Plays Cat and Mouse

  Chapter 21 - Mr. Monk and Marmaduke

  Chapter 22 - Mr. Monk and the Clam Chowder

  Chapter 23 - Mr. Monk and the Perfect Room

  Chapter 24 - Mr. Monk and the Wrong Teeth

  Teaser chapter

  Acclaim for Lee Goldberg’s previous mysteries

  “A nifty creative take on the tradition of great amateur sleuths with a cast of quirky characters.”

  —Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “A whodunit thrill ride . . . charm, mystery, and fun.”—Janet Evanovich

  “A clever, twisting tale.”—Lisa Gardner

  “Sly humor, endearing characters, tricky plots.”

  —Jerrilyn Farmer, bestselling author of the Madeline Bean mysteries

  “Elegant writing, wry humor, a suspenseful premise, [and] a fast-paced plot.”

  —Aimee and David Thurlo, authors of the Ella Clah, Sister Agatha, and Lee Nez mystery series

  “A riveting mystery . . . wonderful stuff!”

  —Paul Bishop, two-time LAPD Detective of the Year and head of the West Los Angeles Sex Crimes and Major Assault Crimes Units, and author of Twice Dead, Chalk, and Whispers

  “A swift saga with colorful homicides, glamorous locales, and clever puzzles.”

  —Walter Wager, author of Telefon, Twilight’s Last Gleaming, and 58 Minutes

  “Intricate plots and engaging characters . . . page-turning entertainment.”—Barbara Seranella

  “Well-plotted and beautifully rendered.”

  —Margaret Maron, Edgar®, Agatha, and Macavity Award-winning author of the Deborah Knott mysteries

  “A devilish plot sense, sophisticated humor, and a smooth writing style . . . he’s as good as anyone writing in the genre today.”

  —Donald Bain, coauthor of the Murder, She Wrote series

  “Just what the doctor ordered, a sure cure after a rash of blah mysteries . . . more plot twists than a strand of DNA.”

  —Elaine Viets, author of the Dead-End Job and Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper, series

  “Fast-paced, tightly constructed mysteries. . . . You’ll read them in great big gulps!”—Gregg Hurwitz

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, January 2006

  Copyright © 2006 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Monk © USA Cable Entertainment LLC. All Rights Reserved

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-14374-2

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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.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Tony Shalhoub, the one and only Monk.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I want to thank Andy Breckman for creating in Adrian Monk one of the funniest and most original detectives in television history, and for letting me tell some stories about the character, first on the TV series and now in print. It has been great fun and a real pleasure for me.

  I’d also like to thank William Rabkin and the writing staff of Monk—Tom Scharpling, David Breckman, Daniel Dratch, Hy Conrad, and Joe Toplyn—for all the inspiration and laughter.

  I am indebted to Richard Yokley, Kelsey Lancaster, and Dr. D. P. Lyle for their technical advice; to Gina Maccoby for her wheeling and dealing; to Martha Bushko and Kerry Donovan for their enthusiasm and editorial support; to Tod Goldberg for reading all the drafts, and, finally, to my wife, Valerie, and daughter, Madison, for putting up with me while I compulsively obsessed over this book.

  I was born and raised in the Bay Area, but the native San Franciscans among you might notice I’ve taken a few geographical liberties with my depiction of the city. I hope I’ll still be welcome next time I visit.

  1

  Mr. Monk and the Termites

  My name is Natalie Teeger. You’ve never heard of me, and that’s okay, because the fact is I’m nobody special. By that I mean I’m not famous. I haven’t done anything or accomplished something that you’d recognize me for. I’m just another anonymous shopper pushing her cart down the aisle at Wal-Mart.

  Of course, I had bigger things planned for myself. When I was nine I dreamed of being one of Charlie’s Ange
ls. It wasn’t because I wanted to fight crime or run around braless—I was looking forward to the day I’d fill out enough to wear one. Sadly, I’m still waiting. I admired the Angels because they were strong, independent, and had a sassy attitude. Most of all, I liked how those women took care of themselves.

  In that way, I guess my dream came true, though not quite the way I expected. I’ve made a profession out of taking care of myself, my twelve-year-old daughter, Julie, and one other person: Adrian Monk.

  You haven’t heard of me, but if you live in San Francisco and you watch the news or read the paper, you’ve probably heard of Monk, because he is famous. He’s a brilliant detective who solves murders that have baffled the police, which amazes me, since he is utterly incapable of handling the simplest aspects of day-to-day life. If that’s the price of genius, them I’m glad I’m not one.

  Usually taking care of Monk is just a day job, but that changed the week termites were found in his apartment building. By Monk, of course. He spotted a pinprick-sized hole in a piece of siding and knew it was fresh. He knew because he keeps track of all the irregularities in the siding.

  When I asked him why he does that, he looked at me quizzically and said, “Doesn’t everybody?”

  That’s Monk for you.

  Since Monk’s building was going to be tented and fumigated, his landlord told him he’d have to stay with friends or go to a hotel for a couple of days. That was a problem, because the only friends Monk has are Capt. Leland Stottlemeyer and Lt. Randy Disher of the San Francisco Police Department and me. But I’m not really his friend so much as I am his employee, and, considering how little he pays me to drive him around and run his errands, I’m barely that.

  I went to Stottlemeyer first, since he used to be Monk’s partner on the force, and asked if he’d take him in. But Stottlemeyer said his wife would leave him if he brought Monk home. Stottlemeyer said he’d leave, too, if Monk showed up. I went to Disher next, but he lives in a one-bedroom apartment, so there wasn’t room for another person, though I have a feeling he would have found some room if it were me who needed a place to stay. Or any other woman under the age of thirty with a pulse.

  So Monk and I started to look for a hotel. That wouldn’t be a big deal for most people, but Adrian Monk isn’t like most people. Look at how he dresses.

  He wears his shirts buttoned up to the neck. They have to be 100 percent cotton, off-white, with exactly eight buttons, a size-sixteen neck and a thirty-two sleeve. All even numbers. Make a note of that; it’s important.

  His pants are pleated and cuffed, with eight belt loops (most pants have seven, so his have to be specially tailored), a thirty-four waist, and thirty-four length, but after the pant legs are cuffed, the inseam is thirty-two. His shoes, all twelve identical pairs, are brown and a size ten. More even numbers. It’s no accident or coincidence. This stuff really matters to him.

  He’s obviously got an obsessive-compulsive disorder of some kind. I don’t know exactly what kind because I’m not a nurse, like his previous assistant, Sharona, who left him abruptly to remarry her ex-husband (who, I hear, wasn’t such a great guy, but after working with Monk for a short time, I understand why that wouldn’t really matter. If I had an ex-husband I could return to, I would).

  I have no professional qualifications whatsoever. My last job before this one was bartending, but I’ve also worked as a waitress, yoga instructor, house sitter, and blackjack dealer, among other things. But I know from talking to Stottlemeyer that Monk wasn’t always so bad. Monk’s condition became a lot worse after his wife was murdered a few years ago.

  I can truly sympathize with that. My husband, Mitch, a fighter pilot, was killed in Kosovo, and I went kind of nuts for a long time myself. Not Monk nuts, of course—normal nuts.

  Maybe that’s why Monk and I get along better than anybody (particularly me) ever thought we would. Sure, he irritates me, but I know a lot of his peculiarities come from a deep and unrelenting heartbreak that nobody, and I mean nobody, should ever have to go through.

  So I cut him a lot of slack, but even I have my limits.

  Which brings me back to finding a hotel room for Monk. To begin with, we could look only at four-star hotels, because four is an even number, and a place with only two stars couldn’t possibly meet Monk’s standard of cleanliness. He wouldn’t put his dog in a two-star hotel—if he had a dog, which he doesn’t, and never would, because dogs are animals who lick themselves and drink out of toilets.

  The first place we went to on that rainy Friday was the Belmont in Union Square, one of the finest hotels in San Francisco.

  Monk insisted on visiting every vacant room the grand old Belmont had before deciding which one to occupy. He looked only at even-numbered rooms on even-numbered floors, of course. Although the rooms were identically furnished and laid out the same way on every floor, he found something wrong with each one. For instance, one room didn’t feel symmetrical enough. Another room was too symmetrical. One had no symmetry at all.

  All the bathrooms were decorated with some expensive floral wallpaper from Italy. But if the strips of wallpaper didn’t line up just right, if the flowers and their stems didn’t match up exactly on either side of the cut, Monk declared the room uninhabitable.

  By the tenth room, the hotel manager was guzzling little bottles of vodka from the minibar, and I was tempted to join him. Monk was on his knees, examining the wallpaper under the bathroom counter, wallpaper that nobody would ever see unless they were on their knees under the bathroom counter, and pointing out “a critical mismatch,” and that’s when I cracked. I couldn’t take it anymore, and I did something I never would have done if I hadn’t been under extreme emotional and mental duress.

  I told Monk he could stay with us.

  I said it just to end my immediate suffering, not realizing in that instant of profound weakness the full, horrific ramifications of my actions. But before I could take it back, Monk immediately accepted my invitation, and the hotel manager nearly kissed me in gratitude.

  “But I don’t want to hear any complaints about how my house is arranged or how dirty you think it is or how many ‘critical mismatches’ there are,” I said to Monk as we started down the stairs to the lobby.

  “I’m sure it’s perfect,” Monk said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Mr. Monk. You’re starting already.”

  He looked at me blankly. “All I said was that I’m sure it’s perfect. Most people would take that as the sincere compliment it was meant to be.”

  “But most people don’t mean ‘perfect’ when they say ‘perfect.’ ”

  “Of course they do,” Monk said.

  “No, they mean pleasant, or nice, or comfortable. They don’t actually mean perfect in the sense that everything will be, well, perfect. You do.”

  “Give me some credit.” Monk shook his head.

  I gaped at him in disbelief.

  “You wouldn’t stay in that hotel room we just saw because the floral pattern of the wallpaper didn’t match under the sink.”

  “That’s different,” he said. “That was a safety issue.”

  “How could that possibly be a safety issue?” I said.

  “It reveals shoddy craftsmanship. If they were that haphazard with wallpaper, imagine what the rest of the construction work was like,” Monk said. “I bet a mild earthquake is all it would take to bring this entire building down.”

  “The building is going to fall because the wallpaper doesn’t match up?”

  “This place should be condemned.”

  We reached the lobby and Monk stopped in his tracks.

  “What?” I said.

  “We should warn the others,” Monk said.

  “What others?” I asked.

  “The hotel guests,” Monk said. “They should be informed of the situation.”

  “That the wallpaper doesn’t match,” I said.

  “It’s a safety issue,” he said. “I’ll call them later.” I didn�
��t bother arguing with him. Frankly I was just relieved to get out of the hotel without stumbling over a dead body. I know that sounds ridiculous, but when you’re with Adrian Monk, corpses have a way of turning up all over the place. But, as I would soon find out, it was only a temporary reprieve.

  Monk lived in a Deco-style apartment building on Pine, a twilight zone of affordability that straddled the northernmost edge of the Western District, with its upper-middle-class families, and the southwest corner of Pacific Heights, with its old money, elaborately ornate Victorians, and lush gardens high above the city.

  On this sunny Saturday morning, Monk was waiting for me on the rain-slicked sidewalk, watching the uniformed nannies from Pacific Heights and Juicy Coutured housewives from the Western District pushing babies in Peg Perego strollers up and down the hill to Alta Plaza Park and its views of the marina, the bay, and the Golden Gate.

  Monk stood with two large, identical suitcases, one on either side of him, a forlorn expression on his face. He wore his brown, four-button overcoat, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets, which made him seem smaller somehow.

  There was something touching about the way he looked, like a sad, lonely kid going off to camp for the first time. I wanted to hug him, but fortunately for both of us, the feeling passed quickly.

  Parking is impossible on a weekend in that neighborhood, so I double-parked in front of his building, which was so streamlined that it looked more aerodynamic than my car.

  I got out and gestured toward his two suitcases. “You’re only staying for a few days, Mr. Monk.”