Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse

Table of Contents

 

 

“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,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, January 2006

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

The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

eISBN : 978-1-101-14374-2

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

To Tony Shalhoub, the one and only Monk.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

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 Angels. 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.