Monk ordered exactly ten perfect squares of ravioli with meat sauce, while Julie and I shared a cheese pizza, which he insisted on cutting for us into eight equal slices using a compass and ruler he brought along for the occasion. We would have preferred to order a pepperoni pizza, but it would have been a hassle with Monk there. He would have demanded that each piece of pizza have an equal number of pepperoni slices and that they be aligned in a symmetrical pattern over the entire pie.
While we ate, Julie talked about her day at school, her squabbles with friends, and the activities she had planned for the rest of the week. It was your typical mundane, domestic chatter, but Monk seemed to revel in it. And so did Julie, who often complained to me about how strange Monk was and yet always seemed eager for his attention when he was around.
Monk even put a slice of lemon in his Sierra Springs water, which, for him, was like having a martini. It’s a good thing he didn’t have to drive.
After dinner Monk went back to the kitchen to wash his dishes with the rubber gloves, scouring pad, soap, and sponge he’d brought specifically for the task. Julie gladly tagged along with him. She even helped him wash dishes, a chore that she considered to be cruel and unusual punishment at home.
The restaurant owners didn’t mind Monk’s weird behavior because he made up for it by doing
all
the other dishes along with his own, and he happily cleaned their appliances, too. In fact, Mario & Maria’s was one of the few restaurants in San Francisco where Monk was still welcome—as long as he was with me.
“That’s a classy place,” Monk said as we were walking back to my house. “You don’t find many restaurants with perfectly square raviolis.”
“There aren’t many people who’d actually measure them,” I said.
“Only the true gourmets,” Monk said.
“You’re a gourmet?” Julie asked.
“I have the dining tape measure and compass, don’t I?” Monk said. “It was nice to have a chance to relax over a good meal. I really needed to unwind.”
I couldn’t imagine anyone else who would consider going out to dinner, washing all the dishes, and cleaning the kitchen afterward relaxing. Most people go to restaurants as an escape from things like cleaning pots and pans, but I wasn’t going to argue with him.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Monk said.
“It was our pleasure,” I said.
“The last few days have been very stressful,” Monk said. “But I think this could be a turning point for me.”
“I hope so, Mr. Monk,” I said.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said.
“You don’t need me to solve murders.”
“I need you for everything else,” Monk said. “Without you, I’d be lost.”
“When you don’t need Mom’s help anymore,” Julie asked, “will you still come see us?”
“I’ll always need help,” Monk said.
“But if you’re a homicide detective again, you’ll have lots of cops around all day who can help you,” Julie said. “What will you need Mom for?”
She had a point. I’d been so caught up in Monk’s hectic new life over the last few days, I hadn’t thought about the long-term implications of his getting his badge back. I doubted they would tolerate a civilian hanging around with Monk all day. But at the moment I was less concerned about my job security than I was by Julie’s question and what it revealed about her feelings.
Since her father was killed in Kosovo, Monk had been the only man who was always in her life. And mine. He was someone she could rely on. If nothing else, Monk was consistent. Obsessively so. Kids like routine; it gives them a sense of security. That goes double—make that
triple
—for Monk. He gave her a sense of security, and, along the way, she’d become emotionally attached to him.
The truth was, so had I.
Not so long ago, all three of us lost someone to a violent death. We were all adrift until we found Monk and he found us. What we had now wasn’t love, but it was something close, something worth holding on to.
Now I was as interested in Monk’s answer to the question as Julie was.
Monk tilted his head from side to side and adjusted his collar, which didn’t need adjusting.
“I’ll need you and your mom in my life no matter what I’m doing,” he said. “I’m helpless. But you aren’t.”
“What do you mean?” Julie asked.
“I’m a high-maintenance individual, like a supermodel,” Monk said. “People get tired of me. My father. Sharona. The list goes on.”
“I’ll never get tired of you, Mr. Monk,” she said, looping her arm around his, “if you promise never to get tired of me.”
“Deal,” he said.
I looped my arm around his, too.
“Deal,” I said, and gave him a little kiss on the cheek.
He didn’t like it, but at least he was smart enough not to ask for a wipe.
I drove Monk home. Julie was asleep by the time I got back. I was exhausted and expected to fall into a deep slumber within seconds of laying my head on my pillow. But that didn’t happen.
I couldn’t stop thinking about our little after-dinner conversation. What
would
I do if Monk didn’t need me anymore?
Although the pay was terrible, the hours were insane, and the benefits were nonexistent, I’d become very comfortable in the job, which I fell into by accident rather than design.
In some ways I envied Monk. He had direction in his life. He knew who he was, what his talents were, and what he was put on this earth to do. He’d known since he was a kid. Monk was born to be a detective. And he’s brilliant at it.
I wasn’t sure what I was born to do, what I was good at, or where my life was going.
I assumed there had to be other people out there as aimless as I was, but I still felt like the only one who wasn’t born with preinstalled software.
I’ve never had a natural affinity toward one profession or another. I’ve never had any obvious artistic or physical abilities. I’m jealous every time I meet someone who has known all her life that she wanted to be this or that.
I’ve tried to imagine what it’s like growing up with the certainty that you’ve got a natural talent for painting, or singing, or arguing, or pitching a baseball. I’ve wondered what it’s like growing up with a burning desire to be something in particular, like a veterinarian or an astronaut, lawyer or chef, gardener or engineer. It must be great. (I wanted to be one of Charlie’s Angels for a while, but I don’t think that really counts. I also wanted to be a rock star, but mostly for the wardrobe and the adulation.)
A lot of people find their direction in college, finally discovering in a class or an internship what it is that they want to do or be. Or they find out after a job or two once they graduate. Sometimes their calling finds them.
I mean, nobody grows up dreaming of selling car insurance, but there are people who do it and are very successful at it. They find out only once they are in the car insurance world that, hey, this really is who I am and what I was born to do and I’m darn good at it.
I was still waiting for that moment of realization.
My husband, Mitch, always knew he wanted to fly. He wasn’t happy with his feet on the ground for very long. He had to be in the air. But it wasn’t enough for him just to fly; there had to be a purpose behind it greater than simply carrying tourists or packages from one city to another. He also had an overwhelming need to serve his country. I admired him for his passion for flight and his dedication to the military, but I only pretended to understand it, because I’d never felt that kind of calling myself.
I’d sort of bounced around through life, from one odd job to another. I’d even bounced into marriage and motherhood without really consciously planning it or desiring it.
Working for Monk had been the most interesting and fullfilling job I’d ever had—and the most aggravating, time-consuming, frustrating, and financially uncertain, too. But I stumbled into the position the same way I stumbled into everything else in my life.
Was being the assistant to a great detective my calling?
I didn’t know.
Maybe there was another dysfunctional detective I could help. But what were my professional qualifications? Would Monk, Stottlemeyer, and Dr. Kroger give me letters of recommendation? If so, what would they say?
And even if they did back me up for a career as a detective enabler, I had a hard time seeing myself with Frank Porter, Cindy Chow, Mad Jack Wyatt, or some other sleuth with issues.
My relationship with Monk was unique. There was something about his temperament, his gentle soul, and our shared pain that made us a good match.
I just had to hope I’d stumble into something else, hopefully something that paid enormous amounts of money. So I worried and I fantasized into the wee hours before finally, mercifully, drifting off into a troubled sleep.
20
Mr. Monk and the Dust Bunny
On Tuesdays, Monk has his regular appointment with Dr. Kroger, his psychiatrist. The shrink makes me nervous. I’m afraid he’s analyzing everything I say, my body language, and even the dilation of my pupils to determine how screwed up I really am.
He’s also way too relaxed all the time. It’s unnatural. I’m sure that I could walk into Dr. Kroger’s office with a hatchet in my chest and a monkey on my head and it wouldn’t startle him. In fact, I’m tempted do it just to see what would happen.
Dr. Kroger greeted us as we walked into his immaculate waiting room. I don’t know whether it was so clean because disorder would irritate his patients like Monk, or if the doctor had a touch of OCD himself.
“Congratulations, Adrian,” Dr. Kroger said.
“On what?” Monk said.
“Your reinstatement to the force and your promotion to captain, of course. I’m very happy for you.”
“You saw me on TV?”
“I did.”
“Then you know it was a moment of high political drama that ranks up there with the Kennedy-Nixon debates,” Monk said.
“It was certainly memorable,” Dr. Kroger said, ushering Monk into his office. “Make yourself comfortable, Adrian; I’ll be right in.”
The doctor closed the door behind him and looked at me.
“How is he doing?” Dr. Kroger asked.
“Isn’t that a question you should be asking him?”
“There’s a difference between his perception of the situation and yours.”
“He’s doing fine,” I said. “He’s giddy.”
“How’s he handling his additional responsibilities?”
“There’s a steep learning curve,” I said. “But he’s solved every homicide that’s come his way.”
Dr. Kroger nodded sagely. I wondered if he and Madam Frost practiced that expression in the mirror to get it right or if it naturally came from a deep awareness of one’s own depth of knowledge that I simply didn’t have yet.
“Has he exhibited any performance anxiety?”
“Don’t all men have performance anxiety?”
Dr. Kroger smiled, but it seemed forced. For a guy who was so relaxed, he didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
“Nobody from the department asked me if I thought he was ready to be reinstated,” Dr. Kroger said.
“Are you feeling left out?”
That was a shrinky sort of question, and I wasn’t surprised when he dodged it. But he did surprise me with his next comment.
“Nobody asked me about Frank, Cindy, or Jack, either,” Dr. Kroger said.
“They’re your patients, too?”
“They were all initially referred to me by the department,” Dr. Kroger said. “Under normal circumstances, I don’t think they’d be back at work without a positive report from me and an interview with a review board.”
“These aren’t normal circumstances,” I said.
“But things will go back to normal, Ms. Teeger. The police and the city are back at the negotiating table. I can’t help worrying about what will happen to Adrian and the others when this labor dispute is resolved.”
“They’ve proven themselves,” I said. “The fair thing to do would be to let them stay where they are.”
“Life is seldom fair,” Dr. Kroger said. “Politics even less so.”
And on that hopeful note he stepped into his office and I settled down with the latest issue of
Cosmo
. But I found it hard to concentrate on “The Ten Bedroom Secrets That Will Drive Your Man Insane,” and it wasn’t because I didn’t have a man to try them on.
I could feel the tension in the homicide squad room the instant we walked in. Many of the “sick” detectives had returned to work to investigate the cop killing and were congregating on one side of the room, glaring nastily at Wyatt, Chow, and Porter on the other.
Stottlemeyer was in his office, buried in paperwork, ignoring the animosity on display outside his door.
Jasper, Arnie, and Sparrow stood in the demilitarized zone around the coffee machine.
Disher took a seat at his desk and tried to move the pencil cup closer. It wouldn’t budge.
“Who glued my pencil cup to my desk?” Disher demanded. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”
Jasper drew up the collar of his coat and tried to become invisible as other cops around the room began to discover that their blotters, phones, and other desktop items were also glued in place.
Monk’s team all gathered around Porter’s desk.
“Frank gave us a list of fifteen possible witnesses to Allegra’s murder,” Wyatt reported. “We found our guy on the third door we knocked on. His name is Tono Busok.”
“Why didn’t he come forward?” Monk asked.
“He sells bootleg movies,” Wyatt said. “There was a bank of about fifty DVD burners in his apartment. He was afraid if he went to the police, his bootlegging operation would be exposed and we’d arrest him for pirating
Basic Instinct 2.
”
“And for that petty crime he’d let a murderer go free?” Monk said. “What kind of person is he?”
“Did I mention his apartment is in his mother’s basement?” Wyatt said. “All I had to do was threaten to turn him over to the FBI and he cracked. He gave me a detailed statement about what he saw at Allegra Doucet’s house. The murder went down exactly the way you said it did.”