Mr. Monk Gets Even (30 page)

He didn’t want Ellen to pick him up since it might tip off the media about where he was holed up, so that’s why he asked Julie and me for a ride.

“I’ll have to slip out of my house in disguise, so you probably won’t recognize me,” Monk said. “I’ll be the hippie beatnik on the corner of Alta Park on Jackson and Steiner.”

I took a long, scenic route.

It was a bright, sunny day and there was a slight breeze, pushing whipped-cream clouds across vibrant blue skies and creating a cheerful backdrop for the new single-tower eastern span of the Bay Bridge, which I could see stretching from Yerba Buena Island to Oakland as I topped Nob Hill.

The old eastern span, deemed seismically unsafe, was still there, awaiting demolition. Old and new, side by side.

The new span was wide and graceful, two parallel viaducts curving toward a single-tower suspension bridge. The old span was narrow, blunt, and double-decked.

There was something comforting and familiar about the new span. It was undeniably more modern and sleek, but it followed the same path as the old one, and even evoked the iconic suspension span of the western section of the bridge that connected Yerba Buena Island to the city.

I looked at the view until an impatient driver honked at me and I turned left, heading west toward Alta Park.

I found Monk standing at the appointed spot wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, his pressed shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His sleeves were carefully rolled up so the cuffs were in the same place on both arms. I’m sure he measured them to be sure. The cuffs were so smooth, there was no doubt that he’d ironed the sleeves after he rolled them up.

He was snapping his fingers and bopping to some imaginary tune as I pulled up to the curb. I rolled down the passenger window.

“That is a brilliant disguise,” I said.

Monk opened the door and got in. “The trick to a successful disguise isn’t clothes or makeup—it’s attitude. You have to embody the character you are portraying.”

“What song were you thinking about as you were snapping your fingers?”

“The theme to
Sesame Street.
”

“Is that what hippie beatniks listen to?”

“They listen to anything with a beat,” Monk said. “That’s how they get their niks.”

“Kicks,” I said.

“I am pretty sure it’s niks,” he said. “Hence their name.”

“You would know,” I said. “You’re much more plugged into the hippie beatnik scene than I am.”

“To be honest, most of what I know about hippie beatniks I got from
Dragnet.
” He buttoned his collar. “Do you have any evidence gloves in your purse?”

“There’s a box in the glove compartment, of course,” I said. “Why do you need them?”

“I want to tuck in my shirt,” he said.

I decided not to pursue that line of questioning any further. He got a pair of gloves and slipped them on as I drove.

“Where’s Julie?” he asked.

“She’s at home,” I said. “Looking for a job.”

“I hope I’m not going to make you late for your flight by asking you to take me to Ellen’s,” he said.

I shifted a bit in my seat. “I think I’ve found a woman who can replace Julie as your assistant.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Monk said, tucking in his shirt.

“I wanted to be sure you’re well taken care of,” I said.

“Have you met her?”

“I have,” I said.

“Is she clean and presentable?”

“She is,” I said.

“What are her qualifications?”

“Considering that your first two assistants were a nurse and a bartender, this one is a real step up,” I said. “She’s got experience in law enforcement.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Monk said, carefully peeling off his gloves. “Tell me more.”

“She’s an ex-cop,” I said.

“From here?”

“From back east,” I said. “And here’s the best part: Before she joined the force, she spent ten years working for a famous detective.”

Monk turned his head and looked at me. “Are you sure she wants to work for me?”

“She doesn’t want to work for you,” I said.

“Now I’m confused,” Monk said.

“She wants to be your partner,” I said. “If you agree to work with her, she’ll apply for a gun permit and get a PI license.”

“Would she still drive me to crime scenes, take me to the grocery store, and pick up my dry cleaning?”

“I think she would,” I said.

“Would she answer my phone and maintain my schedule?”

“Most likely,” I said.

“Would she help me organize my silverware and label the items in my refrigerator?”

“Hell no,” I said.

“Would she take me to see my psychiatrist?”

“She will, but the relationship that you’ll have with her is going to be different from those with your past assistants, mainly because she won’t be your assistant. She will be your partner.”

Monk nodded, found a small evidence baggie in the glove compartment, and put his used gloves into them. “Does she have any references?”

“She comes highly recommended by the chief of police of Summit, New Jersey.”

“He’s a good man,” Monk said.

“But I wouldn’t call him just yet,” I said. “He’s a little upset with her right now.”

“I can imagine,” Monk said. “When can she start?”

“Immediately,” I said.

We drove for a while in silence. And when Monk spoke again, he sounded a little choked up. I know that I was.

“I’ve missed you, Natalie.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Mr. Monk.”

“It didn’t feel like home here anymore without you.”

“You’ve lived in that apartment for decades,” I said. “It hasn’t changed one bit.”

“But I have,” he said. “I’ve learned that home isn’t the place where you live—it’s the people that you have in your life.”

I nodded. “I need you in mine.”

“Very true,” he said. “You were a mess until I came along.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who desperately needed help,” I said. “You hired me as your full-time assistant, remember?”

“Only to rescue you from the squalid life you were leading,” he said.

“Squalid?”

“It means dirty, wretched, and poverty stricken,” he said.

“I know what it means,” I said. “If you were so worried about my living in poverty, you would have paid me more.”

“I was your employer, not your sugar daddy.”

“Sugar daddy?”

“It’s a man who—,” he began.

“I know what it means,” I said, interrupting him. “You do know I carry a gun now, right?”

“I hope you know how to clean it,” Monk said. “Because if you treat it anything like your house, there’s probably a filthy sock stuck in the barrel.”

God, it was good to be home.

Click here for more in this series

The Monk Series

Mr. Monk Gets Even

Mr. Monk Is a Mess

Mr. Monk on Patrol

Mr. Monk on the Couch

Mr. Monk on the Road

Mr. Monk Is Cleaned Out

Mr. Monk in Trouble

Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

Mr. Monk Is Miserable

Mr. Monk Goes to Germany

Mr. Monk in Outer Space

Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants

Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu

Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii

Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse