month in the grocery store checkout line, in the place of honor and prestige, right next to the National Enquirer and the Star.
Lieutenant Disher, who took a UC Berkeley extension class from Ludlow, once referred to the author as the “Tolstoy of the Mean Streets.”
I glanced at Monk, who was still examining everything, pausing to align pillows by size, straighten crooked pictures or alphabetize a bookshelf. It was his process and I didn’t dare intrude.
“I’ve been Ludlow’s technical adviser on his last couple of books, which were inspired by some of my cases,” Dozier said. “He creates the excitement. I provide the gripping realism.”
“So I guess in Ludlow’s next book Detective Marshak’s fly will be open the whole time,” Sharona said. “And he’ll send the killer’s murder weapon to Wisconsin.”
“What was Ludlow doing here?” I asked quickly, hoping to distract Dozier from gunning Sharona down for that remark.
“He was intrigued by the case,” Dozier said. “All we had at the time was a UCLA professor of gender studies found dead in her home. We looked at her lover and her students but we didn’t have any suspects. Ludlow helped us develop the leads that led us to her husband .”
Although Dozier was answering my question, he deliveredthose last two words directly at Sharona as if they were physical blows.
And that was exactly how she took them, but she probably deserved it for her crack about his technical advice.
“Was this where you found the body?” Monk asked from afar.
I’d been so caught up in my conversation with Dozier that I’d completely lost track of Monk. He’d wandered down the hall into the master bedroom.
There was a big four-poster bed in the center of the room that was covered with pillows and a fluffy, frilly comforter. I wanted to climb into that bed with a good book and never get out.
There were matching nightstands on either side of the bed. One had a lamp on it; the other didn’t. Now I knew where the murder weapon came from.
Before I met Monk, I never noticed details like that. Then again, before I met Monk, I never imagined anybody ran their doorknobs through the dishwasher every week.
The bed faced a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above a waist-high entertainment center.
On one side of the room was a set of French doors that opened out onto a backyard patio. On the other was a wall lined with a dresser and vanity.
Monk stood by Ellen Cole’s dresser, studying the blood-stained carpet at his feet.
“We found her laying right there,” Dozier said. “The back of her head was a bloody mess.”
“Could you show me exactly what her position was on the floor?” Monk said.
Dozier hiked up his pants and curled up on the floor, facing the dresser, careful not to actually lay his head on the bloodstain.
Monk crouched beside Dozier and studied the detective’s position. Then he got up. He held his hands out in front of him, palms up, as if warming himself by a fire, and did a little pirouette, coming to a stop facing the closet.
He went over to the closet and opened the double doors.
The clothes that were hanging on the wooden bar had been pushed aside. Behind the clothes, there were several file boxes stacked against the back wall. On the floor, there were shoes, which had been cleared away to make room for one of the boxes.
Monk shook his head and groaned.
“What’s wrong, Adrian?” Sharona asked.
"Everything,” Monk said sadly. “Trevor didn’t kill Ellen Cole.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mr. Monk Takes the Case
I was glad that I was right about Trevor and relieved that my job might no longer be in jeopardy. But at the same time I felt terrible for Sharona, who sat down on the edge of Ellen’s bed and hugged
Lieutenant Disher, who took a UC Berkeley extension class from Ludlow, once referred to the author as the “Tolstoy of the Mean Streets.”
I glanced at Monk, who was still examining everything, pausing to align pillows by size, straighten crooked pictures or alphabetize a bookshelf. It was his process and I didn’t dare intrude.
“I’ve been Ludlow’s technical adviser on his last couple of books, which were inspired by some of my cases,” Dozier said. “He creates the excitement. I provide the gripping realism.”
“So I guess in Ludlow’s next book Detective Marshak’s fly will be open the whole time,” Sharona said. “And he’ll send the killer’s murder weapon to Wisconsin.”
“What was Ludlow doing here?” I asked quickly, hoping to distract Dozier from gunning Sharona down for that remark.
“He was intrigued by the case,” Dozier said. “All we had at the time was a UCLA professor of gender studies found dead in her home. We looked at her lover and her students but we didn’t have any suspects. Ludlow helped us develop the leads that led us to her husband .”
Although Dozier was answering my question, he deliveredthose last two words directly at Sharona as if they were physical blows.
And that was exactly how she took them, but she probably deserved it for her crack about his technical advice.
“Was this where you found the body?” Monk asked from afar.
I’d been so caught up in my conversation with Dozier that I’d completely lost track of Monk. He’d wandered down the hall into the master bedroom.
There was a big four-poster bed in the center of the room that was covered with pillows and a fluffy, frilly comforter. I wanted to climb into that bed with a good book and never get out.
There were matching nightstands on either side of the bed. One had a lamp on it; the other didn’t. Now I knew where the murder weapon came from.
Before I met Monk, I never noticed details like that. Then again, before I met Monk, I never imagined anybody ran their doorknobs through the dishwasher every week.
The bed faced a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above a waist-high entertainment center.
On one side of the room was a set of French doors that opened out onto a backyard patio. On the other was a wall lined with a dresser and vanity.
Monk stood by Ellen Cole’s dresser, studying the blood-stained carpet at his feet.
“We found her laying right there,” Dozier said. “The back of her head was a bloody mess.”
“Could you show me exactly what her position was on the floor?” Monk said.
Dozier hiked up his pants and curled up on the floor, facing the dresser, careful not to actually lay his head on the bloodstain.
Monk crouched beside Dozier and studied the detective’s position. Then he got up. He held his hands out in front of him, palms up, as if warming himself by a fire, and did a little pirouette, coming to a stop facing the closet.
He went over to the closet and opened the double doors.
The clothes that were hanging on the wooden bar had been pushed aside. Behind the clothes, there were several file boxes stacked against the back wall. On the floor, there were shoes, which had been cleared away to make room for one of the boxes.
Monk shook his head and groaned.
“What’s wrong, Adrian?” Sharona asked.
"Everything,” Monk said sadly. “Trevor didn’t kill Ellen Cole.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mr. Monk Takes the Case
I was glad that I was right about Trevor and relieved that my job might no longer be in jeopardy. But at the same time I felt terrible for Sharona, who sat down on the edge of Ellen’s bed and hugged
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