Mr. Monk Gets Even by Lee Goldberg Page B

more interesting than catching a dog who liked to collect rolled-up morning newspapers and bury them in his yard.
    For a moment, I wished I was there to help out. But I wasn’t Monk’s underappreciated, underpaid, overworked assistant anymore. Julie was.
    I was a police officer now, recognized for my skills and decently compensated for my work. I carried a badge and a gun instead of a purse full of disinfectant wipes, bottled water, evidence baggies, and hand sanitizer.
    I was independent and self-reliant in a way that I’d never been before.
    I was respected for the first time in my life.
    I actually had a profession.
    So why was I so glum?
    “Tell me about the murders,” I said.
    She did. “And you won’t believe who Mr. Monk thinks the killer of all three of them is.”
    “You say that like it’s someone I know.”
    “It’s someone everyone knows—except Monk, of course. Cleve Dobbs.”
    I was stunned. “Founder of Peach? That Cleve Dobbs?”
    “How many others do you know?”
    “Why would he go around killing people? He has the money to hire an army to do it for him.”
    “I don’t know, but Mr. Monk is usually right about his deductions, so I’m pretty sure we’ll be over at Dobbs’ place tomorrow. Leland will try to be polite and circumspect, but he will be totally undermined by Mr. Monk, who will probably come right out and accuse Dobbs of being a murderer. Maybe I’ll record it all for you on my Peach.”
    I almost took her up on the offer, which made no sense. That’s because the situation she described was one I’d been in a thousand times before with Monk and always found extremely irritating, frustrating, and uncomfortable. It was exactly the kind of stress I’d looked forward to eliminating from my life when I’d taken the Summit job.
    And yet, at that moment, I found the prospect of being part of that potentially awkward and infuriating encounter with Dobbs so much more interesting, fun, and amusing than anything that was likely to happen in my life.
    “If Monk says Dobbs is a killer, then he is,” I said. “But proving it isn’t going to be easy. Monk will become obsessed with solving the crime.”
    “So I won’t have much time to wallow in my heartbreak,” she said.
    “Are you really heartbroken?”
    “It wasn’t love, if that’s what you’re asking. But I really liked him and, who knows, in time it might have turned into something.”
    “Not if he’s the kind of guy who breaks up with you with a text message.”
    “Well, in his defense, it’s probably the best way to reach me these days, so how he dumped me kind of underscores why the relationship wasn’t working. I probably would have stood him up if he’d made a date to dump me face-to-face.”
    “You’re not making it very easy to be angry at the guy,” I said.
    “I don’t want to be angry at him,” she said. “It just sucks, that’s all. I guess I’m going to have to be single until the summer is over and Mr. Monk can find a new assistant. I need a job with regular hours once school starts again. I can’t blow off my classes every time a dead body is found in San Francisco, or I’ll never graduate. And I’d like to have a love life.”
    “Join the club,” I said.
    “What’s stopping you?”
    That was a good question. “I’m focusing on my career right now.”
    “And you’re still living in a hotel?”
    “I haven’t had a chance to find a place yet,” I said.
    “Sounds to me like you’re stalling.”
    “Stalling what?”
    “Starting your new life.”
    “I’m hard at work,” I said.
    “But you’re living out of a hotel room and not starting any new relationships,” she said. “You’re hesitating about putting down roots. Something is holding you back.”
    “Have you changed your major to psychology?”
    “No,” she said.
    “Maybe you should,” I said.
    • • •
    Okay, that’s enough about me. The last thing you want to hear about is my emotional and psychological angst.