didn’t look back. I felt so horrible.
“I’ll bet he lied about triple-filtering the air,” Monk said.
“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Captain Sheffield. He said my luggage would be stored in the VIP dry cleaning suite with triple-filtered air. But I think he was lying. Murderers lie.”
“Yes, Adrian. Murderers lie.”
He stood there stoically, watching as his girlfriend faded away in the distance. “That’s okay,” he muttered. “I can buy new luggage.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mr. Monk Gets a Room
L ooking back on that moment, I’ve never felt closer to Adrian Monk, or more depressed about Natalie Teeger.
What was wrong with us? I had just asked Monk’s girlfriend, a generous, loving, patient woman, to fly down and rescue him. Then, after she made the trip, I persuaded him not to leave. And Monk agreed without a blink. I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see either of us again.
On the other hand, a young woman’s life was at stake. But back to the first hand . . .
It’s probably no accident that I haven’t had a serious relationship since I started this job. I’d always told myself that it was the memory of Mitch that had made me skittish of getting close to another man. But what if it were more? What if our work had changed both of us? What if the victims—even the killers—had become more important to us than anything else? Any normal woman has girlfriends who aren’t cops. Any normal man has male friends who aren’t police captains.
Was it somehow easier or more satisfying for Monk and me to deal with the lives of the dead than with our own? That was a scary thought and one that I didn’t want to focus on too much. For right now, all I could focus on was that a young, vibrant woman might be killed tonight.
The Valencia was one of the two upper decks that ran around the entire ship, with little inlets here and there to accommodate special features, like an outdoor bar, protected in a nestled cove with space heaters projecting from the wall in case of a cold snap.
I’d been meaning to join Mariah there ever since she invited me to yesterday, when I first stepped on board. Was it yesterday? It seemed like a world war ago. She had mentioned it more than once, which made me guess I could find her here at some point during the two-hour interval the grown-ups in my family used to call the cocktail hour.
Sure enough, she found me there waiting, an hour after we lifted anchor in Catalina, as I was nursing my first white wine of the evening.
“Natalie, fancy running into you.” She leaned in, kissed me on the cheek, then settled onto the stool beside mine. “Welcome to my hideaway. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. I’d chosen the far end of the bar and had been lucky enough to get several empty stools next to me.
“Charlie,” she called out. “My usual. My new usual.”
Charlie grinned. Everyone seemed to grin when Mariah arrived. Charlie finished delivering a pair of beers at the other end, then grabbed a highball glass in one hand and the bar gun in the other. I’d been a bartender long enough to see that her new usual was club soda.
“How was your shore day?” she asked as she took her first sip. “Did Mr. Monk’s girlfriend fly down to pick him up? Did it work out?”
I had rehearsed this conversation a dozen different ways. The best way, I figured, was to get her, not me, to bring up my housing situation. “He decided not to get off.”
“Wow.” Mariah was obviously surprised. “Does that mean he got everything worked out with his roomie, Mr. McGinnis? So cool. It renews my faith in human nature.”
“Don’t get too renewed,” I said. “There was no reconciliation. I gave Adrian my cabin instead. And no, we’re not rooming together. I don’t know where I’m sleeping tonight.”
“You’re kidding.”
I lifted the wineglass to my lips, just to let the dead air hang.
“There are no free rooms, Natalie. And you
“I’ll bet he lied about triple-filtering the air,” Monk said.
“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Captain Sheffield. He said my luggage would be stored in the VIP dry cleaning suite with triple-filtered air. But I think he was lying. Murderers lie.”
“Yes, Adrian. Murderers lie.”
He stood there stoically, watching as his girlfriend faded away in the distance. “That’s okay,” he muttered. “I can buy new luggage.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mr. Monk Gets a Room
L ooking back on that moment, I’ve never felt closer to Adrian Monk, or more depressed about Natalie Teeger.
What was wrong with us? I had just asked Monk’s girlfriend, a generous, loving, patient woman, to fly down and rescue him. Then, after she made the trip, I persuaded him not to leave. And Monk agreed without a blink. I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see either of us again.
On the other hand, a young woman’s life was at stake. But back to the first hand . . .
It’s probably no accident that I haven’t had a serious relationship since I started this job. I’d always told myself that it was the memory of Mitch that had made me skittish of getting close to another man. But what if it were more? What if our work had changed both of us? What if the victims—even the killers—had become more important to us than anything else? Any normal woman has girlfriends who aren’t cops. Any normal man has male friends who aren’t police captains.
Was it somehow easier or more satisfying for Monk and me to deal with the lives of the dead than with our own? That was a scary thought and one that I didn’t want to focus on too much. For right now, all I could focus on was that a young, vibrant woman might be killed tonight.
The Valencia was one of the two upper decks that ran around the entire ship, with little inlets here and there to accommodate special features, like an outdoor bar, protected in a nestled cove with space heaters projecting from the wall in case of a cold snap.
I’d been meaning to join Mariah there ever since she invited me to yesterday, when I first stepped on board. Was it yesterday? It seemed like a world war ago. She had mentioned it more than once, which made me guess I could find her here at some point during the two-hour interval the grown-ups in my family used to call the cocktail hour.
Sure enough, she found me there waiting, an hour after we lifted anchor in Catalina, as I was nursing my first white wine of the evening.
“Natalie, fancy running into you.” She leaned in, kissed me on the cheek, then settled onto the stool beside mine. “Welcome to my hideaway. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. I’d chosen the far end of the bar and had been lucky enough to get several empty stools next to me.
“Charlie,” she called out. “My usual. My new usual.”
Charlie grinned. Everyone seemed to grin when Mariah arrived. Charlie finished delivering a pair of beers at the other end, then grabbed a highball glass in one hand and the bar gun in the other. I’d been a bartender long enough to see that her new usual was club soda.
“How was your shore day?” she asked as she took her first sip. “Did Mr. Monk’s girlfriend fly down to pick him up? Did it work out?”
I had rehearsed this conversation a dozen different ways. The best way, I figured, was to get her, not me, to bring up my housing situation. “He decided not to get off.”
“Wow.” Mariah was obviously surprised. “Does that mean he got everything worked out with his roomie, Mr. McGinnis? So cool. It renews my faith in human nature.”
“Don’t get too renewed,” I said. “There was no reconciliation. I gave Adrian my cabin instead. And no, we’re not rooming together. I don’t know where I’m sleeping tonight.”
“You’re kidding.”
I lifted the wineglass to my lips, just to let the dead air hang.
“There are no free rooms, Natalie. And you
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