circumstances.”
“You’re a skeptic.”
“I’m a realist,” I said. I was lying. I wanted more than anything to believe he was talking to Mitch, and I hated myself for that yearning. “What do you want from me, Mr. Swift?”
“Call me Dylan, please.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t want anything from you, Natalie.”
“So you do know who I am,” I said accusingly.
“I know you were with Adrian Monk, and I need to see him,” Swift said.
“Why?”
“To relay a message from the dead. Someone is desperate to communicate with him.”
“Anyone in particular?” I asked.
“Helen Gruber,” he said.
“That’s pretty specific, considering the spirits rarely introduce themselves to you.”
Swift smiled again, though there was nothing enigmatic about it this time. He was pleased.
“You’ve watched my show?”
“When I was stuck at home with the flu. I caught a few minutes here and there between my vomiting.”
I was trying to be cutting, to dispel some of that smug confidence of his, but he seemed unperturbed.
“I’ve never felt such a strong connection to a spirit before. My bungalow is a few doors down from hers,” Swift said. “It was as if her spirit contacted me on her way to the other side, moments after she was killed.”
“How do you know she was killed?”
“I felt it. It was sudden. It…” He struggled for the right words. “It didn’t come from inside, like a natural death. It came from behind. Someone came up behind her and struck her on the head; that’s what I’m sensing.”
He could have picked up most of the vague stuff he’d told me so far from the hotel staff or one of the police officers at the crime scene. It didn’t take a psychic to presume a murder has taken place when you saw a morgue wagon and police cars parked on the street.
“There are things she wants me to share with Monk,” Swift said.
He was putting me in an awkward predicament, forcing me to weigh my own selfish desires against my ethical duties as Monk’s assistant.
It was bad enough that Monk had found a murder to solve, but he was so desperate to avoid enjoying Hawaii that he was ready to launch an investigation into how his minibar was stocked.
Now here was Dylan Swift, a guy who supposedly talked to dead people, saying he had a collect call from the other side from the victim of the murder Monk was investigating.
If I brought Swift to him now, Monk would dedicate whatever time we weren’t spending on the hoicide investigation to exposing the celebrity medium as a fraud. In fact, Monk was ready to do it when we stumbled on the filming of Swift’s TV show the day before, an incident I hoped he was too drugged-up at the time to remember.
But that would change if Swift showed up claiming to speak for Helen Gruber. And I could kiss goodbye any hope of enjoying one moment of my vacation.
So I rationalized that part of my job as Adrian Monk’s assistant was to be his gatekeeper and keep people from wasting his time. If Swift actually had something useful to contribute, I would bring him to Monk right away. But if he didn’t, I’d spare Monk an unnecessary distraction and, in doing so, buy myself a little vacation time in paradise. No harm done.
I managed to convince myself I wasn’t being selfish at all. I was being extraordinarily considerate and helpful.
“Share them with me,” I said. “And I will pass them along to Mr. Monk.”
He stared at me for a long moment, trying to come to a decision. That was fine with me; it gave me a chance to enjoy some more of my Lava Flow. Finally he sighed and began speaking.
“She doesn’t know who killed her,” Swift said. “But she’s flooded my mind with images and sensations. The smell of lilac. The light, sweet taste of liliko’i pie. I see Captain Ahab hiding in the shadows. I sense love taking flight. I feel barbed wire against flesh. I see a glimpse of a lumberjack standing by a pine tree holding a
“You’re a skeptic.”
“I’m a realist,” I said. I was lying. I wanted more than anything to believe he was talking to Mitch, and I hated myself for that yearning. “What do you want from me, Mr. Swift?”
“Call me Dylan, please.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t want anything from you, Natalie.”
“So you do know who I am,” I said accusingly.
“I know you were with Adrian Monk, and I need to see him,” Swift said.
“Why?”
“To relay a message from the dead. Someone is desperate to communicate with him.”
“Anyone in particular?” I asked.
“Helen Gruber,” he said.
“That’s pretty specific, considering the spirits rarely introduce themselves to you.”
Swift smiled again, though there was nothing enigmatic about it this time. He was pleased.
“You’ve watched my show?”
“When I was stuck at home with the flu. I caught a few minutes here and there between my vomiting.”
I was trying to be cutting, to dispel some of that smug confidence of his, but he seemed unperturbed.
“I’ve never felt such a strong connection to a spirit before. My bungalow is a few doors down from hers,” Swift said. “It was as if her spirit contacted me on her way to the other side, moments after she was killed.”
“How do you know she was killed?”
“I felt it. It was sudden. It…” He struggled for the right words. “It didn’t come from inside, like a natural death. It came from behind. Someone came up behind her and struck her on the head; that’s what I’m sensing.”
He could have picked up most of the vague stuff he’d told me so far from the hotel staff or one of the police officers at the crime scene. It didn’t take a psychic to presume a murder has taken place when you saw a morgue wagon and police cars parked on the street.
“There are things she wants me to share with Monk,” Swift said.
He was putting me in an awkward predicament, forcing me to weigh my own selfish desires against my ethical duties as Monk’s assistant.
It was bad enough that Monk had found a murder to solve, but he was so desperate to avoid enjoying Hawaii that he was ready to launch an investigation into how his minibar was stocked.
Now here was Dylan Swift, a guy who supposedly talked to dead people, saying he had a collect call from the other side from the victim of the murder Monk was investigating.
If I brought Swift to him now, Monk would dedicate whatever time we weren’t spending on the hoicide investigation to exposing the celebrity medium as a fraud. In fact, Monk was ready to do it when we stumbled on the filming of Swift’s TV show the day before, an incident I hoped he was too drugged-up at the time to remember.
But that would change if Swift showed up claiming to speak for Helen Gruber. And I could kiss goodbye any hope of enjoying one moment of my vacation.
So I rationalized that part of my job as Adrian Monk’s assistant was to be his gatekeeper and keep people from wasting his time. If Swift actually had something useful to contribute, I would bring him to Monk right away. But if he didn’t, I’d spare Monk an unnecessary distraction and, in doing so, buy myself a little vacation time in paradise. No harm done.
I managed to convince myself I wasn’t being selfish at all. I was being extraordinarily considerate and helpful.
“Share them with me,” I said. “And I will pass them along to Mr. Monk.”
He stared at me for a long moment, trying to come to a decision. That was fine with me; it gave me a chance to enjoy some more of my Lava Flow. Finally he sighed and began speaking.
“She doesn’t know who killed her,” Swift said. “But she’s flooded my mind with images and sensations. The smell of lilac. The light, sweet taste of liliko’i pie. I see Captain Ahab hiding in the shadows. I sense love taking flight. I feel barbed wire against flesh. I see a glimpse of a lumberjack standing by a pine tree holding a
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