Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop by Lee Goldberg Read Free Book Online

me,” I said.
    “Which one?” he said with a smile. “I lose track.”
    “When you said that you didn’t take Braddock’s questions personally,” I said. “He was out to get you. What happened between you two?”
    “We have a different approach to policing. I follow the law and he’ll do whatever he has to do to make a case, even if it means trampling over people’s rights. Or over the people themselves,” Stottlemeyer said. “I gave him a choice: He could quit the SFPD or I would go to Internal Affairs with what I knew about him and he could take his chances with them. So he left for a job in Banning. That was eight years ago.”
    “So this was his opportunity to finally get even with you,” I said.
    “Then he blew his shot. All he said was that Monk is a better detective than I am. That’s not exactly a revelation.”
    “But it must hurt anyway,” I said.
    “I’m proud of Monk’s success,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “Even if it overshadows your own?”
    “I’m the captain of the division, Natalie. It’s my job to bring out the best in the people who work for me and that includes Monk. I get the blame when they screw up and the chief gets the credit when they succeed. That’s the nature of the job. The important thing is that the bad guys are getting caught.”
    “You do bring out the best in Mr. Monk. It’s because of you that he’s able to solve crimes at all,” I said. “But I wonder if you really give yourself the credit you deserve.”
    “Sure I do,” Stottlemeyer said. “Every time Monk outsmarts some clever killer with an airtight alibi I congratulate myself for not listening to the bureaucrats and shrinks who wanted to write him off.”
    “Yeah, but I’ve seen your face when Mr. Monk solves a case on the spot,” I said. “I’ve also heard you beat yourself up for not seeing the clues yourself. You did it again yesterday over the Professor Cowan case.”
    “I wish I were as sharp-eyed as he is. I’m not. So I’m glad Monk is there to catch the crooks who might’ve walked because I’m not the detective that he is,” Stottlemeyer said. “But the truth is, I wouldn’t want to be. The price is too high.”
    “You mean his obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
    “I mean all the things that Monk is missing out on,” Stottlemeyer said. “Simple pleasures like licking an ice-cream cone, swimming in a lake, going to a ball game, laughing at a good joke, petting a dog, smoking a cigar, playing with your kids, camping in the woods, driving a car, or having coffee with a friend. I have a life. What does Monk have?”
    “You and me and his brother, Ambrose,” I said.
    “It’s sad,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “But his inability to enjoy the things you mentioned, and to establish relationships, that’s all a symptom of his disorder.”
    “And it’s the disorder that makes him a great detective,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s all he’s got in his life besides his constant cleaning and organizing. I have a family. I know I am good at what I do but my self-esteem isn’t wrapped up in how many cases I solve. I measure myself by the kind of men my sons are growing up to be, by the strength of my friendships, and by the respect of my peers.”
    “They weren’t showing you much respect today,” I said.
    Stottlemeyer shrugged. “They may have been onto something. Maybe I’ve become overdependent on Monk. Maybe I’ve gotten lazy knowing he’s there to back me if I screw up. Maybe so have my men. I don’t know.”
    We sipped our coffees for a moment in silence. Stottlemeyer regarded me with a curious look on his face. I met his gaze.
    “What?” I asked.
    “Is everything okay with you?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “Because of this sudden concern over whether my self-esteem is taking a beating.”
    “I only asked because of the grilling you took today,” I said.
    “We’ve known each other a long time, Natalie. I didn’t tell you anything about myself tonight that you didn’t