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

already know. So I’ve got to wonder if this has less to do with me and more to do with something you’re trying to work out about yourself.”
    “Are you a detective or a shrink?”
    “In my job, you have to be a little bit of both,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I spent a lot of time in marriage counseling.”
    I set down my coffee cup and looked him in the eye.
    “Who am I, Captain?”
    “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
    “When you look at me, who do you see?”
    “A confident, independent woman who knows how to take care of herself and others.”
    “Gee, if I could sing, I’d be Mary Poppins.”
    “So who do you want to be?” he asked.
    I sighed, suddenly feeling very tired, despite the high-priced caffeine surging through my veins. “Someone who knows the answer to that question.”
    Stottlemeyer nodded.
    “I’ve got an old friend I haven’t seen in a while. His name is Bill Peschel. I’m going to visit him tomorrow,” he said. “If you really want to help me out, you’ll come along.”
    I couldn’t see what visiting his friend had to do with my concern over how Stottlemeyer felt about being negatively compared to Monk in front of his peers. But I couldn’t turn him down.
    “I’d have to bring Mr. Monk,” I said.
    “The more the merrier,” he said.

    When I got home, Julie was sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table, going over a social sciences textbook with a yellow highlighter and eating Wheat Thins out of the box.
    I bought the Wheat Thins for Monk so he’d have something to nosh on when he visited. He likes them because the crackers are perfectly square.
    “Those are for Mr. Monk,” I said. “And he’ll never eat them if he knows your hand was inside the box.”
    “Don’t tell him,” she said.
    “He’ll know,” I said.
    “How?”
    “He’s a brilliant detective. And he’s probably counted the crackers that were left in the box. And he’s probably measured the opening he cut into the bag. And he can probably correlate that opening with the width of your hand and deduce that you were the one who breached it.”
    “He’s a nut job,” Julie said.
    “I thought you liked Mr. Monk and admired his abilities,” I said, and reached into the box for a few crackers. The damage was already done.
    “I do,” she said. “But c’mon, Mom, he’s seriously messed up.”
    “Aren’t we all,” I said.
    “I’m not,” she said.
    “Give it time,” I said.
    “Gee, thanks.”
    “Face it, honey, no one gets out of childhood unscathed, though you have a better shot than most, since you are being raised by the most loving, understanding, and, dare I say it, coolest mother on earth.”
    “If that were true, you’d let me get a tattoo.”
    “There is no artist good enough to use you as his canvas.” I didn’t want her walking around with a tramp stamp on her lower back.
    “You have a tattoo,” she said.
    “And I regret it,” I said. “I’m just glad it’s where no one can see it.”
    “Not lately,” Julie said. “Speaking of which, how was your date with Stottlemeyer?”
    I couldn’t believe how sassy and presumptuous Julie was getting with me. Then again, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a woman. And she wasn’t stupid, either. Julie knew I wasn’t celibate.
    Refusing to let her get a tattoo was my last, desperate stand for parental control. In a few months, she’d be an adult as far as the State of California was concerned and wouldn’t need my permission for anything. She could tattoo her entire body, color her hair purple, drop out of school, join the French Foreign Legion, or run off and marry a guy she’d known for only an hour.
    Her imminent freedom to make all kinds of mistakes was something I tried not to think about or I might start hyperventilating. It was better to concentrate on the subject at hand, which was my completely innocent and chaste encounter with Captain Stottlemeyer.
    “It wasn’t a date,” I said. “It was two