Mr. Monk in Trouble by Lee Goldberg Read Free Book Online Page A

broke apart, killing the horse.”
    “It sounds like there’s a story for everything in Trouble,” I said.
    “I’d like to know the one behind Manny’s murder so I could get the hell out of here,” Monk said.
    “Fair enough.” Kelton rose from behind his desk. “Let me take you over to the museum so you can see the crime scene for yourself.”
    He led us to the door, held it open, and ushered us outside onto the wood-planked sidewalk.
    “Is there a scrapyard around here?” Monk asked.
    “No,” Kelton said. “Why do you ask?”
    “For Natalie’s car,” Monk said, motioning to my dirt-and-insect-caked Buick Lucerne.
    “All it needs is a wash,” I said.
    “Give me your car keys,” Kelton said. I did. He stepped back into the station and tossed my keys to one of the deputies. “Billy, if you’re not too busy, would you mind washing the patrol cars and the Buick parked out front?”
    He stepped out again before he got an answer.
    “That’s very nice of you,” I said, “but I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my account.”
    “I’m not,” Kelton said. “Officer Crider is.”
    The chief led us to the left, placing a guiding hand gently on my lower back. It felt warm and strong. His hand was only there for a polite moment, but I felt myself wishing it had lingered.
    I walked beside him and Monk lagged behind us, carefully stepping from one board to the next.
    “What’s he doing?” Kelton whispered to me.
    “My guess is that he’s making sure he steps on one board at a time and that each one is level and straight.”
    We passed a saloon, an ice cream parlor, a pharmacy, and small, unassuming stores selling clothes, hardware, groceries, animal feed, books, and assorted knickknacks. Not a single one of the businesses I saw was part of a chain.
    “He’s an odd one,” Kelton said.
    “He’s an even one,” I said. “He hates anything that’s odd.”
    “Ah, so that’s why his pants have eight belt loops instead of the usual seven,” Kelton said.
    “You’re observant,” I said. “I’m impressed.”
    “Like I said, I was a detective once.” When he smiled at me his eyes sparkled and I tried not to blush.
    “How do you like Trouble?”
    “It’s slow,” he said. “Being a peace officer here really is about keeping the peace. There’s not much crime to speak of, mostly minor offenses, some drunk-and-disorderly conduct, a few domestic disputes. Whole weeks go by without us having to make an arrest.”
    “You don’t get bored?”
    “It’s nothing like the excitement I had in Boston,” he said. “That’s probably why I’m not drinking anymore.”
    “Run for your lives,” Monk yelled, giving me a hard shove and hurrying past me. My hero.
    I turned around and saw a burro trailing slowly behind us.
    Monk motioned to Kelton. “Shoot it!”
    “I don’t have my gun,” Kelton said.
    “Where is it?”
    “I keep it in my desk drawer,” he said.
    “What good does it do you there?”
    “I only carry a weapon when I think I might have to use it,” Kelton said. “Besides, I can’t shoot the animal. It’s illegal in Trouble to harass or harm a burro.”
    “But it’s okay for them to stampede over people?” Monk said. “Has everyone here lost their minds?”
    “Don’t worry,” Kelton said. “I’ve got things under control.”
    “If that were true, there wouldn’t be wild animals running rampant in the streets,” Monk said. “You won’t see that in San Francisco or Boston.”
    “I’ll take a few burros over scores of homeless people, prostitutes, gang members, and drug dealers.” Kelton stopped at the corner, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a doggie treat, which he held out in the palm of his hand.
    The burro came up to him, took the treat from his hand, and gobbled it up. Kelton stroked the burro’s head.
    “We’re making a left here,” Kelton said to us.
    We went down Second Street and the burro continued on along Main Street.
    “Wipe,” Monk