Mr. Monk is a Mess by Lee Goldberg Read Free Book Online Page A

to the door and, instead, walked slowly across the grass and up the steps of my front porch to appreciate my little piece of San Francisco real estate.
    I unlocked the door and turned on the lights as I stepped inside. My house didn’t smell musty and stale, as I was expecting it to. Instead, it smelled like pizza, which was odd, since I couldn’t remember having one before I left.
    Not only that, but there were two empty beer bottles on the coffee table.
    And I don’t drink beer.
    That left only one inescapable conclusion.
    Someone has been living in my house
.
    My first thought was that Julie had used my house to party while I was away and, since she didn’t have any warning that I was returning, hadn’t had a chance to clean up the evidence.
    I didn’t see her car out front, but just in case she and some boyfriend were in the house in the middle of something I didn’t want to walk in on, I announced my arrival.
    “Julie, I’m home.”
    I was standing there, waiting for a reply, or for some sound of movement, when I noticed something else unusual.
    All the family photos of me, Julie, and Mitch were gone from the walls and bookshelves.
    Why would Julie remove those?
    She wouldn’t.
    Something wasn’t right. I reached for the gun I didn’t have in the holster I wasn’t wearing. Since I had no weapon, I dropped my purse and grabbed an umbrella from the stand by the door. Hefting it like a batter waiting for a pitch, I moved slowly into the kitchen.
    The table was set for a breakfast for two. There was an assortment of cereal boxes and jams, two cups of coffee, a carton of milk, a mushy bowl of cut watermelon, and a plate of dry toast.
    Someone has been living in my house
.
    There was a pizza carton on the kitchen counter, four empty wine bottles in the recycle bin, and the dish rack was full of clean dishes.
    Someone has been eating my food.
    At least whoever it was had the courtesy to wash my dishes. So why did he leave the empty bottles in the living room and the untouched breakfast on the table?
    I left the kitchen and crept down the dark hall toward my bedroom, cursing the old floorboards for creaking under my feet. The bedroom door was ajar. I used my foot to slowly open the door.
    There was a pair of red-soled Christian Louboutin high-heeled shoes, a Chanel silk blouse, a short skirt, a lacy bra, and G-string panties.
    They certainly weren’t my clothes or my daughter’s. The shoes alone cost more than Julie’s tuition.
    The discarded clothing made a trail to the bed, where the sheets and comforter were a rumpled mess.
    Someone has been sleeping in my bed.
    As I stepped into the room, I heard water dripping behind me. I turned around and headed toward the half-open bathroom door down the hall, midway between my room and Julie’s old bedroom.
    But that’s when I picked up a metallic odor in the air that stopped me cold, my heart thumping hard and heavy in my chest.
    I recognized the smell.
    And, in a way I was thankful for it, because it gave me a warning and a moment to prepare for the horror I was going to see.
    It was the smell of blood.
    Gobs of it.
    I’d never been more afraid in my life.
    I held my breath, my heartbeat resonating through my whole rigid body, and with a shaking hand, I used the tip of the umbrella to ease open the bathroom door.
    The first thing I saw was the puddle of blood and water on the linoleum.
    And then I saw the pale female arm draped over the side of the tub, crimson water spilling over the edge, a bloody straight razor dangling from her hand.
    And then I saw the naked red-haired woman sitting in the tub, her head lolled back against the white tile wall and staring at me with wide, dead eyes, her throat slit open in an obscene smile.
    I took a sudden breath, as sharp and painful as a knife, and fell to my knees, my body racked by deep, gut-wrenching sobs.
    Of profound relief.
    There was a dead woman in my bathtub.
    And it wasn’t my daughter.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Mr. Monk Has