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

a Dream
    I got a grip on myself, stood up, and backed out of the room. I retraced my steps through the house, dropped the umbrella back in the stand, and grabbed my purse on my way out the front door.
    I sat down on the porch, took in a few deep breaths, then got some tissues out of my purse, wiped my eyes and blew my nose.
    An attractive young couple walked by, pushing a stroller. They smiled and waved and I smiled and waved back at them as if I were one of those nice neighbors who didn’t have a dead naked woman in my bathtub. It made me wonder what might be hidden behind the smiles and draped windows of my neighbors.
    I reached into my purse, took out my cell phone, and called Captain Stottlemeyer. He answered on the first ring.
    “Hey, Captain, it’s Natalie.”
    “How are things in Summit?”
    “I’m here in San Francisco,” I said.
    “It’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you and Monk were ever coming home,” he said. “When did you get back?”
    “I just walked in the door,” I said.
    “And Monk insisted that you alert me right away that he’s ready and available for work,” Stottlemeyer said. “Consider me alerted. Now get some rest. I’ll be sure to light up the bat signal as soon as there’s a tricky murder I need his help with.”
    “Actually, Mr. Monk didn’t ask me to call. He’s at home in bed. He took a sleeping pill before we got on the plane and probably doesn’t even realize that he’s in San Francisco yet. So he’s going to be a bit disoriented once you manage to wake him up.”
    “Why would I want to do that?”
    “Because you’ll want to stop by and get him tonight on your way over to my house.”
    “As eager as I am to hear all about your trip,” he said, “I think I can wait a few days until you get settled in.”
    “Yeah, but by then the corpse in my bathtub will have decomposed so much, the neighbors will be complaining about the smell.”
    There was a long moment of silence. “There’s a dead body in your bathtub?”
    “There is,” I said.
    “Who is it?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I came home from the airport and there she was, naked with her throat slit, sitting in a tub full of water. From what I can tell, she’s been there since this morning.”
    “Did you touch anything?”
    “Just the front door and an umbrella,” I said. “As soon as I saw the body, I retraced my steps and went back outside. But it’s my house, so my fingerprints are going to be everywhere anyway. I am now out front, securing the crime scene.”
    “Okay, sit tight. Someone will be there within five minutes. I’ll be there shortly with Monk. Are you going to be okay until then?”
    “It’s not the first time I’ve seen a murder victim. It’s not even the first time I’ve seen one in my house.”
    “That may be the most depressing thing I’ve heard all day,” he said.
    “The day isn’t over yet,” I said.
    * * *
    Two squad cars showed up a few minutes after my call and four officers got out. I identified myself and remained on the porch with one of the officers while the others got to work. One went into the backyard to secure the back door of the house, another established a perimeter with crime scene tape, and the last posted himself on the street to keep the curious neighbors away.
    The medical examiner, the forensics team, and Lieutenant Amy Devlin arrived at about the same time, nearly causing a pileup. But Devlin won out, cutting off the other vehicles and skidding to a stop at the curb in her 1990 Firebird.
    She slammed her door and marched up the front walk toward me.
    “Welcome home,” Devlin said. “Do you really have a stiff in your bathroom?”
    “I’m afraid so,” I said.
    Devlin wore her standard uniform—blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket that looked like it had been salvaged from a fire and attacked with the same weed whacker she used to style her hair. Her badge was clipped to her belt right beside her gun, which I bet she