Mr. Monk Is Open for Business by Hy Conrad Read Free Book Online

Monk asked, forgetting for a moment the smudged mirror. He raised his eyes over the hood and found Lieutenant Devlin, the only woman I know who looks even better in a Kevlar vest, not that there are many women wearing them. She was at the building’s main entrance, sharing a few words with a team member on the door. Then she made her way around to the alley to check another access point.
    “Devlin’s a pro,” said Stottlemeyer. “But yeah. Anything off protocol is a worry. That’s why I need your eyes, Monk. She’s family.”
    Lieutenant Amy Devlin is the captain’s number two, having replaced Randy Disher after he’d gone off to run the show in Summit. She is tall and muscularly thin, which I found a bit intimidating at first. Her hair is the kind of shiny, spiky mess that always looked different and probably took more time to arrange in the morning than my dirty-blond locks. Devlin had taken some getting used to, just the way Monk had taken some getting used to for her. But Captain Stottlemeyer was right. She was family.
    The transceiver on the shoulder of Stottlemeyer’s tactical vest started to squawk. “Movement, movement,” came a male voice. “Second floor, northeast corner. Shooters, wait for confirmation.” It sounded like the SWAT team commander.
    The captain lunged for his binoculars and trained them on the corner window. I could see it, too: a medium-sized figure with a bald or shaved head, apparently male, in a dark sweatshirt, flitting back and forth across the window. In his right hand, hanging by his side was what looked like a shotgun. In a second, Stottlemeyer was comparing him to an image on his smartphone. “Looks like our guy,” he said, pushing a button and leaning into his transceiver. He handed the binoculars off to Monk. “Here.”
    “Thanks, Captain.”
    Stottlemeyer heaved a sigh. “Don’t clean them. Use them.”
    “Oh, okay.” Monk put away his wipes and gingerly lifted the lenses within an inch of his eyes. That’s as close as they would get.
    “Take your shot,” crackled a voice.
    We all waited, eyes focused on the window, ears tuned for the sound of gunfire. But the figure in the window stepped back into the shadows and within half a second the shot was lost. Curses sputtered over the transceiver from at least three sources.
    Stottlemeyer’s phone pinged. “Sarabeth, good for you,” he muttered. But his face fell as he read the text message.
Shot bad hiding help.
    The captain relayed the information and somewhere on the other end a decision was made. Four or five SWAT team members scrambled around the edges of the building. And out of the half dozen voices crackling over the transceiver, Devlin’s was the only female, as gruff and decisive as the others, guiding the officers to the entry points and barking out last-second information.
    A lot of things were said and done over the next few minutes. Honestly, I have no idea how these people do it. I felt so helpless, hunched behind the police cruiser, staring at the captain’s transceiver. Helpless, but a little grateful that I didn’t have to be a part of it.
    The first floor, consisting of the loading dock and lower warehouse, was soon cleared. One body, no shooter. The teams positioned themselves at the two opposite stairwells and started the second-floor assault at the same moment. Outside, officers were in place at every possible exit and sniper rifles had their scopes trained on the roof.
    “We got her,” a voice shouted. “She’s alive.” All of us couldn’t help giving a little cheer. Even Monk clapped his hands and grunted in approval.
    Someone shouted back. “Stay put until clear. He’s still in there.”
    “Second floor clear,” came another voice. And then the teams repeated the process for the third-floor assault.
    “Be careful,” I said into the transceiver. I felt instantly foolish but I really couldn’t help myself. Whatever danger remained had to be on the top floor. Not to mention the