Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants (32 page)

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Authors: Lee Goldberg

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“What alligator attack?” Sharona said.
 
 
“It’s a long story,” I said.
 
 
“Okay, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, turning back, “how was it done?”
 
 
“Ludlow glued an alligator’s jaws to a hydraulic cutter and used the rescue tool to replicate the thousands of pounds of force in the creature’s grip,” Monk said. “There was no way Webster could free himself, no matter how much he struggled, which is what caused the streaks on the bathroom floor.”
 
 
“Webster was killed by somebody using the Jaws of Life,” Stottlemeyer said, mulling it over for a moment. “That explains all of it except why he was killed and who did it.”
 
 
“Ludlow did it,” Monk said.
 
 
“Your jealousy and insecurity are pathological but at least you figured out the alligator thing. I’ve got to hand that to you,” Stottlemeyer said. “So here’s the deal. I’m just going to forget all the Ludlow stuff. You get yourself some help from Dr. Kroger and we’ll pretend like the rest never happened.”
 
 
“It was Ludlow,” Monk said.
 
 
“Because Webster sells shoes and had a pizza in the same city where we
all
live?” Stottlemeyer fumed.
 
 
“Because on Wednesday night someone stole the Jaws of Life from the same firehouse where Natalie’s lover works,” Monk said.
 
 
I felt my face flush with embarrassment. I don’t know why. I was an adult. I was allowed to have sex.
 
 
“He’s not my lover. We aren’t involved,” I said. “Much.”
 
 
“Much?” Sharona said.
 
 
“We’re revolved,” I said.
 
 
“Revolved?”
Sharona said.
 
 
“You know,” I said, “the typical involved-then-not-involved-then-involved-and-not-involved-again thing. Revolved.”
 
 
It was just getting worse. Luckily, Stottlemeyer saved me.
 
 
“It’s a weird coincidence. I’ll grant you that, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, kindly ignoring my love life. “But there’s a reason why somebody created a word for coincidences.
Because they happen
. You have nothing that actually links Ian Ludlow to any of this.”
 
 
“Or to Ellen Cole’s murder,” Sharona said, “which is all I really care about.”
 
 
“There’s more,” Monk said. “Show them, Sharona.”
 
 
“Show them what?” she said.
 
 
“The picture I asked you to take last night in Ellen Cole’s house,” Monk said.
 
 
Sharona took out her cell phone, which had a camera feature on it, and pulled up a close-up image of a row of books. She showed it to us. We looked over her shoulder. I recognized the titles on the spines of the books. They were Ian Ludlow mysteries.
 
 
“Ellen Cole owned almost all of Ian Ludlow’s books,” Monk said. “So did Ronald Webster.”
 
 
“I do, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “So do millions of other people.”
 
 
“
That’s
your link between the two murders?” Sharona said angrily. “That’s nothing, Adrian!”
 
 
“You aren’t much of a detective. You said so yourself and I must agree,” Monk said. “You’re obviously missing the intricate ways these clues fit together.”
 
 
“
I’m
a detective,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I think she’s right. Worse, I think you’re having some kind of mental meltdown.”
 
 
I was inclined to agree.
 
 
“There’s more,” Monk said.
 
 
“You keep saying that,” Stottlemeyer said. “And there really isn’t.”
 
 
“Ludlow confessed to us,” Monk said. “Three times.”
 
 
“I don’t remember that,” I said.
 
 
“Neither do I,” Sharona said.
 
 
“He only confessed to you once,” Monk said to her.
 
 
“If he confessed to killing Ellen Cole,” Sharona said, “I would remember it.”
 
 
“Ludlow writes four books a year,” Monk said. “When we were at his book signing in Los Angeles, a fan asked him if he was ever afraid of running out of ideas. Ludlow said no, saying he gets his stories from real people.”
 
 
“I don’t see what that has to do with Ellen Cole,” Sharona said.
 
 
“When he finishes a book, he does book signings, then hangs out with Lieutenant Dozier, waiting until a murder comes along that interests him. But I don’t think he waits.”
 
 
“You believe he killed Ellen Cole for a book?” Sharona said.
 
 
“He picked her at random, maybe from a crowd at one of his book signings, followed her for a time, then killed her,” Monk said. “He hung around with the police, watched how the case developed and who the people were in her life, then created his own ending by framing Trevor, the least likely suspect, for the crime.”
 
 
“You came up with all of this just from Ludlow saying he was inspired by real cases?” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“There’s more,” Monk said.
 
 
“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“That’s how he gets his stories. He said he couldn’t make up anything as good as the real conflicts in Cole’s life. And then yesterday, at the morgue, Ludlow said virtually the same thing again,” Monk said. “Later, at Webster’s house, he said he’s always amazed at what he finds when he scratches the surface of an ordinary person’s life. He had no idea that an ordinary shoe salesman’s life could be so complicated.”
 
 
“Not as complicated as the way he was killed,” I said.
 
 
“Exactly,” Monk said, turning to Stottlemeyer. “You said Ronald Webster’s murder was a case that cried out for me. You were right. That was the whole point.”
 
 
“You were the point,” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“Ludlow murdered Webster in this outrageous way for two reasons,” Monk said. “To make sure you’d bring me in to investigate and so Disher would see the similarity to Ludlow’s book and call the author in to help.”
 
 
“So this is all about you,” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“Yes, yes, now you’re getting it,” Monk said. “When I showed up to investigate Ellen’s murder, Ludlow saw a way to add a twist to his story. So he came up here and murdered Ronald Webster, another one of his fans.”
 
 
“All so you could be the star of his new book,” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“Not necessarily the star,” Monk said, “but certainly a major character.”
 
 
“Certainly,” Stottlemeyer said. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He sighed wearily and headed for the door.
 
 
“Are you leaving to arrest Ludlow?” Monk said.
 
 
“Nope,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m just leaving.”
 
 
And that was that. The captain walked out.
 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
 
 
Mr. Monk and the Big Arrest
 
 
Monk stared at the door for a long moment after Stottlemeyer left, then turned to the two of us.
 
 
“What is his problem?” he said.
 
 
“You, Adrian,” Sharona said.
 
 
“I just solved two murders,” Monk said. “He should be thanking me and arresting that phony.”
 
 
“You’re selfish, self-centered, and completely self-involved, ” Sharona said. “The whole world has to revolve around you, and when it doesn’t, you freak out.”
 
 
He looked at me. “What’s her problem?”
 
 
“Mr. Monk, you know that I have enormous faith in your abilities as a detective,” I said.
 
 
“As you should,” Monk said. “I’m always right.”
 
 
Sharona groaned. I tried not to do the same myself.
 
 
“But it looks to me like your thinking on this case is heavily influenced by your animosity toward Ian Ludlow,” I said. “Listening to you today, it seems that you’re determined to put yourself front and center, even if it means twisting things to make Ludlow the villain.”
 
 
“Do you really think that about me?”
 
 
I double-checked with myself. Monk was never wrong about murder, but there was always a first time, and this seemed like it could be it. His conclusions required a bigger jump than any conclusions he’d ever jumped to before.
 
 
“Yes, Mr. Monk, I do,” I said. “I don’t think you’re doing it intentionally. It’s just how you’re choosing to interpret the facts.”
 
 
“The facts are what they are,” Monk said. “There is only one way to interpret them.”
 
 
“That’s your problem, Adrian. It’s always got to be your way,” Sharona said. “Everybody has to see things the way you do, arrange things the way you do, act the way you do, or they’re committing a crime against nature. God forbid that
you
should ever change for anyone.”
 
 
“Ian Ludlow is a fraud. Can’t you see that? A know-nothing blowhard,” Monk said. “He’s the murderer who framed your husband.”
 
 
“What hurts the most isn’t that you’re wrong and that the real murderer is still out there. It’s that you can’t see past your own selfishness to help me,” Sharona said. “I needed you, Adrian, more than I’ve ever needed anyone. You let me down.” She walked out, slamming the door behind her, and leaving me alone with Monk.
 
 
“I’m right,” Monk said. “You know that I am. In your heart of hearts, you know.”
 
 
“If you’re right, Mr. Monk, why does Ludlow care so much about you?”
 
 
“Because I’m brilliant,” Monk said. “And he’s not.”
 
 
I was glad that Sharona wasn’t there to hear him say that. “I rest my case,” I said.
 
 
“You haven’t made a case to rest,” Monk said.
 
 
“You’re letting your ego and insecurity blind you to other possible explanations.”
 
 
“I don’t think so,” Monk said.
 
 
“Of course you don’t,” I said.
 
 
Arguing with him was pointless. Sharona was right. He would never change. I turned to leave.
 
 
“You can’t go,” Monk said.
 
 
“It’s my day off,” I said.
 
 
“But I need you,” he said quietly.
 
 
“Now you know how Sharona feels,” I said. I was almost at the door when Captain Stottlemeyer walked in, a grim look on his face.
 
 
Monk burst into a big smile. “I knew you’d see reason. You’ve come to get me for the big arrest.”
 
 
“I’m afraid not, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Natalie, you need to come with me.”
 
 
I felt a pang of terror. “Is Julie okay? Has something happened to Julie?”
 
 
“No, she’s fine,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’d better come, too, Monk.”
 
 
“What’s going on, Captain?” I asked as we followed him outside. “Where are we going?”

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