Mr. Monk Is Open for Business

Mr. Monk Is Open for Business

Mr. Monk Gets on Board

Mr. Monk Helps Himself

Mr. Monk Gets Even

Mr. Monk Is a Mess

Mr. Monk on Patrol

Mr. Monk on the Couch

Mr. Monk on the Road

Mr. Monk Is Cleaned Out

Mr. Monk in Trouble

Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

Mr. Monk Is Miserable

Mr. Monk Goes to Germany

Mr. Monk in Outer Space

Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants

Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu

Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii

Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © 2014
Monk
© Universal Network Television LLC. Licensed by NBCUniversal Television Consumer Products Group 2014.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATAL
OGING-IN-PUBLICATION
DATA:

Conrad, Hy.

Mr. Monk is open for business: a novel/by Hy Conrad; based on the USA Network television series created by Andy Breckman.

p. cm.

“An Obsidian mystery.”

ISBN 978-0-698-16242-6

1. Monk, Adrian (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Fiction. 3. Obsessive-compulsive disorder—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Breckman, Andy. II. Monk (Television program) III. Title.

PS3553.O5166M83 2014

813'.54—dc23 2014000866

PUBLISHER
’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Key West,
my end-of-the-road
paradise

AUTHOR’S NOTE
AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

One question a mystery writer always gets asked: Do you work from a detailed outline or just make it up as you go? The answer, of course, is yes.

This particular book began with a search through my old
Monk
files, looking for unused nuggets. A nugget, according to Andy Breckman, our beloved showrunner, is the central twist or cool idea around which you build a mystery. For
Monk
, we used to put them all on a corkboard and give them names. For instance, one we called Coat Check, in which a killer leaves something incriminating in his coat pocket, then loses the coat to a disorganized coat-check girl. By season three, we’d figured out how to use that one.

Anyway, in my old files, undisturbed for years, lay two of my favorites. I mashed them together—artistically—and made sure they could play well with the concept of Monk and Natalie’s opening a detective agency. At that point I had a beginning (the mystery setup) and an end (the big twist) all outlined. That was it.

As you might imagine, the first thirty pages are great fun to write and the last thirty pages are a dream. What comes in between is the maddening challenge—and the great
reward. Characters you thought would be one-paragraph sidebars become main players. Monk and Natalie find a way to make the story personal. Little red herrings become comedy gold. And, with luck, it all meshes into something you couldn’t have foreseen, even if you’d spent a month writing a detailed outline.

I’d like to thank a few people here. First, my literary agent, Allison Cohen. We were thrown together when I switched TV agents. But she’s proven to be an invaluable partner and a tireless supporter. Laura Fazio at Penguin is my new soul mate, even though we’ve never met. Lee Goldberg continues to be a generous booster of the
Monk
series. Finally I need to thank Andy Breckman, who called me up in 2002, said, “Hey, do you want a job?” and changed my life.

CHAPTER ONE

Mr. Monk and the Empty Office

“S
o, you’re not telling me anything about the murder?”

“I didn’t say there was a murder, Monk.”

“No murder?” Adrian Monk’s hands were poised in front of his face as he moved across the room from left to right, his head tipping slowly from side to side to catch all the angles. He let his hands fall. “Okay. What are we doing here?”

“I was hoping you could tell us.” Captain Stottlemeyer’s upper lip moved and his mustache twitched. That was his tell, an unconscious sign that he was enjoying himself. Monk must have caught it. Monk can catch every detail, dozens of them at once—it’s uncanny—except when he chooses not to. Then he can be as thick as a brick.

“I want you to have a clear mind,” added the captain.

We were in a storefront office in a tiny strip mall, about halfway between Monk’s Pine Street apartment and my bungalow in a neighborhood called Noe Valley. There were no signs on the front windows and next to nothing inside the building space to indicate its occupant. But that wouldn’t be a problem for Monk.

He threw the captain a sideways glance, then continued.
I’ve seen him do this hundreds of times. He walks into a room full of CSIs and cops and at least one corpse. Five minutes later, he has the whole thing figured out: victim, murderer, and motive. This time he had less to go on. There were no CSIs with little tidbits of information to throw his way, no corpse, and only one cop, his oldest and only male friend this side of New Jersey, Leland Stottlemeyer.

I actually knew more about this case than Monk did, but that wasn’t because I’m brilliant. I’m just Natalie Teeger, a San Francisco single mom who got talked into being Monk’s assistant, keeping him focused and functioning, and trying to keep half the people he meets from strangling him to death.

Being joined at the hip with one of the world’s top detectives must have rubbed off, because I am now Monk’s full partner in our own agency. Technically, I’m Monk’s boss, since I’m the one who studied and got my California PI license. I’m a decent investigator, but I know the business would be nothing without Monk. So does everyone else.

“This space has been recently rented.” Monk’s nose was just far enough away from the front window so that no germs could make the death-defying leap onto his skin. Germs are just one of his many phobias. I would say countless, except he actually does count them.

“There are traces of tape glue set at diagonals eighteen inches apart, twelve inches high, which is the standard size of a mass-produced For Rent sign. The wood flooring is new. But there’s a half inch of standard white tile in the corner, suggesting this was an inexpensive food establishment.” He pointed across the room. “The row of
two-hundred-and-twenty-volt outlets on that wall confirms my theory, as does the tiny shred of lettuce on the welcome mat, which has not been replaced. Or cleaned properly. This used to be a sandwich shop.”

“That’s all well and good,” said Stottlemeyer. “What about now?”

“I’m getting to that.” Monk walked over to a pair of identical desks.

I knew how his mind was working. At least I thought I did. The desks were equally spaced, with identical, ergonomically designed office chairs, everything brand-new and spotless. A pair of perfectly aligned picture hooks along one wall showed that someone was planning to mount something, probably artwork, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Another picture hook was behind one of the desks. I could tell from Monk’s body language that there were other things he was seeing that I wasn’t.

“This place was recently rented by a woman, about five foot five, according to the height of her chair. The other chair hasn’t been adjusted from its delivery height, so her partner hasn’t yet sat down. They are equal partners in this business. She’s working hard to establish this. You can tell from the symmetry and sameness of the furnishings. But the picture hook behind her desk is perfectly placed to show off a diploma, so I assume she’s the boss.”

“Anything you can tell us about the man?” Stottlemeyer asked, his mustache twitching. I would mention this to him at some point, but noticing the captain’s twitch can sometimes come in handy.

“The man,” Monk repeated. “Since he’s not been here, I
know very little—except that he’s over fifty, under six feet, and has a healthy obsession with neatness and order. You can see how the woman tried to arrange things symmetrically for his sake but didn’t succeed. In fact, she’s a slob.”

A slob? Well, that was a little insulting.

“They intend to run a service business.” He turned slowly in a circle and focused on a pair of chairs and a coffee table facing the two desks. “Not a travel agency, since there’s only a setup for one group of clients at a time. Not an insurance office. Not a tax preparer. Not a . . .”

“How about a detective agency?” I asked. I couldn’t resist.

“No, not a detective agency. This is the wrong neighborhood. And I’m familiar with the other licensed detectives in San Francisco. They all have offices already.”

“Maybe these detectives are new to town,” I suggested.

“No, if they were new, they wouldn’t have picked this location.”

“You mean a residential location halfway between your apartment and Natalie’s house?” Stottlemeyer finally allowed himself a full-blown smile. “Seems like the perfect location for a couple of detectives I know. What do you think?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do, Monk.”

“Ta-da!” I opened my arms wide in a symbolic air hug. Nearly all hugs with Monk are air hugs. “Surprise, Adrian!” It was almost a squeal. “This is it. Our new office. Monk and Teeger, Consulting Detectives. The sign goes up tomorrow. But I couldn’t resist trying to surprise you.”

“Congratulations,” said Stottlemeyer. “Now you’re a real business. No more people calling me when they want to find
you, or clients knocking their dirty fists on your door. Next thing you know, you’ll have a Web site.”

“I’ve been planning this for months,” I said. “When you and Luther were away last week, I knew it was the right time.”

“She was afraid if she told you in the normal way, you’d make a fuss,” said Stottlemeyer with a chuckle. “But it’s the right thing, buddy. Trust me.”

“Did we surprise you?”

In case you’re wondering if I’m somehow omitting Monk’s reaction to all of this, I’m not. He just stood in the middle of the office—our new office—like a statue.

“So, when did you know?” I asked. “When you said the woman was a slob, I figured you must have known by then.”

“Known what?” Monk finally mumbled. “I’m sorry. I was distracted by the pigeon in the parking space beside the captain’s front-left tire. It’s gone now.”

“This is our office,” I said again.

“We don’t have an office,” said Monk. “But the people here are somewhat similar, I’ll grant you. What a coincidence.”

“No, this is us.”

“No,” he said with a shake of the head. “The clues don’t add up. But I can see how you’d make that mistake.”

“How can it be a mistake, Adrian? I rented it.”

“Oh, Natalie, Natalie. You have so much to learn about the science of deduction.” Monk turned to the captain. His frown was thoughtful and puzzled. “It’s a tricky problem, Leland. I can see why you brought me in. I’ll mull over the evidence and get back to you.”

And with that he was scurrying out the door, leaving Stottlemeyer and me just staring at each other. “Denial?” I said.

“Big-time. I think he knew the second he walked in. But there’s a part of him that thinks if he doesn’t admit it, it won’t be true.”

Yes. I knew that part of Monk well. About two years ago, he had traveled alone from Summit, New Jersey, where we’d been working on a case, back home to San Francisco. I was still in Summit, and I remember that night getting a frantic call. Monk was in front of his apartment door on a phone borrowed from Mrs. Worth, his next-door neighbor. “Natalie, I looked all through my luggage. I can’t find my house keys.”

“Yes, Mr. Monk. I was waiting for your call.” I called him Mr. Monk in those days. “Your keys are here on my kitchen counter, right beside your set of backup keys. Not to worry. I’ll send them both to you by FedEx. Meanwhile, your landlord, Mr. Mugabi, has an extra set, right?”

“No, no,” he shouted. “I can’t call Mr. Mugabi. He doesn’t like me. Oh, wait a minute. I didn’t check the side pouch on my suitcase. Let me check.”

“The keys are not in your side pouch,” I insisted, raising my voice and pronouncing each word. “I’m looking right at them.”

“No, I think they’re in the side pouch. Just a minute.”

He kept me on the line for another hour, with Mrs. Worth patiently waiting to get her phone back, before he finally admitted that his keys might not be hiding in his luggage. That is the power of Adrian Monk’s denial.

“He’ll come around,” Stottlemeyer said, patting me on the shoulder. “I don’t know any other detective who doesn’t have an office.”

I let the captain try to reassure me some more. Then he said his good-byes and left. The next few minutes I spent unpacking a box of office supplies I’d been keeping in a closet. I took a satisfying minute to hang my PI license on the wall behind my desk, making sure it was nice and straight. “Damn right I’m the boss,” I said, but I know I didn’t sound convincing.

I had just locked the front door of Monk and Teeger and set the alarm when I noticed a black Lincoln sedan parked by the pawnshop at the far side of the strip mall. It was Luther Washington’s car, the pride of his small fleet of limousines. I could see Luther, large and lean, sitting behind the wheel.

As I approached, Luther rolled down the window. As usual, he was in a dark suit, although I noticed this one was rumpled, with a tear in the vest pocket. His driver’s cap was missing and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. I was afraid to ask. So I asked a simpler question. “Where’s Adrian?”

“I made him walk home. It’ll be good for him.”

“You mean for his health?”

“Yeah.” Luther looked steely-eyed and taut.

I had been expecting this moment. I was surprised it had taken so long. Luther is a big guy, an African-American with close-cropped hair, probably in his early thirties. He is smart, even-tempered, unfailingly polite, and hard to argue with. I knew it was only a matter of time. “How was your cross-country trip?”

“How do you think it was?”

There had been a point in my relationship with Monk, a
relationship previously defined by my being available every waking moment as his assistant and confidante and chauffeur, when I had stopped being so available. He had solved this problem by buying Luther’s car service company and using Luther as his backup chauffeur. Luther had never asked if I thought this was a good idea. It takes a certain personality to be at this man’s beck and call.

“I think we stopped at every car wash between here and New Jersey,” added Luther. “The same ones on the way back. Plus he made me drive ten miles below the speed limit, which is actually more dangerous. And that’s not even counting what happened during our few wonderful days in Summit.”

“Was there a murder?” I asked.

“Yes, there was a murder. How did you know?”

“It’s an easy bet. And how did Monk do with Ellen? Did he apologize and make up?”

That had been the whole reason for Monk’s making this coast-to-coast odyssey and dragging Luther along, to visit his ex-girlfriend, Ellen, and try to repair the damage.

“You’re going to need to buy me a drink to hear this story,” said Luther. “Several drinks.”