Lee Goldberg - Monk 13 - Mr. Monk on Patrol by Lee Goldberg

Author:Lee Goldberg [Goldberg, Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Mystery & Detective, Fiction
ISBN: 9781101565858
Google: HRxqG75Ot4EC
Amazon: B005OH8S58
Publisher: NAL
Published: 2012-05-01T19:42:08+00:00

16

Mr. Monk Takes a Nap

“You can’t get hantavirus from duct tape,” the irritated paramedic said, closing his medical bag. It was the same guy who’d come to our hotel the previous morning.

“You can’t know that until you’ve had the duct tape tested,” Monk said. Before the paramedics arrived, he’d washed his mouth out with Scope and brushed his teeth two dozen times (luckily I had Scope and a Gertler 4000, his favorite toothbrush, in a sealed package in my purse for emergencies). Now he sat on the edge of the couch. I sat beside him while the paramedic crouched in front of him.

“I’m a paramedic, not Dr. House,” the paramedic said, rising to his feet in front of Monk.

“This is how the Black Death got started,” Monk said, sitting up.

“They didn’t have duct tape in the Middle Ages,” the paramedic said.

“But they had rats, ignorance of proper hygiene, and careless physicians,” Monk said.

“Next time you call, you’d better really be sick or injured.” The paramedic headed for the door, his partner in tow. “Or we’ll file charges against you for fraudulent calls.”

“So I shouldn’t call you until I’m in my death throes,” Monk said, “the Grim Reaper standing over me with his scythe dripping with my fresh blood.”

“Now you’re getting the point,” the paramedic said and walked out.

Monk shook his head. “They are as corrupt as Lindero and Woodlake.”

“Not quite,” I said. “They haven’t killed anyone.”

“They have by their inaction and laziness,” Monk said. “When I drop dead in six months, foaming at the mouth with the plague, I want those two prosecuted as accessories to murder after the fact. Make a note of that.”

“Will do,” I said.

“You aren’t making a note,” he said.

“My notebook is sopping wet, so I’ve made a mental note instead.”

“You’ll forget,” he said.

“I’ll remember,” I said.

“I’ll haunt you if you don’t.”

“It’s an empty threat,” I said. “You’re going to haunt me anyway.”

Monk nodded. “True.”

Disher was busy interrogating Lindero and Woodlake and preparing for the scandal that would erupt once the media learned about what had happened. So Sharona came to take us back to their house before the reporters showed up. With the hotel shut down, there was nowhere else for us to stay except with Randy and Sharona.

Their place was a very cozy two-story Craftsman with lots of stone and exposed wood beams. The interior décor was eclectic, but not by design. It was a mishmash of Disher’s bachelor pad furnishings and Sharona’s single-mom furniture and, as a result, was very much a picture of their pasts and their new beginning. For me, it made the house a home. I found it charming and welcoming.

Monk hated it because nothing matched. He liked symmetry, consistency, and uniformity, none of which was present in the intermingling of Sharona’s and Disher’s lives and possessions. Life wasn’t neat.

That was a reality Monk could not, and would not, accept. But at least he was polite about it.

“You live like animals,” he said.

“We love like animals, too,” Sharona said with a mischievous grin, “so I hope you’re a sound sleeper.

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