Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant Read Free Page A

the core of what looked like a red Gala. He didn’t like going into crime scenes—squeamish, I guess—which was fine with me. “Sorry about the prank,” he said, not looking at all sorry. “How did the hippies take it?”
    â€œThey were amazed and shocked and hurt,” I said. “But they’ll get over it.”
    â€œGood. Tell Mr. Monk the cars are all booked this evening and all day tomorrow, so I won’t be able to drive him.”
    â€œThat’s fine. You shouldn’t have to do it anyway. Just because he’s your boss . . .”
    â€œI don’t mind it in small doses. It’s kind of like a social experiment.” Luther handed me a brown paper bag filled with small, flawless apples, then got into his Town Car. “By the way . . .” He started rolling up the driver’s side window. “There are nine left.”
    â€œNine? What’s he going to do with nine apples?” Luther just smiled and pulled away, leaving me holding the bag.
    I was still standing there when Monk came storming out of the house, wearing blue booties and plastic gloves. “Natalie, Natalie, Natalie.” He was almost screaming.
    â€œIt wasn’t me,” I instantly tattled. “Luther ate one. I couldn’t stop him.”
    â€œWhat? Apples? Who cares about apples? Devlin’s gone. And that’s not the worst part.”
    â€œHow can she be gone?”
    By the time I got him somewhat coherent, Captain Stottlemeyer had come out to join us. He was also in booties and gloves and didn’t look pleased that his investigation had been interrupted. “What happened to Devlin?” I demanded.
    â€œShe took an administrative leave,” said the captain. “But between you, me, and the fence post, I think she’s quitting.”
    â€œAnd that’s not the worst part,” Monk repeated.
    I didn’t know which was more disturbing, the fact that Amy was thinking of quitting or the fact that she hadn’t told me. “Quitting? Why didn’t she tell me?” I said, covering both bases.
    â€œWait till you hear the worst part.”
    â€œAll right, Adrian. Tell me the worst part.”
    It was at precisely that moment that the worst part came out of the doorway, looking as smug as you can in plastic booties and gloves. “Are you girls coming inside or not?”
    His name was A.J. Thurman. Lieutenant Thurman. His father, Arnold Senior, had been a captain on the force—a well-respected, stand-up guy who’d retired just a few years back. No one knows how Arny Junior became a lieutenant. It certainly wasn’t due to his social skills. Monk and I had known A.J. for years. Even as a rookie, he’d been a rude loudmouth with no respect for anyone.
    â€œThe worst part is Lieutenant Thurman,” said Monk.
    â€œI realize that,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.
    â€œThen why did you ask?”
    A.J. shook his head. He has a look that just screams “cop”: intimidatingly large with a sandy crew cut and enough substance around his middle to let you know he means business. His laugh, right at the moment, was mean and condescending. “There’s no love lost on either side of this, Nattie girl. But since the captain is determined to waste taxpayer money on you . . . what do you say? Anyone up for fresh booties?”
    â€œLieutenant Thurman is my new partner,” said Stottlemeyer, lowering his voice to a growl. “And since we’re all professionals, I expect you to get along.”
    â€œYou replaced Amy with him?” I had to ask. “Him?”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant by getting along.”
    From then on we tried to keep it civilized. I deposited the bag of apples in my car. Then the captain joined us in donning new footgear and hand gear. Seconds later we were in a huge Arts and Crafts living room that looked like it hadn’t