Mr. Monk on the Couch Read Free Page B

first time I’ve met him,” she said, glancing at the corpse.
    “So what makes you think he was a smug bastard?”
    “He’s a man and he’s a lawyer,” she said. “Which is enough on its own, but throw in a European car and Ralph Lauren jammies, and what more do you need to know?”
    She made a convincing argument, not that I’m big on generalities and stereotypes.
    “Who found the body?” Monk asked.
    “A woman on her morning jog,” Stottlemeyer said.
    Monk leaned from side to side and began to walk slowly around the car, looking at it from various angles.
    “Maybe she did it,” I said. “Maybe she’s a crazed ex-lover or the relative of someone he put away.”
    “Why do you say that?” Stottlemeyer asked.
    “It just seems to me that pretending to discover the body would be a good way to throw off suspicion and hide in plain sight. Who would ever suspect the jogger?”
    “Good point,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll look into it.”
    But I saw the quick look that passed between Stottlemeyer and Devlin and felt my face flush with embarrassment.
    “You already were,” I said. “Weren’t you?”
    “It’s routine,” Devlin said. “We always check out the person who discovered the body and corroborate their story.”
    “So why didn’t you say that?” I said to Stottlemeyer.
    “I wanted to hear your reasoning,” he said. “I wanted to see if you came up with the idea because of something you saw that we missed.”
    “But you didn’t,” Devlin said.
    “That’s right,” I said. “I didn’t.”
    I was more aware than either of them that my theory was nothing more than a desperate guess. In my eagerness to prove my chops as a detective, all I’d done was underscore that, despite all of my time on crime scenes, I was still an amateur.
    “It’s okay, Natalie,” Stottlemeyer said. “I welcome your perspective.”
    “Don’t we all,” Devlin said.
    I knew she resented two civilians intruding on her investigation, but I thought Monk had proven himself to her the last time that we’d met and that she and I had even bonded a bit. Apparently, I was wrong.
    Monk joined us again, rolled his shoulders, and looked past us to the house.
    “Was the front door open when the officers got here?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Devlin replied. “But Dach lived alone and there’s no sign that anything inside was disturbed.”
    Monk headed for the house.
    “The crime scene is out here,” Devlin said, calling after him.
    “He knows that,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “So what’s he expect to find in the house?”
    “I have no idea,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I am eager to find out.”
    We followed Monk into the house. We stepped into a short entry hall with a living room to our right, the kitchen to our left, and a family room and a steep staircase in front of us.
    The ceilings were low, the doorways were arched, the fireplace was white brick, and the floors were hardwood. The furniture was contemporary and practical, not the least bit comfy-looking or inviting. The house had all the personality and warmth of the waiting room of an accountant’s office.
    Monk cocked his head from side to side, held his hands up in front of him, and moved slowly and deliberately into the kitchen, weaving and dipping and swaying with almost balletic grace.
    Devlin watched him, frowning with disapproval. “What is he doing?”
    “Monk tai chi,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “He’s trying to spot anything that’s uneven, odd, or out of balance,” I said.
    “That’s what we think,” Stottlemeyer said. “But we aren’t entirely sure.”
    The kitchen was small and neat, with linoleum floors, a cottage-style table, and white tiled countertops with a floral tile backsplash. The coffeemaker, toaster, and other countertop appliances were metallic and sleek and were all the same brand. There was a row of spice jars on the counter near the gas stove, but they were just for show. I deduced that because the labels were yellowed and the