Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu Read Online Free PDF Page A

backup on his radio. I got to my feet.
    “Nice tackle,” Monk said.
    “How did you know she wasn’t pregnant?” I asked.
    “She walked straight and didn’t waddle. And when she dropped her purse, she bent at the waist to pick it up.”
    I didn’t notice that, and I was standing right behind her at the time. I guess I was blinded by righteous shopper indignation.
    Wilton looked back at Monk. “Anybody else we should know about?”
    “The nun in the café,” Monk said.
    She was still sitting at the table, pretending not to notice us, toying with her cross.
    “She’s wearing a habit from the order of Saint Martha of Bethany, but she’s got a crucifix around her neck with a figure of Jesus on it,” Monk said. “The nuns of that order wear a simple gold cross. She’s the ringleader and the lookout.”
    A half dozen other security personnel showed up, and Wilton sent two of them into the café to apprehend the non-nun.
    “This was fun,” Monk said. “We should go shopping more often.”
    I folded the blouse and headed toward the nearest cashier. I didn’t want to get arrested for shoplifting. “You’re very observant, Mr. Monk.”
    “No,” Monk said with a satisfied smile. “I stare.”

3
    Mr. Monk and the Straight Answer
    I hid my purchases for Julie in my room. She had a report card coming up in a few days, and I decided to save the new clothes and shoes as a reward for the good grades I knew she was going to get.
    Saturday morning, the mother of one of Julie’s friends called and offered to take the kids to the movies, one of those Lindsay Lohan sequels to a Disney remake. She invited me to come along too, but I bowed out. I was looking forward to a few hours of peace. Plus, I was going to owe that mother a Saturday off. That was how it worked and, believe me, the moms kept track.
    No sooner was Julie out the door than Stottlemeyer called. I figured he was looking for Monk, and that it meant there was another murder to investigate. So much for my free day.
    “Monk isn’t here,” I said. “It’s Saturday, so he’s probably outside scrubbing his sidewalk.”
    “I’m not looking for Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “I was thinking you might be free for a coffee or something.” Before I could reply, he quickly added, “I’m not asking you out.”
    “Of course not,” I said. Then I cringed, thinking of all the different, hurtful ways he could take that. His wife had just left him, so his self-confidence must have been in the toilet as it was. The last thing he needed was me making him feel like the least desirable man on earth. “I mean, not that you aren’t datable. You’ve very datable. What I meant was that I knew you didn’t mean it the way it could have been meant, know what I mean?”
    “Yeah,” he said. “This was a bad idea. Forget I called. This never happened.”
    When Karen walked out on Stottlemeyer, I told him to call me if he needed anything. It was a safe offer to make, since I knew the captain would never take me up on it. For one thing, Stottlemeyer was a cop, so he had to be tough, stoic, and invulnerable, because to be anything else would be a sign of weakness (which is probably one of the reasons his marriage tanked, but what do I know?). For another thing, we weren’t friends. The only connection we really had was our concern and affection for Adrian Monk.
    Obviously, I was wrong.
    “Wait, it’s okay,” I said. “A coffee sounds great. Really great. I was looking for an excuse not to do laundry, wash the dishes, and pay bills. Where would you like to meet?”
    We met at a coffeehouse and newsstand down the block from me. The place was filled with ratty couches and armchairs, which I’m sure the owner thought gave it a homey, Friends -like feel. Instead it felt like we were having coffee in a crummy apartment. But the coffee was good and the place was close by.
    Stottlemeyer looked almost as worn down as the furniture: hair askew, puffy eyes, wrinkled clothes. I