Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop Read Online Free PDF

on his feet. Even his hands looked square.
    He introduced himself to us, even though his name was written on his lanyard and Stottlemeyer appeared, judging by the scowl on his face, to already know him and not like him much.
    “I’m Detective Paul Braddock, Banning PD. I’ll be your moderator,” he said as he shook our hands in turn. “It will just be a simple Q and A. I’ll start things off with a question or two and then open it up to the floor.”
    Monk motioned to me for a wipe. I took out a bottle of instant hand sanitizer from my purse instead. I figured he’d be shaking a lot of hands and I didn’t want to lug around a huge box of wipes or end up with a purseful of Baggies containing used ones.
    “I’m Natalie Teeger, Mr. Monk’s assistant,” I said.
    I squeezed a shot of disinfectant gel into Monk’s right palm and he rubbed his hands together so briskly he could have lit kindling.
    Braddock watched him, amused. “My God, you really do that. I thought it was just an urban legend. I guess I can scratch that question off my list.”
    “I’d like to see the others,” Stottlemeyer said.
    Braddock grinned. “That would be cheating, Leland.”
    “Since when do you have a problem with that, Paul?” Stottlemeyer asked pointedly.
    “I wouldn’t want to undercut the spontaneity of the discussion,” Braddock said, his grin unfaltering. “See you up on the dais.”
    The detective walked away. Stottlemeyer glared after him.
    “What was that all about?” I asked.
    “He used to work for SFPD,” Stottlemeyer said. “Now he doesn’t.”
    “Are you the reason why?”
    Stottlemeyer shook his head. “He’s only got himself to blame for that.”
    We headed up to the dais, which was a raised platform with a table set against a backdrop of four potted plants.
    The table was covered with a white cloth. There were three chairs behind the table and three glasses, one pitcher of water, and two microphones on top of it.
    I saw disaster looming. I excused myself and sought out Braddock in the crowd.
    “Excuse me,” I said. “You’re going to need to invite another guest up to the table, and add another chair, glass, and two more microphones. Or you’re going to have to remove a chair and a glass, add a microphone, and moderate standing up.”
    Braddock looked at me like I had a bug crawling out of my nose. “Why would I want to do that?”
    “Because Mr. Monk won’t sit at a table for three guests. He likes even numbers. So you can have two guests or four, it’s up to you, but they each need to have their own microphone.”
    “You’re joking,” he said.
    “I’m afraid not,” I said.
    “Is he nuts?”
    “Mr. Monk likes things to be a certain way,” I said. “You want him to be comfortable up there, don’t you? Because if he’s not, he won’t answer any questions; he’ll just obsess about everything that’s wrong and try to fix it.”
    Braddock sighed. “I’ll have the extra glass and chair taken away. I’ll stand with a microphone.”
    “Thank you,” I said, and went back to the table, where I discovered that Monk had already removed the extra chair and set the extra glass on top of it for the workers to take away.
    Monk was now arranging the two chairs, the glasses, and the microphones so everything was evenly spaced, centered, and symmetrical.
    Stottlemeyer was busy chatting with some other cops and trying hard to disassociate himself from what Monk was doing.
    I couldn’t blame him. I would have done the same thing if I weren’t being paid not to.
    The hotel workers showed up and took the extra chair away and set up a microphone stand for Braddock.
    Monk was measuring the ends of the tablecloth with his pocket tape measure to make sure it draped evenly on all sides just as Braddock climbed up onstage.
    “Okay, everyone, please take your seats,” Braddock said into the mike. “We’d like to get started.”
    Monk and Stottlemeyer sat down at the table. I took a seat in the front