Mr. Monk Helps Himself Read Online Free PDF Page B

o’clock news.”
    The reporter’s face was trying to strike a balance between tasteful sadness and the elation of a national scoop. “Right now, we’ve been lucky enough to come across Damien Bigley, chief operating officer of BPM Enterprises and husband of the self-help icon Miranda Bigley, who died today in an apparent suicide at their Half Moon Bay retreat. Mr. Bigley, your wife was beloved by millions of admirers. We’re so sorry for your loss.”
    “Thank you, Cindy. I have no statement at this time.” At the bottom of the screen, I could see the top of a rolling suitcase. “As you can imagine, I left the retreat in order to get a little privacy and to try to deal with this tragedy. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
    “Well, I guess there’s no hiding from the press,” she simpered.
    “I guess not.” Then he faced the camera. “My heart goes out to all of Miranda’s followers. She was a phenomenal woman who gave so much to so many. Her legacy will go on.”
    “Can you give us an inkling what may have been behind her alleged suicide? I mean, apparent suicide.”
    “I don’t know. If I’d had any idea at all that she’d been contemplating such a tragic act . . .”
    “Who is that?” Ellen had stopped listening and was pointing to a figure in the background. It was a woman half hidden behind the trunk of a California date palm. I could barely make out a reddish brown bob. “Is that Teresa Garcia?”
    Ellen had visited the Sanctuary several times during her trips to the West Coast and knew Teresa. Over dinner, I had told her about Monk’s sexual deduction and we’d discussed it at length. She’d been as surprised as me.
    “Yes,” I confirmed, peering at the screen. From her body language, I could sense the athletically built therapist was not happy about her lover being caught on camera. She also had no idea that she was in the shot, looking furtive and impatient behind the trunk of a palm.
    Within the next minute, Damien had extricated himself from the interview and pulled his rolling bag through the hotel entrance, leaving Cindy Namaguci to reluctantly go to a commercial. I turned off the set.
    “It looks like they’re going to be consoling each other tonight,” Ellen said, a tinge of anger in her voice. “I know Adrian is never wrong about his deductions. I just wish he’d been wrong this time.”
    “Damien and Miranda seemed like a perfect couple,” I said, knowing how lame and clichéd that sounded.
    “I’m surprised Damien could get a room, what with the Tech Expo in town.”
    Yes, that did seem odd.
    I put the thought out of my mind. But it came back. Yes, it was odd. Every room in the city was usually booked during the three-day Tech Expo, especially a host hotel like the Belmont. And yet Damien and Teresa had gotten a room. Of course, they could have just lucked into a last-minute cancellation. But I had a different hunch.
    I told Ellen of my suspicion and she was equally curious. “Is there any way we can find out?” she asked.
    “You forget that I’m an ex-cop. Plus, I’ve had nine years’ experience getting information with and without warrants, thanks to Monk.” I glanced at the mantel clock. “We’ll wait till they’re checked in. Then I’ll make a call.”
    We gave them a good ten minutes, during which Ellen opened a third bottle of wine. We promised ourselves, cross our hearts, we weren’t going to finish it. Half a glass later, I dialed the front desk.
    I had good instincts for how the Belmont’s system worked, since I’d recently spent a night there. Normally, I would never dream of staying at such a big-bucks hotel, especially in my hometown. But six months ago my house had been broken into and a woman was killed in my bathtub, so I thought I’d treat myself.
    “Hello? This is Teresa Garcia.” I tried to make my voice sound young and perky. “We just checked in.”
    “Uh, yes, Miss Garcia.” It was an eager young man with the hint of an Irish