Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out Read Online Free PDF Page B

share a tiny windowless cell with some drooling child molester. But Sebes would get sent to a Ritz- Carlton prison with individual suites instead of cells, four-hundred-ply bedsheets, satellite TV, and espresso machines.
    There was a file photo accompanying the article of Sebes and his wife, Anna, a former concert violinist, relaxing on their yacht in Marin. She was his college sweetheart and, like many long- married couples, they’d grown to look like fraternal twins. Or maybe they just shared the same plastic surgeon.
    They both looked tanned, healthy, and comfortable, and far younger than their fifty-plus years. They also looked pretty pleased with themselves, which is probably why the editor chose the picture for the story. But to be fair to the Sebeses, I’d probably look vibrantly youthful and smugly self-satisfied if I had a few billion dollars in the bank, vacation homes in France and Hawaii, a yacht, his-and-hers personal trainers, and a full-time chef.
    The rest of the stories on the front page were just as cheery and upbeat. I read about the state’s $30 billion budget shortfall, the demise of a historic restaurant that had survived such calamities as the 1903 earthquake, and the possible closure of the Chronicle itself, which would leave the city without a single newspaper.
    I crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the trash. I was so angry and depressed that I was tempted to ask Dr. Bell if he had a couple of hours for me, too.
    No wonder Monk didn’t bother keeping up on the news. I considered following his example and living in blissful ignorance, only in his case it was blissless.
    On my way back to Dr. Bell’s, I stopped at a grocery store and picked up an assortment of bottled waters for Monk to choose from to replace Summit Creek. I didn’t expect him to pick one right away, but at least it would be a start.
    Monk was waiting for me outside of Dr. Bell’s office when I drove up. He didn’t look as content as he’d been when he found the crumpled parking ticket, but he wasn’t as overwrought as he’d been when we’d arrived at the crime scene. He got inside the car, buckled up, and let out a long, mournful sigh.
    “Was Dr. Bell helpful?” I asked as we drove off.
    Monk shrugged. “When you know that a blazing meteor is heading straight toward Earth and will completely eradicate the human race, how helpful can a visit to your psychiatrist really be?”
    “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a tiny bit?”
    Monk nodded. “A tiny bit.”
    “It’s a bottle of water, Mr. Monk.”
    “It’s a meteor. The thing is, it’s already hit Earth. We just haven’t died yet.”
     
    At his apartment, Monk set every bottle of Summit Creek water that he had left on the dining room table for inspection and counted them several times. He wrote the number down on a piece of paper. And then he counted them again.
    “The number hasn’t changed, Mr. Monk. It won’t change until you drink a bottle.”
    “This is serious business, Natalie. I need to be exact and vigilant. My survival depends on it.”
    I set out the bottles of water that I’d bought on the other side of the table.
    “You should start sampling some of the other bottled water that’s available,” I said, motioning to the samples I’d laid out.
    “You can’t replace Summit Creek,” he said.
    “You don’t have a choice,” I said. “Unless you’d prefer to die a slow, miserable death.”
    “I’ve been doing that since birth.”
    I picked up a bottle of Arrowhead water. “What about Arrowhead? It comes from a spring in the San Bernardino Mountains.”
    “Those are dirty mountains,” he said.
    “Dirty mountains?”
    “I’ve seen them and they are caked with dirt.”
    “All mountains are covered with dirt,” I said.
    “Those mountains are dirtier,” he said.
    “Okay,” I said, picking up another bottle. “How about Hawaiian Springs water? It’s fresh rainwater from the lush peaks of Mauna Loa that’s percolated