Free Mr. Monk Is Open for Business by Hy Conrad Page A

conclusion would you jump to? Would he be a thief? A professional hit man? Maybe an anarchist who built bombs?”
    “An anarchist? Wyatt?” She almost smiled. “If I had to guess, I’d say embezzler. Only because he was our accountant. I really don’t know anything.”
    “I’ll bet you know his birthday,” I suggested.
    “March twenty-fifth. I bring cupcakes in for everyone’s birthday. Brought.” And she drew in her breath, like a sniffle. This confirmed my theory about her office persona, but I was sorry I’d asked.
    “Wyatt kept to himself,” she added. “Politically, he was probably conservative. That’s a guess. There was no girlfriend or boyfriend we knew about. At our Christmas party, he came alone. No one cared enough to be curious about him.”
    “Well, something happened,” Monk said. “For some reason, he wanted you dead.”
    “You mean he wasn’t crazy?”
    “We have a theory,” Monk said. I loved how he said
we
. It wasn’t just Natalie’s silly theory. “Wyatt may have had a secret life. Your friends were killed because they stumbled across some information about this life.”
    “You think I know this information?”
    “You may not realize it,” I said. “Maybe he accidentally leftsomething on a desk. Or said something. Maybe someone called the office. Or you saw someone drop him off at work.”
    “And that’s why he needed to kill three people?” Sarabeth bit her lip. “Four. Am I still in danger?”
    “You’re not,” I assured her. “You have an armed police officer right in front of your door. Twenty-four/seven.”
    “That’s right,” said Monk. “We think he has a full clip in his sidearm, but we’re not sure. He says it’s a full clip, but he wouldn’t show it to us.”
    “Adrian,” I hissed.
    “It probably is a full clip. That’s my guess.”
    “I don’t know anything.” Sarabeth’s hands shook and her eyes began to fill.
    “Natalie, wipe her tears,” Monk ordered. “Never mind. I’ll do it.” And he took a travel packet of Kleenex from his breast pocket, shook out the top tissue, and started dabbing at the corners of her eyes.
    I had never seen Monk do anything like this. Once, while interrogating a quarterback during the halftime of a division play-off game, he’d used a sanitary wipe to try to remove the black smudges under the player’s eyes. But this was different. Monk was actually feeling someone else’s pain.
    “You’re a nice man,” Sarabeth whispered.
    “I’m not,” Monk whispered back. “But I’ll try harder.”
    A buzz from inside my PBS tote alerted me. For some reason, I didn’t want to interrupt this moment. Plus, I think cell phones aren’t allowed in the ICU. I took it outside, past the armed guard to the corridor.
    “Hi, sweetie.” It was my daughter, Julie.
    Julie Teeger was in her senior year at UC Berkeley. Withmaintaining her class schedule and trying to line up an internship after graduation, she felt guilty about not spending more time together. And with all the work of opening an agency and dealing with my partner and four dead bodies (three office workers and a Guatemalan drug runner), I was feeling even guiltier.
    “Hey, Mom. Are you free for dinner? A Teeger night in?”
    “Absolutely.” I would make myself free. Our get-togethers are often quasi-spontaneous. One of us calls the other out of the blue. I try to do a little shopping and get home before she drives over the bridge. Sometimes, due to a murder or Monk, I don’t make it to the store. Then we scrounge the refrigerator and pantry and come up with something. Those can turn out to be the best meals. And a lot of fun, because it feels like a challenge in a TV cooking show. That reminded me. I should tell her about Randy and Monk and the murder at Summit Chef. She’d get a kick out of that.
    “How’s the new business?” she asked. “I’m still waiting for an Evite to your grand opening.”
    “That’s been delayed,” I said. “We’re too