Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (books for students to read .TXT) 📕

we brushed shoulders with his killer and didn’t know that, either. It gave me the shivers to realize that we’d stepped under that cloud of death.

I know that sounds overwrought and melodramatic, but think about how you’d feel if you were me. There was a killer, and there was a victim, alongside the two of us in that restaurant. There were a lot of other people, too, but still it was chilling to know that we were in close proximity of such evil and didn’t sense anything more than the smell of garlic and hot cheese.

It made me think about fate and how cruel and unpredictable it could be. Of course, if it wasn’t, they wouldn’t call it fate. They’d call it luck.

So I guess it was fate that got Ronald Webster and luck that saved Julie and me.

Monk was browsing Webster’s bookcase, as if we were guests at a dinner party instead of working a possible homicide scene.

“Webster was a fan of your books,” Monk said to Ludlow. There were five or six Ludlow titles lined up on a shelf in clear plastic dust jacket protectors.

“He and millions of other readers,” Ludlow said.

“How else could you afford your Mercedes?” Monk said.

“I owe a lot to my fans but they expect a lot from me in return,” Ludlow said. “A good mystery every ninety days, for one thing.”

“Webster doesn’t have your latest book,” Monk said. “He was killed before he got a chance to read it.”

“Maybe if he had,” Stottlemeyer said, “he would have known better than to let someone into his house with an alligator.”

Disher stepped out from behind a frosted-glass partition, which I assumed walled off a portion of the bathroom.

“Check this out,” Disher said.

We followed him around the partition to see a Jacuzzi on a platform tiled in travertine. It was enough to make me seriously consider switching to a career selling shoes.

Disher leaned over the rim of the tub. “I think there’s some dried blood caught in the grout,” he said, pointing with his gloved finger. “And a ring of salt around the drain.”

“Common grocery store sea salt is my guess,” Ludlow said. “The granules are larger.”

Monk groaned louder than was necessary, not that he really needed to groan at all.

“I think we’ve just found the spot where Ronald Webster was fed to the gator,” Stottlemeyer said. “Let’s get a forensics team down here pronto.”

Disher took out his cell phone and made the call.

Monk crouched beside a pair of parallel black smudges on the tile floor in the middle of the bathroom. There was another pair of identical smudges closer to the Jacuzzi.

“This is odd,” Monk said.

“They look like scratches,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe from the soles of someone’s shoes.”

“The marks are side by side,” Monk said. “If they came from shoes, they’d be staggered and further apart.”

“Whatever it is,” Stottlemeyer said, “we’ll make sure the lab guys check it out. I’m sure when they spray that tub with luminol and light it up, it’s going to glow.”

Luminol is a chemical that reacts to hemoglobin and makes it luminescent. Hemoglobin sticks to surfaces long after all the visible signs of blood have been washed away. I knew that less from actual experience around homicides than from watching reruns of CSI.

Monk squinted at a spot on the floor. “What’s this?”

We all squatted around him to check out the spot.

“It looks like motor oil,” Disher said.

“Or maybe brake fluid,” Ludlow said.

Monk frowned to himself and stood up. “The killer was surprisingly sloppy. It seems like the only clues that he didn’t leave were his name and phone number.”

“Good for us,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe we’ll get some prints we can use, too.”

“Do alligators leave prints?” Disher said.

I figured that was our cue to go. Besides, I wanted to get home and start enjoying my free night. I headed for the door and everyone but Disher followed.

As soon as we got outside, Monk motioned to me. I thought he wanted a wipe, but when I reached to take one from my purse, he shook his head.

“Can I borrow your phone?” he said. “I need to make a call.”

I gave him the cell and stepped away to allow him some privacy. Ludlow caught up with me at my car.

“What is Monk’s problem with me?” he asked.

“This is his turf,” I said. “He feels threatened by another expert.”

“But I’m not an expert,” Ludlow said, “as he keeps reminding me.”

I smiled. “You’re a rich, famous author of crime novels. He can’t help but feel a little overshadowed.”

Ludlow nodded and glanced at my Jeep. “These cars are real warhorses. How does she run?”

“Not bad for a car with 177,000 miles on the odometer,” I said.

“That’s how I feel about myself sometimes,” Ludlow said.

Monk joined us and gave me the phone. “Have you solved the case yet?” he asked Ludlow.

“I’m working on it,” Ludlow said. “But I have no illusions that I can make sense out of it all before you do, not that it’s any kind of competition.”

“Of course not,” Monk said.

“The last thing I want to do is invade your turf or rob you of any glory,” Ludlow said. “I’m not a detective and I’m certainly not as gifted as you are. I’m just a writer looking for a good story to tell. When this is over, I’ll go away and write another book.”

“I understand,” Monk said. “I apologize if I was rude.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Monk was actually acknowledging he was at fault and apologizing for it. This was a first.

I might have pressed him on that point, but my cell phone rang. I glanced at the display and recognized the number. It was Firefighter Joe. If his impeccable timing kept