Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii by Goldberg, Lee (librera reader .TXT) 📕

you feel,” the captain said. “It would do wonders for my self-esteem if he got things wrong once in a while.”

“This wasn’t about my self-esteem. It was more about wish fulfillment.”

“They’re one and the same for me.”

I thanked the captain for the call, bought a Red Dirt shirt and a shark-tooth necklace for Julie, and went outside, where Monk was still occupied with the postcards.

“You bought one of those disgusting shirts, didn’t you?” Monk said.

“I had them triple-bag it and tie it shut. I’ll put the bag in the trunk and wipe my hands with a disinfectant wipe.”

“Aren’t you worried that if she wears that shirt to school someone might report you to Child Protective Services?”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“I’ll testify as a character witness.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” I said.

I put the bag in the trunk, we got in the car, and I started driving us back toward Poipu.

“You know how I asked you to do me a favor and not go after Dylan Swift?”

Monk nodded.

“Forget it,” I said. “Get him.”

“What changed your mind?”

“He did.” I told Monk about my conversation with Stottlemeyer and Swift’s claims that he helped Monk solve Helen Gruber’s murder.

“I’ll go to the taping of his show today,” Monk said, “and reveal him for the fraud that he is.”

“It’s Sunday, Mr. Monk. I don’t think he tapes today.”

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Martin Kamakele told us that Swift was going back to San Francisco on Monday.”

“Then I’ll catch him there,” Monk said.

“You may not have to wait that long. I didn’t tell you this before, but Swift said last night that he has a message for you.”

“What is it?”

Before I could tell him, something flashed in my peripheral vision. I looked to my left and saw a truck, its gigantic bumper gleaming like fangs, running the red light into the intersection and speeding right at me.

I didn’t even have a chance to scream.

When the truck clipped the front of our car, the steering-wheel air bag punched into my face like a boxer’s glove, and everything began spinning. It was like being in a carnival Tilt-A-Whirl while being smothered with a pillow.

When I opened my eyes, my ears were ringing, my chest was sore where the seat belt yanked against my flesh, and my face stung as if I’d been slapped on both cheeks. But I was alive and all the departments of my body were reporting back that everything was okay.

Monk lifted his face from the dashboard air bag as if he’d been startled awake from a nap. He seemed dazed but unhurt.

We both looked at each other without saying a word, then looked out the cracked windshield.

The car had spun completely around and we were facing the way we had come. The front end was smashed and the truck that clipped us was gone. People were beginning to stream out of the shops and restaurants and into the street to see what had happened.

“I think I’ve had enough sightseeing for today,” Monk said.

22

Mr. Monk and Mr. Swift

A handful of tourists and locals had gathered on the sidewalk, eating Shave Ice and watching two guys hitch our smashed Mustang up to the tow truck that would take it back to Lihue. There were so few cars on the road that Lieutenant Kealoha was doing double duty, interviewing us in the intersection and directing traffic.

“So you’re sure you had the green light,” he said.

“Positive,” I said. “Besides, if we were the ones at fault, don’t you think the truck driver would have stuck around?”

Kealoha shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t have a license or was driving without insurance and didn’t want no trouble. What else can you tell me?”

“It happened so fast. All I saw were those enormous bumpers, like you have on your patrol car, and next thing I knew, I was looking at my air bag.”

Kealoha shifted his gaze to Monk, who was examining the broken glass and the tire skid marks on the street.

“What about you?”

“The pickup truck was brown with dirt caked on the license plate, but I saw the letter ‘N’ and the number seven. The bumper was dented and the left front headlight was broken, so it was in an accident before. The driver was white, in his mid-thirties, a hundred and ninety pounds, with bleached-blond hair like surfers have, a bushy goatee, and a silver stud in his left ear. There were dead bugs on the windshield, mostly butterflies, though I can’t tell you what kind.”

Kealoha stared at him. “That’s all you saw?”

“I only caught a glimpse.”

“We’ll put out an APB, which on an island like this means calling a few of your bruddahs and asking them to keep their eyes open.”

Monk crouched over one of the skid marks. “This is odd. He must have seen us in the intersection, but he didn’t slow down.”

“That’s why he hit you,” Kealoha said.

“You’d think he would have slammed on his brakes and tried to avoid the collision, even if only at the last second. But he didn’t. He just plowed right through us and kept going.”

“Maybe he was in a hurry,” Kealoha said. “Or he was being chased.”

“There weren’t any other cars,” I said. “We would have seen them.”

Monk looked perplexed. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Kealoha closed his notebook. “You certain you don’t want me to take you to the hospital, make sure nothing’s broke?”

We both shook our heads, but the mention of the hospital reminded me about Dylan Swift.

“What have you heard from Swift?”

“Nothing, but I’ve heard from the reporters he’s been blabbing to,” Kealoha said. “I told ’em all, ‘No comment,’ and I ordered those idiot officers of mine to keep their mouths shut. How about you?”

“No reporters have called us. All I can figure is that the hotel operator wasn’t told that we’d moved into Helen Gruber’s bungalow. And Swift certainly didn’t tell them. He doesn’t want us contradicting him.”

“Lance wouldn’t talk to them. He’s hired some big-ticket criminal defense attorney out of L.A. who will be his mouthpiece,” Kealoha said. “He’ll be here