“Who?” Monk asked.
“Danielle Hossack.”
“I have no idea,” Monk said. “But I hope that wherever she is she’s getting me the information that I asked for.”
“Then if she isn’t here, who brought you all those files?”
“A detective from Intertect came to my door first thing this morning,” Monk said. “All that publicity must have brought in a slew of new cases. It’s a good thing we don’t have anything to go on with the Peschel case yet because I’m swamped. I can get these cases out of the way first.”
I turned and headed back to the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Down to Intertect to see if I can give Danielle a hand.”
I was thinking of giving it to her the same way that Stottlemeyer gave it to Braddock.
“That’s a good idea,” Monk said. “I’m so glad to see you two are working so well together.”
I kept on walking so he couldn’t see my red-faced anger. I broke a few speed laws heading downtown and was worked up into a fine rage by the time I got to Monk’s office at Intertect.
Danielle was sitting at her desk, typing away on her computer. I stabbed a finger in her direction.
“Come with me,” I said, marching past her into Monk’s office. As soon as she was inside, I slammed the door behind her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked oh so innocently.
“You are,” I said. “You’re fired.”
Her eyes went wide. “Why?”
“I told you not to send any more files to Mr. Monk and you did it anyway,” I said. “You’re looking out for Intertect, not for Mr. Monk. That’s unacceptable.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Another one of those rolling file drawers was delivered to his apartment this morning. It didn’t roll to his place by itself.”
“I didn’t send them,” she said angrily, but I could tell that it wasn’t directed at me. “I wouldn’t do that to him or to you.”
“If you didn’t, then who did?”
Her face tightened and she glanced towards the door. “There is only one person with the authority to send files to anyone.”
The way she said it left little doubt who she was talking about. I knew I owed her an apology, but I didn’t want to do anything that would slow my momentum or cool my anger.
I threw open the door, marched down the hall, and blew past Slade’s buxom secretary, opening the door to his corner office and entering uninvited. His secretary tried to chase after me, but she was too top-heavy to keep up.
Slade was hunched over a putter, knocking golf balls into what looked like a silver dustpan, which was engraved with the words, INTOUCHSPACE INVITATIONAL GOLF TOURNAMENT. His office was larger than Monk’s apartment. There were lots of pictures on the walls of him with his arm around celebrities, most of them women.
“Are you insensitive, greedy, or just plain stupid?” I said.
“I can be all of the above,” Slade said. “I suppose it depends on the situation and how much alcohol is being served.”
Slade waved his secretary away and she closed the door behind me.
“You’ve heard of killing the goose that laid the golden egg? Well, that’s exactly what you are doing with Mr. Monk,” I said. “You’ve giving him way too much work to do.”
“And I’m paying him handsomely for it. Not only that, he’s closing the cases as fast as I can give them to him. He enjoys it.”
“Kids like ice cream, but that doesn’t mean you let them gorge themselves on the stuff,” I said. “He can’t keep up this pace.”
“I haven’t heard any complaints from him.”
“You’re hearing it from me,” I said. “As of now, he’s taking a break.”
“He’s only worked four days and he already wants a vacation? That’s got to be a record.”
“So is the number of cases he’s solved for you this week,” I said. “This is nonnegotiable. If you don’t like it, fire him.”
“Maybe I’ll just fire you,” he said.
“Mr. Monk will go with me,” I said.
“Why? He doesn’t have to rely on you anymore,” Slade said. “I can give him all the assistants that he wants.”
“So fire me and see what happens,” I said.
He looked at me for a long moment, then broke into a smile. “Let’s not overreact, Ms. Teeger. Monk has certainly earned a breather. We can revisit this discussion next week.”
“No, we won’t,” I said. “All his cases will go through me from now on and I will divvy them out to him as I see fit.”
“You’re very protective of Mr. Monk,” Slade said.
“If you’re smart, you will be, too. He’s going to be worth a lot of money to Intertect if you treat him right. I suggest you start now.”
I turned on my heel and walked out. Danielle was waiting outside the door along with Slade’s startled secretary. I blew right past them and headed back towards Monk’s office. Danielle hurried behind me, catching up with me once I got inside. She closed the door behind her as I sagged into the seat behind Monk’s desk.
I started to shake. I think it was from all that excess adrenaline in my veins.
“I owe you an apology,” I said.
“No worries,” she said. “You were terrific.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard what you said to Nick. The whole office did.”
“I was that loud?”
“You were practically roaring. Mr. Monk is very lucky to have you in his corner.”
“He might not think so when he finds out what I’ve done.”
“It’s what you do that allows him to succeed,” Danielle said. “He’s the world’s best detective because you are his assistant.”
“If you’re kissing up for a raise, you’re doing it to the wrong person. Technically, you work for the guy I just yelled at.”
She smiled. “I think I have as much to learn from you as I do from Mr. Monk.”
“Speaking of learning,” I said, eager to change the subject, “what information do you have on the Peschels that I can take back with me for Mr. Monk?”
“I’m still working on the background reports. However, the Mill Valley police managed to find some traces of blood and skin on the edge of the kitchen counter that they’ve matched to Bill Peschel,” she said. “The coroner took a second look at Peschel’s head wound and now believes he sustained it in the kitchen and not the pool.”
“Brilliant deduction on her part,” I said.
“But necessary,” she said. “Now it’s confirmed that Peschel’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“It was the moment Mr. Monk said it was murder,” I said. “That’s another thing you’ll learn. When it comes to murder, he’s never wrong.”
What you’re about to read now, and in a few places later on in this story, happened to Lieutenant Randy Disher when I wasn’t around. I’m not a mind reader, so I can’t tell you firsthand what was going on. But I’ve heard enough about it from him and from the other people involved that I think I can give you a good picture of what occurred.
When Disher dreamed of being a cop, filling out mountains of paperwork wasn’t part of the fantasy. But that was how he spent most of his time when he should have been on the streets, hunting down leads, taking on the syndicate, and speeding through San Francisco in a green ’68 Mustang like Steve McQueen in
