Felder thrust his fist into the air and did a little victory dance.
“I hate that man,” I hissed to Monk.
But Monk wasn’t at my side anymore. He was up in the bleachers trying to convince people to move to different spots so there would be an even number of people on each row. I got up and dragged him back down.
“Please stop harassing the parents,” I said.
“Look at them,” Monk said. “Three sitting in one row, five in another. Only one sitting up top. It’s irresponsible. They should set an example for their kids.”
The Killer Cleats elbowed, kicked and tackled their way through the Slammers to score another goal. The ref never called a single penalty against them. I figured he was either blind or a buddy of Felder’s.
“What about the example he sets?” I said, motioning to Felder, who was doing another one of his victory dances.
“Make ’em bleed,” Felder yelled to his team.
“Our team is getting murdered,” I said.
Monk stared at Felder. “Call the captain.”
“I didn’t mean that comment literally,” I said.
“Call him.” Monk shifted his shoulders and rolled his head. “Tell him to bring handcuffs.”
By the time Captain Stottlemeyer showed up, it was the second half, the score was seven to one, and Monk had nagged all the parents on our team to sit on a single row in the middle of the bleachers.
“You’ll thank me later,” he told them.
I doubted it. In fact, they might even ban me from attending future games. I could feel them glaring at me, but I pretended not to notice.
Stottlemeyer had the same look on his face as the parents. He was wearing a T-shirt, a Windbreaker, and a pair of faded jeans. The captain clearly wasn’t thrilled at being dragged out of his apartment on his day off.
“You better have a good reason for this, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
“We need to have a talk with them.” Monk motioned to the parents on the Killer Cleat bleachers. “They aren’t going to listen to me.”
“You called me down here to rearrange the people on the bleachers?”
“It’s a safety issue,” Monk said.
“Uh-huh.” Stottlemeyer turned his back on Monk, so the captain missed seeing the Slammer goalie get pummeled by the ball and the Killer Cleats score another goal. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait,” Monk said. “You can’t go without arresting the coach.”
“For disorderly seating?”
“For murder,” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer stopped walking and turned around slowly to face Monk again. “I can’t arrest him for winning the game.”
“How about for killing the banker?” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer gave him a look. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Monk pointed to Felder, who was doing his little victory dance. “That explains the footprints.”
“It does?”
“It’s his ritual. He does it whenever he wins,” Monk said. “Those steps match the sequence of bloody footprints at the bank.”
Stottlemeyer and Monk stepped closer to Felder, staring at his feet as he danced.
“I’ll be damned,” Stottlemeyer said, rubbing his bushy mustache.
Felder spun around and glowered at them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Stottlemeyer flashed his badge at Felder. “SFPD homicide. You’re under arrest for the murder of E. L. Lancaster, manager of Golden State Bank.”
Felder’s jaw dropped in astonishment. So did mine. Jaws were dropping everywhere.
Stottlemeyer cuffed Felder, read him his rights and started to lead him away.
Monk cleared his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Stottlemeyer groaned, turned around and held up his badge so the parents in the Killer Cleat bleachers could see it.
“Hey, everybody, listen up,” the captain said. “You have two choices. Either sit in even numbers on even-numbered rows, or all of you have to sit together on one row.”
“Why?” one parent asked.
“It’s a safety issue,” Stottlemeyer said. “If you want to avoid a citation, I suggest you listen to him.” Stottlemeyer tipped his head toward Monk and then led Felder off the field.
The Slammers and their parents began to applaud. We were cheering about Harv Felder getting taken away in handcuffs, but that’s not how Monk saw it.
“See?” Monk said to me. “Everybody appreciates balanced seating.”
CHAPTER TWO
Mr. Monk and the Unlucky Break
I don’t think there’s anything in the soccer rule book that covers what to do when the coach of a team is arrested for murder during a game. The ref didn’t know how to deal with it. The parents of the Killer Cleats wanted to call it quits and take their kids home. Raul was glad to oblige—if the Killer Cleats agreed to forfeit the game. The Killer Cleats weren’t willing to take a loss, so the game went on.
Raul probably figured that the trauma of seeing their coach dragged off to jail would undermine the morale of the Killer Cleats to such a massive degree that we actually might have a chance to beat them. Instead, it just pissed them off. They returned to the field seething like a pack of rabid wolves.
Christy Clark, the Cleats’ forward, drove the ball right down the center of the field. She was as wide as two girls and plowed through everything, and everyone, in her path like a runaway bulldozer.
Most of the Slammers had the good sense to get the hell out of Christy’s way, the game be damned, except my dear, sweet, stubborn daughter.
Julie was not going to let that ball get past her. She grimaced and charged Christy.
I think I even heard Julie growl.
Christy and Julie bashed into each other like raging elk, kicking the ball between them as they butted against each other. Somehow Christy managed to kick the ball past Julie and knock her down.
My daughter hit the ground hard and let out an
