“That’s great; we love an enthusiastic audience. Your positive energy is very, very important to the show. We’re assuming you came here to talk to a loved one who has passed on. If not, we ask that you give up your seat to one of the hundreds of people outside who are anxious for a reading.”
Monk whispered to me. “She’s making sure Swift has a receptive audience, people eager to help him when he starts fishing for information under the guise of hearing from the dead.”
“Remember that this is a dialogue between you and your departed loved ones, with Dylan in the middle,” she said. “He needs your cooperation to interpret the messages he’s relaying, so don’t be shy.”
“In other words, if he gets it wrong, tell him the right answer,” Monk whispered to Stottlemeyer. “It’s the audience that’s doing all the work, not Swift.”
“The best suckers are the people who want to be suckered,” Stottlemeyer replied in a whisper.
“You could be on camera at any moment during the program,” Abigail Donovan said, “and we want your friends at home to know you’re having fun. React to what he is saying.”
“So Swift will know if he’s scored with one of his guesses,” Monk whispered to me.
“This show is produced live on tape, so we’ll be shooting in real time, pausing only for the commercial breaks.”
I didn’t listen to the rest of the technical stuff she had to say; I was still trying to figure out what she meant by “live on tape,” which sounded like a contradiction to me.
When she stepped off the stage, the show’s theme music blared from several speakers and the main title sequence played on the monitors. The main title was comprised of shots of Dylan Swift talking to people who were either amazed at his powers or overwhelmed and sobbing with joy.
The instant the main titles ended Swift bounded out from between two bleachers onto the stage with a big smile on his tanned face.
“Hello, my friends!”
The audience applauded uproariously, many of them rising to their feet. I could feel their excitement and anticipation as palpably as the heat from the TV lights.
Swift’s gaze panned the bleachers, settling for just an instant on Monk and me, but long enough for me to be sure he’d seen us in the audience.
“What happens or doesn’t happen today depends largely on you. My ability to communicate with your loved ones on the other side requires that you be receptive, open, and willing to receive their messages. You know your loved ones better than I do, and I may not always understand the messages I’m receiving. It’s up to you to interpret them.”
Monk whispered to Stottlemeyer, “In other words, if his guesses are all wrong, it’s not because he’s a fraud; it’s because you weren’t receptive enough.”
“I’d like to arrest him right now,” Stottlemeyer said.
Swift closed his eyes and held his hands out in front of him, palms up, as if feeling the heat from a campfire. “I’m sensing blue and the letter M.”
Disher’s hand shot up. “Me! Me!”
Stottlemeyer yanked Disher’s arm down, but it was too late. Swift had opened his eyes and was on his way over.
“What’s your name?”
Disher stood up. “Randy Disher.”
“How do you know this spirit is calling out for you, Randy?”
“Because my uncle Morty loved to fish at Loon Lake,” Disher said. “And his favorite color was blue.”
“Yes, I see him now,” Swift said. “He’s an older man, not exactly fat, but not thin, either.”
“That’s him! He had a beer gut.” Disher turned to Stottlemeyer. “Isn’t this amazing?”
“That’s one word for it,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I see a very special place on the lake. It’s his favorite fishing hole, the one he never told anybody about,” Swift said. “You know the one I mean, his secret spot.”
“In the bay, by the swimming dock in front of the little red cabins?”
“The secret is out now,” Stottlemeyer said.
“That’s the one. He wants you to know that his spirit is there and the fish are still biting.” Swift put his hand on Disher’s shoulder. “Go park your boat in front of the little red cabins when you want to be close to him and you will be.”
Disher nodded, all choked up, and looked to the ceiling. “I love you, Uncle Morty.”
“He loves you, too,” Swift said, then turned and regarded Monk.
“Hello, Mr. Swift,” Monk said.
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is Adrian Monk, the great detective,” Swift said. “If you watched me on Larry King Live last night, you know that Adrian and I worked together with the spirit of a murdered woman to find her killer and bring him to justice. You can read the whole story in my next book.”
The audience oohed and aahed. I noticed that Swift was calling Monk by his first name now, like they were old buddies, something even I didn’t feel comfortable doing. Stottlemeyer was Monk’s oldest friend and he didn’t call him by his first name, either. The fact that Swift was assuming such familiarity must have been particularly galling to Monk. But if it was, Monk hid it well.
Swift smiled warmly at him. “It’s good to see you, my friend. How are you?”
“Troubled,” Monk said.
“Is it about your wife, Trudy?”
Monk nodded.
Stottlemeyer stared at Monk, obviously surprised that he’d disclosed something so personal on television—or at all.
Swift faced the audience in the other bleachers. “Adrian’s wife was killed a few years ago, and her murder was never solved. You should know that I’ve relayed some messages from Trudy to Adrian before, but beyond that, we’ve had no subsequent contact.” Swift faced Monk again. “Isn’t that true?”
“Yes, it is. I’m here now because I believe there’s more she has to tell me. I can feel it.”
“I’m sure you can, Adrian. Your connection to your wife is very strong. What you’re feeling is her effort to communicate with you. And she has reached you, but you lack the gift to receive more
