Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant

by Hy Conrad

  “There’s a part of me that Sharona always admired, from back in the day when we were butting heads and working cases. I can bounce back. I can ignore criticism and keep going. It’s a talent.”

  “And you don’t want to disappoint Sharona.”

  He nodded and wriggled. “I guess that’s what it boils down to.”

  I’ve never complained before about how close the airport is in San Francisco, how it’s a straight sweep down the 101, and how traffic can be fairly light. It’s never like that, almost never, except when you need a little longer with someone.

  I dropped Randy at the curb and defied the printed warning—NO STANDING—by getting out and hugging him good-bye. I’m sure we said all the usual things about missing each other and staying in touch. Then he walked away.

  It was getting late. But I had left Monk at the office and I wanted to swing by and make sure the place was safely closed and he found his way home. I was feeling sentimental and a little sad, as if I wanted to hold everyone and everything too close.

  Monk and Teeger was still open, the lights still on. I parked in my usual spot, opened the door, and followed the squeaky sound of the clarinet.

  My partner was sitting near the back of the shop, inches from the thin wall, playing the strangest of duets, his old clarinet harmonizing with the faint strums of the guitar from next door. He didn’t stop when he saw me but finished out the song. Then he rapped on the wall. “Good night, hippies.”

  “Good night, Adrian,” came Peter’s voice.

  I had to smile. “‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone?’ That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I brought in my clarinet to annoy them,” Monk said, looking a little embarrassed. “But we wound up knowing the same music.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  He put on the mouthpiece cover and started breaking down his instrument, returning it to the old leather case. “So Randy is on his way.”

  “On his way,” I confirmed. “And, for the record, I tried to talk him out of it.” I could hear a car turning into the parking lot, probably Wendy in her van coming to pick up Peter, I thought.

  “The planets were aligned,” said Monk, each word a mournful moan. “It was perfect. How many more times do you think we can arrest a lieutenant for murder? I’ll tell you how many. Very few.”

  “Adrian.” I looked into his eyes. “We can’t live in the past. A.J. is out of the way and there’ll be someone new. Look, I can’t promise everything will work out. But that’s life. We have to be comfortable with life.”

  It was shaping up to be a good speech, if I have to say so. It would have been a lot longer, too, except for the fact that Sharona Fleming had just walked through the door. She didn’t even pause to say hi.

  “Where is he?” she shouted as she looked around. “Where’s Randy?”

  “Sharona?” I didn’t know where to begin. “He’s been trying to get in touch with you.”

  “I’ve been on a plane.”

  “Obviously,” said Monk. “You should have called.”

  “As soon as I got out of that damn meeting, I went straight to the airport. I didn’t know what else to do. I was so mad.”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Because that would have freaked Randy out. He would have known something was wrong by the tone of my voice.”

  Her voice did have quite a tone to it, anxious and angry and ready to kill. “So what is wrong?” I had to ask.

  “They fired him. The Summit city council fired Randy. After all he’s done for them. Can you believe that?”

  “Poor Randy,” I said.

  “I hate that town.” Sharona took a breath, straightened her leopard-print top, and fluffed back her big, blond hair. “Hello, Natalie. Adrian. Sorry to be such a mess. Where’s Randy?”

  “The planets are aligned,” said Monk, his eyes raised to the ceiling.

  “What the hell is he talking about?”

  “Nothing. But Randy isn’t here. He’s at the airport.” I reached for my phone. “Don’t worry. There’s still an hour before the flight. Wouldn’t that be annoying, crossing paths like that? Flying all the way here and then missing each other?”

  “You’re telling me?” I don’t know who had dialed Randy’s number first, Sharona or me. But one of us got through.

  “Thank God for cell phones, huh?” I had to laugh. “I don’t know what we would do—”

  “Hold on.” Sharona held up a red-lacquered fingernail and turned to face the open door. “Is that Randy’s ringtone?”

  It was Randy’s ringtone.

  And it was coming from the front passenger cup holder in my car.

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