Mr. Monk Goes to Germany Lee Goldberg (my reading book .txt) 📖

health, vitality, sex appeal, and endless happiness. The only thing wrong with this picture was that the Claysons were dead.

But even in death, they looked great. There was no sign of violence or bloodshed, just their bodies frozen in rigor mortis like two toppled mannequins in a window display.

Eric was shirtless and wearing pajama shorts. His wife was in a nightgown and a thin robe. They were both on the floor beside the dinner table, their chairs still upright. On the table sat an open wine bottle, two glasses, and a half-eaten piece of birthday cake, with two forks on the edge of the plate.

When we came in, a team of forensic guys was waiting impatiently to bag the items on the table and two attendants from the morgue were waiting just as impatiently to bag the two corpses on the floor. I’d seen them lingering and fidgetinglike that before. They’d undoubtedly been told by Stottlemeyer to wait so Monk could survey the scene.

Before we could get there, we were intercepted by Captain Stottlemeyer, who pulled us aside for a quiet briefing and rubbed his bushy mustache with his finger. That was his tell. He was stressed.

“The victims are Eric and Amy Clayson. They sell real estate together. They were discovered this morning at eight a.m. by their maid,” Stottlemeyer said. “The ME pegs their time of death at about midnight.”

Monk cocked his head and regarded the bodies from an angle. “They were poisoned.”

“That’s what the ME thinks, too,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll analyze the wine, the cake, and their stomach contents. We shouldn’t have any trouble identifying the poison and what was tainted with it.”

Monk walked over to the table, holding his hands in front of him like a director framing a scene.

“What’s the tricky part?” I asked the captain.

Stottlemeyer brushed his mustache again and gestured towards a tight-lipped man who was standing by the picture window, grimacing at the view. He had a military-style hair-cut and seemed uncomfortable in his dull gray suit.

“That’s Andrew Walker, U.S. Marshals Service,” the captain whispered. “The Claysons were in the witness protection program.”

At the mention of his name, Walker whipped his head around. He had the super-sensitive hearing of a Doberman pinscher and probably the same groomer. He marched straight over. I was afraid he was going to either shoot us or bite us.

“What are these civilians doing here?” Walker said. He spoke through gritted teeth, as if his jaws were wired shut. Or maybe he was trying to speak and growl at the same time. “It’s bad enough our security was breached without widening the hole with two outsiders.”

“That’s Adrian Monk over there and this is his associate, Natalie Teeger,” Stottlemeyer said. “If you want this case wrapped up quick, Monk is the guy who can do it.”

Walker glanced at Monk, who was scowling at the cake, his nose nearly touching the dried white frosting.

“I’m not impressed,” Walker said.

“He hasn’t done anything yet,” I said.

“I’m trained to assess the capabilities of an opponent in a nanosecond.”

“He’s not an opponent,” Stottlemeyer said.

“The same criteria apply,” Walker said. “He’s a lightweight. ”

“Why were the Claysons in witness protection?” I asked.

“It’s need to know, honey,” Walker said.

“They’re dead, Walker,” Stottlemeyer said. “What difference does it make now?”

“It reveals our methods,” Walker said.

“Which you ought to be changing anyway, since they clearly don’t work,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned to me. “The Claysons were lovers working as accountants for a mob family in New Jersey. The government threatened the couple with twenty years in prison unless they told us where the mob was stashing their money.”

I watched Monk. He was roaming around the apartment, straightening things on shelves and wiping away dust.

“They agreed to talk in return for protection, immunity from prosecution, and a big wedding in Manhattan,” Stottlemeyer continued. “They went off on their honeymoon and never came back. The government gave them new faces, new names, and new lives here in San Francisco. Everything was dandy, until now.”

No wonder the Claysons looked like the ideal couple leading the ideal life. They were fake, inside and out. But I appreciated the symbolism of them literally starting their lives anew on their wedding day. They were criminals with a sense of romance.

Monk stopped in front of the TV. The screen was black but the DVD player was turned on. He rolled his shoulders and cocked his head from one side to the other. He wasn’t straightening himself out; he was solving the crime. He hadn’t said a word yet, but I knew we were done here.

I glanced at Stottlemeyer. He knew it, too.

“We made sure they could never be found. But someone inside the Justice Department must have talked,” Walker said. “There aren’t that many people who knew who they were and where they were. I am going to find the leak and plug it with a bullet.”

“There is no leak,” Monk said.

“Then how did the mob find them?” Walker said. “Even if Big Carlo DeSantini himself bumped into them face-to-face on the street he wouldn’t have recognized them.”

“If this was a mob hit, why were they poisoned?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Why not shoot them or stab them or throw them off their balcony?”

“Dead is dead,” Walker said.

Stottlemeyer shook his head in disagreement. “But you’d think that DeSantini would want to make it as messy and brutal as possible to send a message to anybody else who is thinking about cooperating with the government: We’ll find you and you’ll die a horrible death.”

“The mob didn’t find them,” Monk said.

“The Justice Department was