Mr. Monk Goes To The Firehouse by Lee Goldberg (English) Paperback Book

Description: Mr. Monk Goes To The Firehouse by Lee Goldberg Monks house is being fumigated. While he attempts to arrange his surroundings to suit himself at his assistants home, something else needs putting straight. The death of a dog at the local fire station, on the same night as a fatal house fire, has led him into a puzzling mystery. Hes going to have to dig through a lot of dirt to solve it. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description Monks house is being fumigated, and he has nowhere to go. Fortunately, his assistant Natalie and her daughter are kind enough to welcome him into their home. Unfortunately, their home is not quite up to Monks standards of cleanliness and order.But while Monk attempts to arrange his surroundings just so, something else needs to be put straight. The death of a dog at the local firehouse-on the same night as a fatal house fire-has led Monk into a puzzling mystery. And much to his horror, hes going to have to dig through a lot of dirt to find the answer. Notes The first in a brand-new mystery series starring the brilliant, beloved and slightly neurotic sleuth from the hit BBC2 series. Lee Goldberg is also the author of the Diagnosis Murder novels. Author Biography Lee Goldberg has written episodes for the Monk television series, as well as many other programs. He is a two-time Edgar Award nominee and the author of the acclaimed Diagnosis Murder novels, based on the TV series for which he was a writer and executive producer. Review "A clever, high-octane mystery that moves like a bullet train." - Janet Evanovich "Can books be better than television? You bet they can - when Lee Goldbergs writing them. Get aboard right now for a thrill ride!" - Lee Child" Long Description The brand-new mystery series starring the brilliant, beloved, and slightly off-balance sleuth from the USA Networks hit show! Monks house is being fumigated, and he has nowhere to go. Fortunately, his assistant Natalie and her daughter are kind enough to welcome him into their home. Unfortunately, their home is not quite up to Monks standards of cleanliness and order. But while Monk attempts to arrange his surroundings just so, something else needs to be put straight. The death of a dog at the local firehouse-on the same night as a fatal house fire-has led Monk into a puzzling mystery. And much to his horror, hes going to have to dig through a lot of dirt to find the answer. Excerpt from Book CHAPTER ONE Mr. Monk and the Termites My name is Natalie Teeger. Youve never heard of me, and thats okay, because the fact is Im nobody special. By that I mean Im not famous. I havent done anything or accomplished something that youd recognize me for. Im just another anonymous shopper pushing her cart down the aisle at Wal-Mart. Of course, I had bigger things planned for myself. When I was nine I dreamed of being one of Charlies Angels. It wasnt because I wanted to fight crime or run around braless--I was looking forward to the day Id fill out enough to wear one. Sadly, Im still waiting. I admired the Angels because they were strong, independent, and had a sassy attitude. Most of all, I liked how those women took care of themselves. In that way, I guess my dream came true, though not quite the way I expected. Ive made a profession out of taking care of myself, my twelve-year-old daughter, Julie, and one other person: Adrian Monk. You havent heard of me, but if you live in San Francisco and you watch the news or read the paper, youve probably heard of Monk, because he is famous. Hes a brilliant detective who solves murders that have baffled the police, which amazes me, since he is utterly incapable of handling the simplest aspects of day-to-day life. If thats the price of genius, them Im glad Im not one. Usually taking care of Monk is just a day job, but that changed the week termites were found in his apartment building. By Monk, of course. He spotted a pinprick-sized hole in a piece of siding and knew it was fresh. He knew because he keeps track of all the irregularities in the siding. When I asked him why he does that, he looked at me quizzically and said, "Doesnt everybody?" Thats Monk for you. Since Monks building was going to be tented and fumigated, his landlord told him hed have to stay with friends or go to a hotel for a couple of days. That was a problem, because the only friends Monk has are Capt. Leland Stottlemeyer and Lt. Randy Disher of the San Francisco Police Department and me. But Im not really his friend so much as I am his employee, and, considering how little he pays me to drive him around and run his errands, Im barely that. I went to Stottlemeyer first, since he used to be Monks partner on the force, and asked if hed take him in. But Stottlemeyer said his wife would leave him if he brought Monk home. Stottlemeyer said hed leave, too, if Monk showed up. I went to Disher next, but he lives in a one-bedroom apartment, so there wasnt room for another person, though I have a feeling he would have found some room if it were me who needed a place to stay. Or any other woman under the age of thirty with a pulse. So Monk and I started to look for a hotel. That wouldnt be a big deal for most people, but Adrian Monk isnt like most people. Look at how he dresses. He wears his shirts buttoned up to the neck. They have to be 100 percent cotton, off-white, with exactly eight buttons, a size-sixteen neck and a thirty-two sleeve. All even numbers. Make a note of that; its important. His pants are pleated and cuffed, with eight belt loops (most pants have seven, so his have to be specially tailored), a thirty-four waist, and thirty-four length, but after the pantlegs are cuffed, the inseam is thirty-two. His shoes, all twelve identical pairs, are brown and a size ten. More even numbers. Its no accident or coincidence. This stuff really matters to him. Hes obviously got an obsessive-compulsive disorder of some kind. I dont know exactly what kind because Im not a nurse, like his previous assistant, Sharona, who left him abruptly to remarry her ex-husband (who, I hear, wasnt such a great guy, but after working with Monk for a short time, I understand why that wouldnt really matter. If I had an ex-husband I could return to, I would). I have no professional qualifications whatsoever. My last job before this one was bartending, but Ive also worked as a waitress, yoga instructor, housesitter, and blackjack dealer, among other things. But I know from talking to Stottlemeyer that Monk wasnt always so bad. Monks condition became a lot worse after his wife was murdered a few years ago. I can truly sympathize with that. My husband, Mitch, a fighter pilot, was killed in Kosovo, and I went kind of nuts for a long time myself. Not Monk nuts, of course--normal nuts. Maybe thats why Monk and I get along better than anybody (particularly me) ever thought we would. Sure, he irritates me, but I know a lot of his peculiarities come from a deep and unrelenting heartbreak that nobody, and I mean nobody, should ever have to go through. So I cut him a lot of slack, but even I have my limits. Which brings me back to finding a hotel room for Monk. To begin with, we could look only at four-star hotels, because four is an even number, and a place with only two stars couldnt possibly meet Monks standard of cleanliness. He wouldnt put his dog in a two-star hotel--if he had a dog, which he doesnt, and never would, because dogs are animals who lick themselves and drink out of toilets. The first place we went to on that rainy Friday was the Belmont in Union Square, one of the finest hotels in San Francisco. Monk insisted on visiting every vacant room the grand old Belmont had before deciding which one to occupy. He looked only at even-numbered rooms on even-numbered floors, of course. Although the rooms were identically furnished and laid out the same way on every floor, he found something wrong with each one. For instance, one room didnt feel symmetrical enough. Another room was too symmetrical. One had no symmetry at all. All the bathrooms were decorated with some expensive floral wallpaper from Italy. But if the strips of wallpaper didnt line up just right, if the flowers and their stems didnt match up exactly on either side of the cut, Monk declared the room uninhabitable. By the tenth room, the hotel manager was guzzling little bottles of vodka from the minibar, and I was tempted to join him. Monk was on his knees, examining the wallpaper under the bathroom counter, wallpaper that nobody would ever see unless they were on their knees under the bathroom counter, and pointing out "a critical mismatch," and thats when I cracked. I couldnt take it anymore and I did something I never would have done if I hadnt been under extreme emotional and mental duress. I told Monk he could stay with us. I said it just to end my immediate suffering, not realizing in that instant of profound weakness the full, horrific ramifications of my actions. But before I could take it back, Monk immediately accepted my invitation, and the hotel manager nearly kissed me in gratitude. "But I dont want to hear any complaints about how my house is arranged or how dirty you think it is or how many critical mismatches there are," I said to Monk as we started down the stairs to the lobby. "Im sure its perfect," Monk said. "Thats exactly what Im talking about, Mr. Monk. Youre starting already." He looked at me blankly. "All I said was that Im sure its perfect. Most people would take that as the sincere compliment it was meant to be." "But most people dont mean perfect when they say perfect." "Of course they do," Monk said. "No, they mean pleasant, or nice, or comfortable. They dont actually mean perfect in the sense that everything will be, well, perfect. You do." "Give me some credit." Monk shook his head. I gaped at him in disbelief. "You wouldnt stay in that hotel room we just saw because the floral pattern of the wallpaper didnt match under the sink." "Thats different," he said. "That was a safety issue." "How could that possibly be a safety issue?" I said. "It reveals shoddy craftsmanship. If they were that haphazard with wallpaper, imagine what the rest of the construction work was like," Monk said. "I bet a mild earthquake is all it would take to bring this entire building down." "The building is going to fall because the wallpaper doesnt match up?" "This place should be condemned." We reached the lobby and Monk stood still. "What?" I said. "We should warn the others," Monk said. "What others?" I asked. "The hotel guests," Monk said. "They should be informed of the situation." "That the wallpaper doesnt match," I said. "Its a safety issue," he said. "Ill call them later." I didnt bother arguing with him. Frankly I was just relieved to get out of the hotel without stumbling over a dead body. I know that sounds ridiculous, but when youre with Adrian Monk, corpses have a way of turning up all over the place. But, as I would soon find out, it was only a temporary reprieve. * * * * * * Monk lived in a Deco-style apartment building on Pine, a twilight zone of affordability that straddled the northernmost edge of the Western District, with its upper-middle-class families, and the southwest corner of Pacific Heights, with its old money, elaborately ornate Victorians and lush gardens high above the city. On this sunny Saturday morning, Monk was waiting for me on the rain-slicked sidewalk, watching the uniformed nannies from Pacific Heights and Juicy Coutured housewives from the Western District pushing babies in Peg Perego strollers up and down the hill to Alta Plaza park and its views of the marina, the bay, and the Golden Gate. Monk stood with two large, identical suitcases, one on either side of him, a forlorn expression on his face. He wore his brown, four-button overcoat, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets, w Details ISBN0451217292 Author Lee Goldberg Short Title MR MONK GOES TO THE FIREHOUSE Language English ISBN-10 0451217292 ISBN-13 9780451217295 Media Book Year 2006 Residence NJ, US Birth 1962 Imprint Signet Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States DOI 10.1604/9780451217295 Series Monk Series Number 1 UK Release Date 2006-01-03 US Release Date 2006-01-03 Narrator Jonathan Glover Illustrator Tedd Arnold Death 1988 Affiliation Associate Professor of Psychiatry, Bipolar Clinic and Reseach Program, Massachusetts General Hospital Position Associate Professor of Psychiatry Qualifications U.S.M.C Pages 304 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Format Paperback Publication Date 2006-01-03 DEWEY 813.6 Audience General NZ Release Date 2006-01-02 AU Release Date 2006-01-02 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. 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