explaining everything from the coffeemaker to the phone system to the proper way to greet the walk-in clientele, which was for him to sit there and say as little as possible.
After the orientation, he settled himself at his desk and methodically began to review the file that Lieutenant Devlin had dropped off for the Noone triple murder. I was quite proud of him—and of myself for thinking through all the possibilities. That was just minutes before Luther showed up, dropping off the HEPA filter backpack vacuum cleaner and the noise-canceling earmuffs.
“You’re doing this to annoy me, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. This place is filthy.”
“Filthy?” I pointed to the machine’s clear plastic canister. “You’ve been vacuuming for an hour and how much have you cleaned?” I eyed the contents. “Maybe half an ounce of dust. Max.”
“Half an ounce?” Monk looked aghast. “I think I’m going to vomit.”
“No, you’re not.” I kept my voice controlled. “You’re going to put that contraption in the closet and get back to work. If you’re good all day and behave yourself, then maybe I’ll let you do a little dusting before we leave. Maybe.”
Monk met my gaze, worked out the percentages of just how angry I was, and did as he was told. I took the extra precaution of locking the cleaning closet.
“I did do it to annoy you,” he admitted. “That was wrong,Natalie. The office is very clean and well-ordered, and I appreciate everything you’ve done to make our agency a going concern. This feels like a real, grown-up business. And I don’t know anyone else who would do what you’ve done for me. Thank you.”
It was actually quite touching and just what I needed to hear. “Thank you, Adrian.”
“This is going to be great,” he said, trying to convince us both.
“I appreciate your openness to change. I know you’re trying.”
“Good. Can I dust now?”
“No.”
* * *
Around noon, we had our Spam sandwiches—rectangular slices of meat on rectangular slices of bread with the crusts cut off and rectangular-cut leaves of lettuce. I’d never eaten Spam before thanks to Anita, the family cook who would never let us eat anything out of a can. The only thing I knew was the urban legend that it tastes like human flesh. Spam is actually not bad, although I can’t confirm or deny that it tastes like flesh.
We were washing down the sandwiches with our bottles of Fiji Water when Lieutenant Devlin walked in. She looked around, congratulated us on our new business, and took a moment to inspect my shiny, new PI license on the wall. Despite her smile, an unusual expression for her, I could see the worry in her eyes.
“I just happened to be the neighborhood,” she said.
“In this neighborhood?” Monk asked. “Why were you in this neighborhood?”
“Just happened to be.”
“Why?” Monk insisted.
“Can’t I be in the neighborhood?”
“First off, it’s a terrible neighborhood, with a pawnshop and a Laundromat in the same complex. Second, you live on the other side of town, if I’m not mistaken. The precinct house is twelve blocks in your direction, so this is on your way to nowhere.” He pointed outside. “Third, I can see the GPS suctioned onto your windshield, which you only do when you’re trying to find an address. Otherwise it’s in your glove box.”
“Maybe I wasn’t in the neighborhood.”
“There used to be a decent sandwich shop here,” Monk allowed. “That’s what I heard. But it went out of business and someone rented the space for a seedy detective agency—no offense.”
“I made a special trip. Okay? You caught me.” Devlin lowered her lanky frame into the client chair, facing our desks and spaced perfectly evenly between them. The first person to ever sit there, I noted. “The Noone investigation isn’t going well.”
Devlin had been working nonstop with nothing to show for it. Despite an exhaustive search, the suspect had not been in the building
After the orientation, he settled himself at his desk and methodically began to review the file that Lieutenant Devlin had dropped off for the Noone triple murder. I was quite proud of him—and of myself for thinking through all the possibilities. That was just minutes before Luther showed up, dropping off the HEPA filter backpack vacuum cleaner and the noise-canceling earmuffs.
“You’re doing this to annoy me, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. This place is filthy.”
“Filthy?” I pointed to the machine’s clear plastic canister. “You’ve been vacuuming for an hour and how much have you cleaned?” I eyed the contents. “Maybe half an ounce of dust. Max.”
“Half an ounce?” Monk looked aghast. “I think I’m going to vomit.”
“No, you’re not.” I kept my voice controlled. “You’re going to put that contraption in the closet and get back to work. If you’re good all day and behave yourself, then maybe I’ll let you do a little dusting before we leave. Maybe.”
Monk met my gaze, worked out the percentages of just how angry I was, and did as he was told. I took the extra precaution of locking the cleaning closet.
“I did do it to annoy you,” he admitted. “That was wrong,Natalie. The office is very clean and well-ordered, and I appreciate everything you’ve done to make our agency a going concern. This feels like a real, grown-up business. And I don’t know anyone else who would do what you’ve done for me. Thank you.”
It was actually quite touching and just what I needed to hear. “Thank you, Adrian.”
“This is going to be great,” he said, trying to convince us both.
“I appreciate your openness to change. I know you’re trying.”
“Good. Can I dust now?”
“No.”
* * *
Around noon, we had our Spam sandwiches—rectangular slices of meat on rectangular slices of bread with the crusts cut off and rectangular-cut leaves of lettuce. I’d never eaten Spam before thanks to Anita, the family cook who would never let us eat anything out of a can. The only thing I knew was the urban legend that it tastes like human flesh. Spam is actually not bad, although I can’t confirm or deny that it tastes like flesh.
We were washing down the sandwiches with our bottles of Fiji Water when Lieutenant Devlin walked in. She looked around, congratulated us on our new business, and took a moment to inspect my shiny, new PI license on the wall. Despite her smile, an unusual expression for her, I could see the worry in her eyes.
“I just happened to be the neighborhood,” she said.
“In this neighborhood?” Monk asked. “Why were you in this neighborhood?”
“Just happened to be.”
“Why?” Monk insisted.
“Can’t I be in the neighborhood?”
“First off, it’s a terrible neighborhood, with a pawnshop and a Laundromat in the same complex. Second, you live on the other side of town, if I’m not mistaken. The precinct house is twelve blocks in your direction, so this is on your way to nowhere.” He pointed outside. “Third, I can see the GPS suctioned onto your windshield, which you only do when you’re trying to find an address. Otherwise it’s in your glove box.”
“Maybe I wasn’t in the neighborhood.”
“There used to be a decent sandwich shop here,” Monk allowed. “That’s what I heard. But it went out of business and someone rented the space for a seedy detective agency—no offense.”
“I made a special trip. Okay? You caught me.” Devlin lowered her lanky frame into the client chair, facing our desks and spaced perfectly evenly between them. The first person to ever sit there, I noted. “The Noone investigation isn’t going well.”
Devlin had been working nonstop with nothing to show for it. Despite an exhaustive search, the suspect had not been in the building
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