Mr. Monk Gets Even by Lee Goldberg

said. “There’s nothing at all linking these two cases.”
    “Three,” Monk said. “There’s also Grossman.”
    “We don’t know that he was killed by a friend,” Devlin said.
    “But all three murders were staged to look like accidents.”
    “That doesn’t mean they were committed by the same guy,” Devlin said. “Or do you have a piece of lint or a dust particle or a bread crumb that proves otherwise?”
    “Nothing but a feeling,” Monk said.
    “It’s probably gas,” Devlin said.
    “Impossible!” Monk said.
    “You never have gas?” Devlin asked.
    “Of course not. I’d die first, if not immediately afterward.”
    “Gas isn’t fatal,” Devlin said.
    “Tell that to the countless species that were driven to extinction in the Mesozoic era due to massive and uncontrolled dinosaur flatulence.”
    Devlin stared at him. “You are making that up.”
    “A comprehensive report published by the journal Current Biology calculated that plant-eating dinosaurs produced five hundred seventy-two million tons of methane per year, almost as much as all of today’s natural and man-made producers of the greenhouse gases combined,” Monk said. “Their deadly emissions created catastrophic global warming that wiped out scores of creatures. It was a flatulence Armageddon.”
    “Even if there was a doomsday fart, I don’t think you have to worry about that now,” Devlin said. “Passing gas isn’t deadly.”
    “It is if you have any shame,” Monk said. “And I have plenty.”
    He turned and went into Carin Branham’s house.
    Devlin looked at Julie. “How can you stand to be with him all day?”
    “He pays me,” she said.
    “It can’t possibly be enough,” Devlin said, and then the two women followed Monk inside.
    The house was clean and contemporary. It had obviously been extensively renovated. Several walls had been removed to open up the state-of-the-art kitchen to the family room, which had a huge flat-screen TV and floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases with lighted niches to display awards, knickknacks, and antiques.
    The shelves were full of hardcover and paperback books, a small law library, bound journals, and binder-style photo albums, though everything was distinctly organized by type of binding, which I’m sure was something that Monk appreciated.
    Monk examined the books, but his attention was quickly drawn to the photo albums, which were on an upper shelf. He brought over a nearby stepladder and tentatively climbed up while gripping the shelf for dear life.
    “He isn’t two feet off the ground,” Devlin said to Julie as she observed Monk’s ascent.
    “He’s afraid of heights,” Julie said.
    “It’s two feet,” she said.
    “A fall from any height has the potential to break your neck,” Julie said. “I know a guy who broke both of his arms falling off a curb.”
    “Was this curb over a cliff?”
    “The point is, heights of any kind can be dangerous.”
    “You’re just arguing his side to mess with me.”
    “Yes,” Julie said. “I am. I have to do something to entertain myself.”
    Monk spoke up. “This shelf is very dusty.”
    “You’re not dusting the house,” Devlin said. “So if that’s what you’re thinking, you can forget it.”
    “The only place where there isn’t dust on this shelf is in front of this album,” Monk said, “suggesting to me that it was removed and replaced today.”
    He pulled the album out, an action that threw him off balance and sent him toppling off the stepladder. Julie bolted forward, catching his back with her hands and preventing him from falling.
    Monk regained his footing and took a deep breath.
    Devlin remained where she was, shaking her head.
    “Thank you, Julie. You saved my life,” Monk said.
    “I wouldn’t go that far,” Julie said.
    “If I’d continued to fall, I would have cracked my head open on the edge of the coffee table and, at the very least, suffered severe brain damage.”
    “Or actual decapitation,” Devlin