Mr. Monk is a Mess by Lee Goldberg

Buffett doesn’t look like a billionaire, but he is,” the bartender said. “This guy didn’t dress rich, but he drank Cristal like it was mineral water. So maybe he was incognito or just one of those rich guys who like to come across like a regular Joe.”
    “Did she leave with him?”
    “She always leaves with them,” the bartender said.
    “Was she a hooker?”
    “We don’t have hookers at the Belmont,” he said.
    “Of course not,” I said.
    He frowned at me and went off to tend to another customer, leaving me with some questions to ponder. I knew more about Michelle than I did before, assuming we were both talking about the same redhead. Still, knowing she was a hooker who picked up guys at the Belmont didn’t explain what she was doing in my house.
    But I was too tired to do much thinking beyond that. I finished off my wine, and the almonds, and went back to my room.

CHAPTER TEN
    Mr. Monk Gets a Call
    T he bed was incredible. It was soft and warm with lots of fluffy pillows. I could easily have slept in until noon if my cell phone hadn’t started ringing promptly at eight in the morning.
    I put a pillow over my head to muffle the ringing until my voice mail snagged the call. The ringing stopped and I started to fall back to sleep. But whoever it was kept calling back every few minutes, unwilling to settle for leaving me a message, repeatedly waking me up just as I was falling off the precipice into sweet slumber.
    I finally gave up and reached for the phone before I remembered that I’d left it charging on the desk across the room. That meant that I had to actually leave the bedded bliss of my linen cocoon to go get it.
    Now I was pissed.
    I got up, marched to the desk, and grabbed the phone, half tempted to throw it across the room, but when I saw the name on the caller ID, it took the edge off my anger.
    The caller was Ambrose, Monk’s agoraphobic brother, who’d only stepped out of their childhood home in Marin County maybe four or five times in the last thirty-some years. He’d left once because his house was set on fire and another time because he was poisoned, both instances related to one of Monk’s murder investigations. Ambrose’s most recent venture outdoors was on his last birthday. Monk and I kidnapped him and took him on a road trip in a motor home, which turned out pretty well, even though Ambrose almost got killed again by murderers. It was enough to make an average man never want to leave the house, not to mention Ambrose, but there were no hard feelings. Ambrose even bought the motor home that we’d rented, though he’d yet to venture anywhere in it.
    “Hello, Ambrose,” I said.
    “I’m so glad I got you, Natalie. I need to see Adrian right away.”
    It was an emergency. I knew it because he didn’t bother to say hello and he was always polite and courteous. There was also a frantic undercurrent in his voice.
    “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
    “I’ll tell you when you get here,” he said. “But it’s a matter of life and death.”
    “Then call 911,” I said. “Don’t wait for us.”
    “They can’t help me. Only he can. Please hurry.”
    And with that, he hung up.
    I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, wondering what could be wrong, and if the situation was truly so dire, why Ambrose couldn’t tell me about it over the phone.
    That raised another question. If he was so eager for Monk’s help, why didn’t he call his brother directly instead of calling me?
    And why wasn’t Yuki Nakamura, his live-in assistant and girlfriend, whom he met on our road trip, there to help?
    It was odd. Then again, most things involving the Monk brothers usually were.
    I checked out of the Belmont, retrieved my car from the valet, and headed straight to a car wash. Whatever Ambrose’s emergency might be, it would have to wait a little while longer. Monk would never get in my messy car if he saw it in the light of day.
    Once the car was thoroughly cleaned, I went over to