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solve crimes without time and manpower. The city eventually restored our overtime budget and the homicide rate fell, but history is repeating itself now. Murders are up twenty percent from last year and our budget is being slashed.”
    Monk took the pitcher and carefully poured enough water into Stottlemeyer’s glass to bring the water level even with his own glass.
    “You can’t recall the stats but you’ve got all the excuses down cold,” Braddock said.
    “I easily forget statistics but I never forget when my detectives are treated badly.”
    “Do you know what the SFPD’s homicide closure rate was when Mr. Monk was still on the force?” Braddock asked.
    “No, but I bet you do,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “It was seventy-seven percent,” Braddock said. “And Mr. Monk himself had a hundred and twenty percent closure rate.”
    “A hundred and twenty percent?” a female detective said from the audience. “How is that even possible?”
    “I solved my own cases and ones that weren’t assigned to me,” Monk said.
    “Like you do now,” Braddock said.
    “I like to keep busy,” Monk said.
    “How interesting,” Braddock said. “What is your personal case-closure rate, Captain?”
    “I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s less than his and I am not ashamed to admit that,” Stottlemeyer said. “Monk is the best detective I have ever known, perhaps the best ever. He could outperform anybody in this room. We’re lucky to have him.”
    “That’s an understatement,” Braddock said. “Right now, your closure rate is the envy of every department in the country. But without Adrian Monk, what would it be?”
    Monk leaned close to the captain. “Would this be a bad time to ask for a raise?”
    He didn’t mean it as a joke, because he doesn’t have a sense of humor, but that was how the audience took it anyway. They broke into uproarious laughter that drowned out the exchange between Monk and Stottlemeyer that followed. But I heard it.
    “I don’t get it,” Monk said. “What’s the joke?”
    “Me,” Stottlemeyer said. He picked up Monk’s glass and drank all of his water.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Mr. Monk Has Good Friends
     
    T here was no way Monk could drink out of his glass again and Stottlemeyer knew it. The only recourse Monk had was to keep both glasses filled at the same level no matter which glass the captain drank from.
    That plan might have worked if Stottlemeyer hadn’t taken the pitcher of water and emptied it into one of the potted plants behind them.
    Now all Monk could do was pray that the captain wouldn’t dare knock the entire universe out of balance by taking a sip of water from either glass.
    But the fear that Stottlemeyer might do it anyway virtually paralyzed Monk, who couldn’t take his eyes off the glasses, as if he were willing the water to harden into solid ice.
    Luckily, someone in the audience stood up and asked Monk and Stottlemeyer to talk about some of their most unusual and puzzling cases, so the interview ended on a more or less positive note before Braddock could get another dig in.
    “All in all, I think that went well,” Monk said as we left the hotel and stepped onto Powell Street.
    Stottlemeyer nodded. “Compared to being burned at the stake, tarred and feathered, or stoned to death, I suppose it did.”
    “You seemed a bit edgy,” Monk said.
    “Did I?”
    “Things got a little dicey with the water but I had your back,” Monk said. “You could have been humiliated in front of all your colleagues.”
    “I’m glad that didn’t happen,” Stottlemeyer said. “Thanks for sparing me any embarrassment.”
    Monk was oblivious to the captain’s sarcasm, so it was probably unavoidable that whatever he said next would only make things worse.
    “Think nothing of it,” Monk said. “That’s what friends are for.”
    Stottlemeyer turned to me. “I appreciate you asking that question about our most interesting cases.”
    “It was either that or throw something at your