never watched television. He felt he was far too intelligent to stare at the trash the networks put out to numb the already numb minds of beer-guzzling couch potatoes.

This movie had been different. And vastly amusing. The film had just begun playing when he'd broken into the victim's bedroom. He still remembered every detail from that night. The pink-and-white-striped wallpaper with the tiny pink rosebuds, the assortment of stuffed animals on the client's bed, the pink frilly curtains. She had been the youngest client he had ever taken on, but that fact hadn't bothered him much at all. A job, after all, was simply that. A job. All he cared about was getting it done and getting it done right.

The music from the video, he recalled, had been blaring. The client had been awake, half-stoned on a joint she'd just smoked.

The air smelled sweet, heavy. She was dressed in a short blue T-shirt, her back against pillows and the headboard of the pink canopy bed, a super-sized bag of Doritos in her lap. She mindlessly stared at the screen, unaware of his presence. He'd murdered the teenage girl with the acne-ravaged face and the oily brown hair as a special favor-and for twenty-five thousand-so that good old Dad could collect on a three-hundred-thousand-dollar policy he'd taken out on his only child six months before. The policy had a double indemnity clause, which meant that if the cause of death was proven to be accidental, Dad would receive double the face value. Monk had gone to great lengths to make the murder look accidental so that he would receive double his fee. The father had been most appreciative of his work, of course, and although it hadn't been necessary to explain why he wanted his daughter murdered-the money was all Monk was interested in-he confessed that he was desperate to get the loan sharks off his back and was only doing what he had to do.

Ah, fatherly love. Nothing like it in the world.

While he was killing her, he listened to the dialogue from the movie, and within a minute or two, he was captivated. He shoved

the deceased's feet out of his way, sat down on the foot of the bed, and watched the movie until the last credits came on, all the while munching on Doritos.

He had just stood up to leave when he heard the garage door opening. He'd gotten away in the nick of time, but now, thinking about the foolish risk he'd taken, he realized how fortunate he'd been. What lesson had he learned from that experience? Get in and get out as quickly as possible.

Monk believed he'd vastly improved since those early murders. He'd dispatched Catherine without any problems at all.

He glanced up at the doctor's bedroom window again. She was staying up much later than he'd expected, but then, she was entertaining a man. When Monk had followed her to The Swan, he'd spotted the man in the crowd of loud, crass teenagers.

He'd only gotten a brief look at his face and shoulders. The adolescents completely surrounded him as they shouted to get his attention. They were calling him Coach.

Expect the unexpected. He'd called Dallas, read the license plate number on the rental car, and asked for a thorough background check.

The light finally went out in her bedroom. Monk waited another half hour to make certain she had gone to bed before he quietly made his way down the side of the gravel road to where he'd hidden his vehicle. He drove back to the motel in St. Claire, listened to the tape he had made of her phone calls, disappointed there was nothing significant there, set his alarm clock, and finally went to bed.

There were definite perks to carrying government credentials and knowing people in high places. By ten o'clock in the morning, Theo had all the information he needed on the Carson brothers. What he had learned about the con artists pissed the hell out of him. He also had the writs and the filings ready, thanks to his eager interns and a guaranteed-on-time courier service.

What Theo planned to do wasn't all that conventional and could possibly be thrown out in a court of law, but he wasn't concerned about that now. He hoped to have Daryl's problem with the sugar mill resolved before the brothers wised up, and from what he had learned about the two attorneys the brothers kept on a monthly retainer, they were little league players who wouldn't figure out they had been manipulated until after the fact.

Theo also had another advantage that he'd never used until today. As a member of the Justice Department, he could strike as much fear into the hearts of small-time criminals as the IRS.

He was whistling while he fixed breakfast. Michelle walked into the kitchen just as he was putting the utensils on the table.

She looked good enough to eat. Dressed in tight, faded blue jeans that emphasized her long legs and a snug white T-shirt that ended just above her navel, she looked sexier to him than she had the night before, and he hadn't thought that was possible. Heaven help him, the woman just kept getting better and better.

He handed her a glass of juice. "Want to have some fun?"

Those weren't the first words she expected to hear. "What kind of fun?" she asked cautiously.

"Sugar mill fun."

She couldn't believe she was actually a little disappointed. "Oh. Yes… yes, of course. May I help?"

"Sure you can, but eat your breakfast first. I've got it all ready for you. I like cooking," he added enthusiastically, as though he'd only just realized that fact. "It relaxes me."

She glanced at the table and laughed. "Opening a box of cereal and getting the milk out of the fridge isn't cooking."

"I made coffee too," he boasted.

"Which, translated, means you pushed the button. I got it ready last night."

He pulled out a chair for her, got a whiff of her perfume, and wanted to get closer. He moved back instead and leaned against the sink. "You look nice today."

She tugged on the hem of her T-shirt. "You don't think this top is a little tight?"

"Why do you think I said you look nice?"

"Every time I put it on, I take it off and find some-

thing else to wear. It's the latest fashion," she added defensively. "My friend Mary Ann gave it to me, and she told me my

belly button is supposed to show."

He pulled his faded navy blue T-shirt up until his navel was showing. "If it's in fashion, I'm in."

"I'll change," she said, prying her attention away from his hard, flat stomach. The man was disgustingly fit, which was a miracle considering the amount of junk food he ate.

"I like what you're wearing," he protested.

"I'm changing," she said again. Then she shook her head. "It's difficult… trying to get comfortable in my skin these days."

"What do you mean?"

"I spent so many years trying not to look like a girl."

He thought she was joking and laughed.

"It's true," she said. "When I was in medical school, I did everything I could to downplay the obvious fact that I was a woman."

Astonished, he asked, "Why would you do that?"

"The head of one department was extremely prejudiced against female doctors and did everything he could to make our lives miserable. He was such a creep," she added. "He and his buddies would go out drinking with the male students, but only after he had loaded the female students down with research assignments and extra work. I didn't care about that, but I didn't like having to jump through twice as many hoops as the male students. Complaining would have made the situation worse. The only alternative for a female student was to drop out, which was exactly what the head of the department wanted."

She suddenly smiled. "One night, while some of the other women and I were getting zonkered on mar-garitas, we figured it all out."