After ordering a beer, he leaned back in the captain's chair and calmly demanded double the price Dallas had offered.

"You've got to be kidding," Preston said. "That's extortion."

"No, it's murder," Monk countered. "Bigger risk means bigger money."

"It isn't… murder," Cameron said. "This is a special case."

"What's so special about it?" Monk asked. "You want me to kill John's wife, don't you? Or was I mistaken?"

"No, but…"

"But what, Cameron? Does it bother you that I'm being blunt? I could use another word for murder if you want, but that won't change what you're hiring me to do." He shrugged and then said, "I want more money."

"We've already made you a very rich man," John pointed out.

"Yes, you have."

"Listen, asshole, we agreed on a price," Preston shouted, then looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard.

"Yes, we did," Monk replied. He seemed totally unaffected by the burst of anger. "But you didn't explain what you wanted done, did you? Imagine my surprise when I talked to Dallas and found out the details."

"What did Dallas tell you?" Cameron wanted to know.

"That there was a problem you all wanted eliminated. Now that I know what the problem is, I'm doubling the price. I think that's quite reasonable. The risk is more substantial."

Silence followed the statement. Then Cameron said, "I'm tapped out. Where are we going to come up with the rest of the money?"

"That's my problem, not yours," John said. He turned to Monk then. "I'll even throw in an additional ten thousand if you'll agree to wait until after the will is read to get paid."

Monk tilted his head. "An extra ten thousand. Sure, I'll wait. I know where to find you. Now give me the details. I know who you want killed, so why don't you tell me when, where, and how much you want her to suffer."

John was shaken. He cleared his throat, gulped down half a glass of beer, and whispered, "Oh, God, no. I don't want her to suffer. She's been suffering."

"She's terminally ill," Cameron explained.

John nodded. "There isn't any hope for her. I can't stand to see her in so much pain. It's… constant,never ending. I…" He was too emotionally distraught to continue.

Cameron quickly took over. "When John started talking crazy about killing himself, we knew we had to do something to help."

Monk motioned him to be quiet as the waitress walked toward them. She placed another round of beers on the table and told them she'd be back in a minute to take their dinner orders.

As soon as she walked away, Monk said, "Look, John. I didn't realize your wife was sick. I guess I sounded a little cold. Sorry about that."

"Sorry enough to cut your price down?" Preston asked.

"No, I'm not that sorry."

"So are you going to do it, or what?" John asked

impatiently.

"It's intriguing," Monk said. "I would actually be doing a good deed, wouldn't I?"

He asked for the particulars about the wife's unfortunate condition and also wanted to know about the living situation inside the house. As John was answering his questions, Monk leaned forward and spread his hands in front of him. His fingernails were perfectly manicured, the pads smooth, callus free. He stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought, as if he were constructing the details of the job in his head.

After John finished describing the floor plan, the alarm system, and the maids' daily routine, he tensely waited for more questions.

"So, the maid goes home each night. What about the housekeeper?"

"Rosa… Rosa Vincetti is her name," John said. "She stays until ten every night, except for Mondays, when I'm usually home so she can leave by six."

"Any friends or relatives I need to be concerned about?'

John shook his head. "Catherine cut her friends off years ago. She doesn't like visitors. She's embarrassed about her… condition."

"What about relatives?"

"There's one uncle and a couple of cousins, but she's all but severed ties with them. Says they're white trash. The uncle calls once a month. She tries to be polite, but she doesn't stay on the phone long. It tires her."

"Does this uncle ever stop by uninvited?"

"No. She hasn't seen him in years. You don't have to worry about him."

"Then I won't," Monk said smoothly.

"I don't want her to suffer… I mean, when you actually… is that possible?"

"Of course it is," Monk said. "I have a compassionate nature. I'm not a monster. Believe it or not, I have strong values and unbendable ethics," he boasted, and none of the four dared laugh at the contradiction. A hired killer with ethics? Insane, yes, yet they all sagely nodded agreement. If Monk had told them he could walk on water, they would have pretended to believe him.

When Monk finished discussing his virtues and got down to the business at hand, he told John he didn't believe in cruel or unnecessary pain, and even though he'd promised that there would be little suffering during "the event," he suggested, just as a precaution, that John increase the amount of painkillers his wife took before bed. Nothing else was to change. John was to set the alarm as he did every night before retiring, and then he was to go to his room and stay there. Monk guaranteed, with an assurance they all found obscenely comforting, that she would be dead by morning.

He was a man of his word. He killed her during the night. How he had gotten inside the house and out again without setting off the alarm was beyond John's comprehension. There were audio and motion detectors inside and video cameras surveying the outside, but the ethereal Monk had entered the premises without being seen or heard, and had quickly and efficiently dispatched the long-suffering woman into oblivion.

To prove that he had been there, he placed a rose on the pillow next to her, just as he had told John he would do, to erase any doubt as to who should receive credit and final payment for the kill. John removed the rose before he called for help.

John agreed to an autopsy so there wouldn't be any questions raised later. The pathology report indicated she had choked to death on chocolates. A clump of chocolate-covered caramel the size of a jawbreaker was found lodged in her esophagus. There were bruises around her neck, but it was assumed that they were self-inflicted as she attempted to dislodge the obstacle while she was suffocating. The death was ruled accidental; the file was officially closed, and the body was released for burial.

Because of her considerable bulk, it would have taken at least eight strong pallbearers to carry her coffin, which the funeral director delicately explained would have to be specially built. With a rather embarrassed and certainly pained expression, he told the widower in so many words that it simply wouldn't be possible to squeeze all of the deceased into one of their ready-made, polished mahogany, satin-lined coffins. He suggested that it would be more prudent to cremate the body, and the husband readily agreed.

The service was a private affair attended by a handful of John's relatives and a few close friends. Cameron came, but Preston and Dallas begged off. Catherine's housekeeper was there, and John could hear Rosa's wailing as he left the church. He saw her in the vestibule, clutching her rosary beads and glaring at him with her damn-you-to-hell-for-your-sins stare. John dismissed the nearly hysterical woman without a backward glance.

Two mourners from Catherine's side of the family also came, but they walked behind the others as the pitifully small group marched in procession toward the mausoleum. John kept glancing over his shoulder at the man and woman. He had the distinct feeling they were staring at him, but when he realized how nervous they were making him, he turned his back on them and bowed his head.