He also rearranges all my furniture, all the decorations on my walls, and all the books and knickknacks on my shelves so that everything is centered, balanced, and symmetrical, regardless of what my personal tastes might be.

I think some casual disarray demonstrates character and makes a place feel lived-in.

But if Monk comes across something that doesn’t fit in as he thinks it should, he throws it out, regardless of its monetary or sentimental value to me.

When he’s done, it’s still our stuff but the house doesn’t feel like we live there anymore. It looks like a model home for a family of androids.

That’s not even the worst of it.

As part of his cleaning, he goes through all my clothes, jewelry, medications, and toiletry items in detail, making me account for everything and justify its reason for being in my life, much less in my room, closet, or drawer.

I’m a pretty liberal and open person, and I spend most of my time with Monk, so it’s not like there’s much about me or my past that he doesn’t know anyway. But everybody likes to keep a part of themselves to themselves, no matter how small or insignificant that part might be. That’s impossible if you let Monk into your house, much less let him root around in your drawers.

My daughter, Julie, is at an age when she’s especially protective of her privacy and refuses to allow me into her room unless she’s in it, and even then I practically need to submit a request in writing along with a photo ID. She’d never forgive me if I let Monk into her room, though it’s not likely to happen. She has a hamster, and even though it’s in a cage, Monk is not about to enter her room unless he’s wearing a haz-mat suit with its own air supply.

Despite all the problems and aggravations that come with letting Monk clean my house, sometimes I give in to his nagging anyway. It happens when I’ve been really busy or really lazy or both, the dirty dishes and laundry have piled up, and there’s enough dust on the shelves that housecleaning would qualify as an archaeological dig.

The day after our visit to the university was one of those times.

The key to surviving a Monk housecleaning is not letting him do everything all at once. I strictly limit him to certain tasks or areas of the house, like cleaning the kitchen or doing the laundry. But even so, I still have to spend an agonizing amount of time and energy justifying things, like why I didn’t incinerate a stained blouse instead of keeping it in my closet, where it could contaminate my other clothes.

“It’s an old stain,” I said. “It’s not transferable.”

I was sitting at the kitchen table, doing some important reading in the Enquirer. I was catching up on which stars were “flabulous” without makeup and photographic trickery to hide their belly fat and cellulite.

“Once a piece of clothing is stained, it attracts other stains,” Monk said. “And insects. If you wear this, you’re just asking to be infested with lice.”

Monk was in the adjacent laundry room, wearing an apron and dishwashing gloves as he folded my clothes. He wore the gloves in case he accidentally came into contact with bras or panties. It took me months to convince him he didn’t need to wear protective goggles as well.

He pinched my blouse between his thumb and index finger and held it at arm’s length, his head turned away from the garment as if it had been soaked in urine and infected with smallpox.

“It’s one of my favorite blouses,” I said. “I’ve had it for years. I wear it when I’m hanging around the house or doing messy projects because I don’t have to worry about ruining it.”

“With that insane attitude, why even bother washing it at all? Why don’t you just roll around in dirt and excrement all day and hang it up again when you’re done?”

“Maybe I will,” I said, just to needle him a bit.

A moment later, I smelled smoke.

“What are you doing?” I whirled around to see him holding a lit match to the shirttail of my blouse, setting it aflame.

“Staging an intervention,” Monk said, dangling my burning shirt over the laundry room sink. “You’ll thank me later.”

“You can’t come into my house and burn my clothes,” I told him. “How would you like it if I did that to you?”

“I begged you to burn a pair of my pants last week and you refused.” He dropped the burning blouse into the sink before the flames could singe his fingers.

“I’m not going to incinerate a perfectly good pair of slacks because you found a cat hair on them,” I said.

“That hair could have been home to a thousand fleas,” Monk said.

“It wasn’t.”

“What if they are Africanized killer fleas? They could swarm my bed tonight and kill me in my sleep.”

“There is no such thing as Africanized killer fleas,” I said.

“There are Africanized killer bees,” he said. “Who knows how many other insects have been Africanized? When you take me home tonight, we have to stop on the way and get some mosquito netting to put around my bed.”

“Maybe you should get steel mesh instead.”

“Good thinking,” he said.

“What if poultry and livestock have been Africanized, too? How will you protect yourself from the hordes of Africanized killer chickens and Africanized killer cows?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Monk said.

“You’re the one who brought up Africanized killer fleas,” I said.

“Only to make an important point,” he said.

“That it’s okay for you to burn my stained clothes.”

Monk sighed with relief. “I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason.”

The phone rang and I reached for it desperately, like a drowning woman grabbing a life preserver.

“Hello, this is Natalie,” I said.

“It’s me,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ve got Monk’s check if you want to come down and get it. Otherwise, I can stick it in the mail to him.”

“Don’t move,” I said. “We’ll be right there.”

“There’s no hurry,” he said.

I turned my back to Monk, cupped a hand over my mouth and the receiver, and whispered, “If we leave right this second, I think I can stop Mr. Monk from incinerating all of my clothes.”

“You’re not letting him do your laundry, are you?”

“It’s your fault for not keeping him busy,” I said.

“That’s a big mistake. Let him wash your car or cut your grass instead,” Stottlemeyer said. “Otherwise, he could burn your house down.”

Lieutenant Disher was standing at the Mr. Coffee machine, staring forlornly into his open wallet as we walked into the Homicide Department squad room. He brightened when he saw us.

“Hey, can either of you break a twenty?” he asked.

“What for?” I replied.

“I need some change to buy a cup of coffee.”

“It’s free, Randy.”

“Not anymore,” he said.

I glanced past him at the coffee machine on the table. There was a collection box now amidst the dozens of stained and chipped mugs that belonged to the detectives. A sign on the box said, COFFEE: $1.50.

“The department is imposing budget cuts across the board,” Disher said. “It’s getting brutal. They’re even rationing our pens and pencils.”

“There’s a coffeehouse across the street,” Monk said.

“Have you seen what they charge? It’s cheaper to buy a tank of gas than a cup of their coffee,” Disher said. “That’s why I need some change.”

“I’m sorry; I can’t break a twenty,” Monk said. “Not in good conscience.”

I didn’t get it, so I gave him a look.

“Randy gives you a twenty and you give him the same amount back in smaller bills,” I said. “What’s immoral or unethical about that?”

“Because I would have to give him a ten, eight singles, and eight quarters, just to keep the things even. I don’t carry any five-dollar bills, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

Monk once wrote a petition demanding that the U.S. Mint remove the five-dollar bill from circulation and replace it with a four- or six-dollar bill. He’d stood for a week outside of a Wells Fargo bank soliciting signatures and got only one: mine. And that was given under extreme duress, so it doesn’t count.