Monk wagged a finger at him. “I see right through you.”

“Do you?” Stottlemeyer got up and closed the door. “Then you know what I’m going to say.”

I didn’t like the tone of his voice when he closed the door or the look on his face when he turned around.

“You’re going thank me now instead of later,” Monk said. “But you don’t have to. Just the joy of having this Diaper Genie in my life is thanks enough.”

“I was going to talk with you about this later, but since you’re here, I suppose that now is as bad a time as any.”

“I believe the correct phrase is ‘as good a time as any,’” Monk said.

“Not for what I have to tell you,” Stottlemeyer said. “The department has cut my budget to the bone. For weeks, I’ve been looking for ways to save money without having to pass on too much of the pain to my detectives. But I’m out of creative compromises and I’ve got to make some hard choices.”

“I’m sure the men will understand that,” Monk said.

“It’s you that I’m concerned about. I’m afraid that I have to cancel our consulting agreement.”

There was no hint anytime before that Monk’s contract was in jeopardy. And yet now, barely more than a day after Braddock used Monk’s success to humiliate Stottlemeyer, suddenly the agreement was canceled. I didn’t think it was a coincidence.

I felt a flush of anger rising in my checks.

Monk blinked hard. “Aren’t I doing a good job?”

“You are,” Stottlemeyer said. “An exceptional one, in fact.”

“Then how can you let him go?” I said.

“Because I have to think of my detectives first,” Stottlemeyer said. “How would it look if I kept him on while they lose their overtime and vacation pay?”

“It would look like you were doing what’s best for the people of San Francisco,” I said. “Or have you forgotten that Mr. Monk is a better homicide detective than all of your detectives combined?”

It was a low blow, but he deserved it. Besides, it was the truth and he knew it, which was the real reason Monk was getting sacked.

And me, too. If Monk didn’t get paid, then neither would I.

Stottlemeyer got in my face. It’s what cops do to intimidate perps. But I held my ground and my gaze. I was determined that it wouldn’t work with me.

“That may be true. But here’s the reality: They are cops and he isn’t,” he said. “And I’ll tell you something else. While they were all out there walking a picket line a couple of years ago, Monk was sitting behind my desk, scabbing. Maybe you’ve forgotten that, but they sure as hell haven’t.”

“Apparently, neither have you,” I said. “This is payback.”

We were so close our noses were almost touching.

“What I’m saying is that I can’t take money out of their pocket and put it in his. I just can’t.”

“Oh spare me, Captain. This isn’t about the strike or budget cuts; it’s about what happened at the conference,” I said. “It’s about your pride.”

“I’m disappointed in you,” he said. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

“So did I.”

We glowered at each other for a long moment, neither of us blinking. I could make out the edges of his contacts.

Monk cleared his throat to get our attention and to remind us that he was still in the room. “The captain is right.”

“No, he’s not,” I said, maintaining my glower. My eyes were beginning to sting from not blinking.

“Hiring me was always an act of charity and pity,” Monk said, “and that’s not a luxury the police can afford anymore.”

“It was never like that, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, breaking his gaze with me to look at him. I stole a few quick blinks in case we had another stare-down. “I brought you in because you’re the best detective I’ve ever known. But unfortunately, the best is out of our price range right now.”

“I understand,” Monk said. “That’s why I’ll do it for free until the department can afford me again.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Neither can I,” I said.

Stottlemeyer glanced at me. “It’s nice to know that we can still agree about something.”

The door flew open and Disher practically leapt into the room.

“Judge Clarence Stanton was just gunned down in Golden Gate Park,” Disher said. “He’s dead.”

“And the shooter?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“In the wind,” Disher said.

“Damn,” Stottlemeyer said. “Get every available man down there now. I need statements from anybody who might have seen anything.”

“We’ll follow you down,” Monk said.

“No, you won’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “Didn’t you hear anything that I just told you?”

“You said you need every available man,” Monk said. “I’m available.”

“Not to us,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m sorry.”

He hurried out with Disher and nearly every detective in the room.

Monk looked at me.

“I feel like a walk in the park,” he said. “How about you?”

“You’ve been fired, Mr. Monk. You’re not welcome at the crime scene.”

“It’s still a public park,” Monk said. “And I’m a member of the public.”

“You don’t want to do this,” I said.

But I knew there was no stopping him.

The crime scene was a jogging path located between a small lake and a densely wooded section of Golden Gate Park, which was once a thousand acres of sandy, windswept wasteland before it was transformed in the late 1800s into a lushly landscaped oasis.

With dense groves of pine and eucalyptus trees, several lakes, thousands of flowers, and wide, grassy fields, it’s a terrific place to get away from the pressures of urban life, to take long walks, play games, ride bikes, make love, enjoy picnics, and kill people.

I will confess to doing all but one of those activities in Golden Gate Park myself at one time or another.

A strong wind rolled off the ocean and carried the smell of blood and cordite to our noses before we got to the body. There must have been a lot of blood and a lot of bullets.

The officers who secured the crime scene were used to seeing Monk and me, so they lifted the yellow crime scene tape for us to pass through without asking for ID or any explanations. They apparently hadn’t gotten the word that we were no longer on the payroll.

The victim was wearing a T-shirt and jogging shorts. He was on his back on the jogging path in a huge pool of blood, his body riddled with bullet wounds. He looked to me to be in his fifties, judging by the few lines in his face and strands of gray in his hair, though he had the well-toned body of a much younger man. His eyes were open and as dull as stone.

“Two witnesses saw a slender person wearing dark glasses and an oversize hoodie come out of those trees and empty his gun into the judge at point-blank range,” Disher said, referring to his notebook. “The shooter then ran back into the trees.”

“There’s a road that runs along the other side of the grove and out of the park,” Stottlemeyer said. “He could have had a car parked there or someone waiting in one for him.”

Stottlemeyer and Disher had their backs to us as we approached, so they didn’t see Monk until he started circling the body, his hands out in front of him, framing his view.

“Why didn’t the shooter throw his gun in the lake?” Monk asked.

“Because there were witnesses and he wanted to dispose of the weapon where no one would find it,” Disher said.

“What are you talking to him for?” Stottlemeyer scolded Disher. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

“But isn’t there a bigger risk of being caught with the murder weapon on him?” Monk asked as if the captain hadn’t spoken at all.

“We’ll ask him when we catch him,” Stottlemeyer said. “Get out of here, Monk.”

“The judge has been shot in the shoulder, chest, thigh, neck, and arm,” Monk said, crouching beside the body. “It’s as if the shooter was firing wildly or was not very familiar with a gun.”