The westernmost end of Sunset, where the judge lived, was a flat, sea-sprayed beach community composed of cafés, surf shops, bars, health food stores, bodegas, and low-slung, bleached homes of cinder block and perennially peeling wood.

The tourists all visit Haight Ashbury for a peek at the 1960s, but if you ask me, they’re going to the wrong spot. The sixties really live in the Sunset District, where just about everybody seems to be wearing sandals or flip-flops and faded T-shirts or sweatshirts. But like the name of the place, looks are deceiving. Many of the beach bums lead double lives as high-paid professionals in order to afford the luxury of a laid-back lifestyle.

I parked next to the police line on one of the residential streets. We got out of the car and shouldered our way through the crowd of reporters and lookie-loos. Let me re-phrase that-I shouldered my way and Monk cowered behind me in my wake, his arms tucked in close to his body so he wouldn’t brush against anyone.

I lifted up the yellow police tape, expecting to hear an officer yell at us, but no one did. Either they didn’t notice us crossing the line or, like the officers at Golden Gate Park, they hadn’t gotten the word about Monk.

Judge Carnegie was splayed on the sidewalk in an unnatural position, body and limbs bent at odd angles, reminding me of a broken string puppet. I guess that’s what happens when you’re shot six times and collapse with no concern about how you land. Of course, he was way past being concerned about anything.

He was suntanned and his hair was colored a hue of brown not found in nature. He wore a sweatshirt, denim cutoffs, and sandals. I wondered if that was what he wore under his judge’s robes at the bench.

The judge had one end of a leash looped around his right wrist and it appeared, from his outstretched arm and the swath of blood on the sidewalk behind him, that his dog had dragged him for a few feet. The dog was gone.

Stottlemeyer and Disher were talking to some officers and forensic techs, so they didn’t immediately notice Monk until he was already crouching beside the body.

But once the captain saw us, he marched right over, his face flushed with anger, Disher in tow.

I moved to intercept him. “It’s not what you think.”

“You mean you haven’t violated a crime scene and that isn’t Monk over there examining the corpse?”

Now I felt my hackles go up. I didn’t even know I had hackles until then.

“We haven’t violated anything, Captain. We’re showing the same care and professionalism that we always have at crime scenes.”

“You were official consultants then; you aren’t now. You are civilians who aren’t permitted to cross a police line,” he said. “I’ve already warned you both about that. We don’t need Monk’s help right now, no matter how much he wants to give it.”

I glanced back and saw Monk studying the trail of blood. I wanted to buy him as much time as I could.

“He’s not giving away anything, not one tiny bit of information or insight,” I said. “He’s been hired by someone who appreciates his talents and treats him with the respect he deserves. In consideration of his years of loyal service, we’re hoping you might grant him a few minutes of access to the scene as a professional courtesy.”

“Don’t you think you’re laying it on a little thick?” Stottlemeyer said.

I shrugged. “It seems to me that you need reminding.”

“Who is he working for?” he asked.

“Me,” a voice said.

We turned to see Nick Slade approaching us. He wore a perfectly tailored Brioni jacket and slacks, his shirt open at the collar. He looked like money. And even if he didn’t, his ride certainly did. His Bentley convertible was parked at the police line and there were two dumbstruck officers ogling it as if it were a Hawaiian Tropic bikini model.

“Why do we even bother cordoning off our crime scenes?” Stottlemeyer said, shaking his head. “You’re looking good, Nick. Then again, you always do.”

“You could, too, if you accepted my job offers,” Slade said. “Nice tie.”

Stottlemeyer lifted his yellow-white-and-blue-striped tie. “The Continental. Genuine polyester. You can buy two for ten dollars at Wal-Mart. You could probably afford four of ’em.”

“I don’t know why you stay on the police force.”

“I like wearing a badge,” he said.

“If that’s all you want,” Slade said, “I’ll give you one.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Yeah, it’s the number of figures on the paycheck,” Slade said. “It’s the freedom to do your job without the politics and bureaucracy getting in the way. It’s finally having all the resources you need to do it right.”

“Where’s the challenge in that?” Stottlemeyer said with a grin.

Disher cleared his throat. “I’ve never received one of your job offers.”

Slade turned to him, apparently noticing him for the first time. “Do I know you?”

“You will,” Disher said confidently.

“Because you’re on the verge of making headlines by cracking a major case?” Slade asked, reaching out for a handshake.

“Because I’m going to send you my résumé,” Disher said, gripping Slade’s hand as hard as he could. I could see the effort on his face. There was none on Slade’s. “Lieutenant Randall Disher, Homicide.”

“Nice to meet you,” Slade said, managing to sound both polite and dismissive at the same time. He glanced at Stottlemeyer and tipped his head towards Disher. “So this is your right-hand man?”

“And his left,” Disher said before Stottlemeyer could answer. “Don’t let my boyish good looks fool you or you’ll be making the same mistake as a lot of guys on death row. I’m a grizzled, battle-scarred hard-ass.”

“I didn’t know that you were looking for a job,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Like any man of action, I’m always open to new challenges,” Disher said, releasing his grip on Slade’s hand and shaking the circulation back into his own. “You get too comfortable and your edges dull. I like to keep my edges razor-sharp.”

“Why don’t you go sharpen them by telling those officers to stop drooling on Nick’s car and to make sure no one else slips past the police line,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I’ll gladly whip them into shape,” Disher said, and shot Slade a look. “The rank and file don’t just respect me; they fear me. You know how it is.”

Disher swaggered over to the officers. I think he was trying to appear tough but instead it seemed like he was suffering from a hemorrhoid flare-up.

Slade shook his head. “Please reconsider my offer, Leland. At Intertect, you’d be working with the very best people in the investigative field.”

“That’s obvious,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’ve hired Adrian Monk.”

Slade looked past Stottlemeyer to Monk, who was swaying from side to side and holding his hands out in front of him. I couldn’t tell if he was fighting sleep or trying to look at things from a different perspective.

“The guy is brilliant, way beyond my expectations,” Slade said. “You wouldn’t believe how many cases he’s solved for us in just one day.”

“I would,” Stottlemeyer said. “So who’s your client?”

Slade smiled. “Ordinarily, I’d give you a moving speech about client confidentiality, but you’ll find out who it is soon enough from your sources at the county jail. It’s Salvatore Lucarelli.”

Stottlemeyer mulled that over for a moment. “I forgot to mention another benefit of being a cop. You don’t have kiss up to mobsters for work.”

“He came to me. I’m like a lawyer, Leland. I don’t judge my clients. I just do the best job I can for them. He thinks he’s being set up and hired me to prove it. I either can or I can’t. I don’t see anything immoral, unethical, or criminal in that.”

“You know he’s responsible. Judge Stanton and Judge Carnegie were both going to preside over Lucarelli’s trial,” Stottlemeyer said. “And they were both executed gangland style.”