Instead of going to the first crime scene, Sharona found herself driving Adrian to the home of San Francisco's richest dog. She didn't know why they were going there, but they were. Adrian had insisted it. He had almost actually stolen her keys from her to drive himself. He wouldn't explain himself. She signalled to make a left turn into the driveway and waited for the traffic to clear. She glanced over and noticed Adrian using one of his wipes on the side of the door.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"It's sticky," he said.

"Yeah, well I have a twelve-year-old son," she said as she turned into the driveway. "What do you expect?"

"Don't you ever clean the car?" he asked. Sharona shot her usual look of disbelief and annoyance at him.

"Sorry. I don't think you heard," she said. "I've got a twelve-year-old son. Not to mention a completely dependent boss."

Monk ignored her attempt at an insult as they pulled up in front of Poochie's mansion. The two of them both had to lean forward to look up to see how high the home went. It was four floors above ground.

"Gives a whole new meaning to being in the dog house," Sharona commented. The two of them exited the car. Sharona met Monk by the front fender. "Tell me again why we're here. I mean, I'm no detective, but shouldn't we be checking out the crime scenes?"

"We're here to talk to Mr. Corson," Monk said. "The moment I met him, I knew he had something to do with this."

"Why would he be shooting dogs?" Sharona asked. "He owns a dog."

"He doesn't own the dog. The dog owns him," Monk said. Sharona knocked on the front door. "I don't know how he's involved yet. But he is involved."

"What? You think just because he lost out on a million bucks to a dog, he would go around shooting other people's dogs?" Sharona asked.

"Maybe."

The door opened and Corson looked like he was trying to hide his annoyance at their presence. He wasn't doing a good job of it.

"Mr. Monk, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions . . . about dogs," Monk said. "Since you take care of Poochie, we thought you might be able to help."

"Well, I'm no dog expert," Corson replied. Monk and Sharona just stood there, waiting to be let in. He sighed. "Please, come in."

They both entered the foyer and took in the inside of the home. Sharona looked up and saw an immense crystal chandelier. There was a wide staircase leading up to the second floor. The foyer was tiled with solid white marble.

"Nice house," Sharona commented, looking around.

"It's been in our family for three generations," Corson said. "So what can I help you with?"

"I was just wondering why you began calling the police after only one shooting had occurred," Monk asked.

"I thought you had questions about dogs," Corson said nervously.

Monk ignored the statement. "I mean, one shooting of a stray dog across town shouldn't have alarmed you so much."

"Any danger to Poochie is very serious. My mother left explicit instructions that Poochie was to be well cared for," Corson said. "She wanted Poochie to live the longest and happiest life possible."

"Obviously," Sharona said with a scoff, moving off to look at some pictures on the wall in the hallway. She muttered under her breath, "I just love being two economic classes below a dog."

"Where were you today at about one o'clock?" Monk asked.

"I was at lunch with a friend," Corson replied. He was already defensive. "Why?"

"What restaurant were you at?" Monk asked. Sharona had taken a pad of paper and a pen out of her purse. She was ready to take notes on the conversation while still surveying the pictures on the wall.

"It's called The Patio," Corson replied. "Again, why?"

Sharona pointed to a picture on the wall with her pen. It was of Corson in a snowy setting wearing ski gear with a rifle strapped to his back. "What's this picture from?"

Corson moved over and looked at it. "I went to college in Denver. I competed in the biathlon every year. It was cross-country skiing and sharpshooting."

"You're a sharpshooter?" Monk asked, his curiosity even more aroused.

"Yes, I am," Corson said angrily. "I'm also a member of the National Rifle Association. But I know what you're getting at, and I resent the implication. I did not shoot those dogs, and I don't have any reason to have shot them anyway."

"Perhaps as a cover for when Poochie gets shot," Monk said. "A million dollars is a nice motive."

"The average lifespan of a dog is fifteen years Mr. Monk. Poochie's seven," Corson said with a laugh. "I think I can wait for Poochie to die of natural causes."

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Corson? Do you work?" Monk asked, changing the subject slightly.

"I work with computers and electronics," he replied. He was no longer trying to conceal his anger at all. "I'm really tired of your questions, Mr. Monk. I'm not sure why you think I'm involved in all of this, but I'm not."

"Come on, Adrian," Sharona said, moving back over by Monk's side. "Let's go."

"Just one more question, Mr. Corson," Monk said. "Where were you when the other three shootings happened?"

Corson sighed. "The first one I was in a meeting here with my mother's attorney. The second one I was playing golf with my boss and a client. The third I was in another meeting with my mother's attorney at his office." He glared at Monk. "Would you like names and phone numbers?"

"Yes, that would be very helpful," Monk said. Sharona handed Corson her pad of paper, and he quickly wrote down three names and phone numbers.

"The top one is my mother's attorney, the second is my boss and the third is the friend I had lunch with today," he said. He moved to the front door and opened it. "Now, I think that's quite enough for today and I would like you to please leave."

Monk and Sharona made their way to the door. As soon as they passed through it, Corson slammed it behind them.

"Well, that was pleasant," Sharona said. "But I still don't understand why you think it's him."

"You don't?" Monk asked. Sharona shrugged her shoulders.

"What if his alibis check out?" she asked. The two of them got in the car and she started it up. She waited for instructions on where to go next.

"I'm sure they will," Monk said. "He wouldn't have given them to us if they didn't."

"If the guy's got alibis for everything, how could he possibly have done it?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Let's go back to the office. We need to make some phone calls."

Sharona put the car and drive. "I don't know, Adrian. Usually I'm on board with you. But this time I'm having a hard time jumping on your train of thought."

"Don't worry," Monk said staring at the house as they drove off. "You'll get on it eventually."

* * *

Monk poked at the numbers on the telephone with his right index finger wrapped in a tissue. He had the phone on speakerphone and while he dialed the number to Corson's mother's attorney, Sharona was looking up dog information on the Internet.

"Did you know the normal body temperature for a dog is 102 degrees Fahrenheit?" she asked Monk. He didn't respond. "No wonder they're panting all the time. If I was that hot, I'd be panting too."

"Shh, it's ringing," Monk said. Sharona turned away from the computer and waited with him for someone to pick up.

"Donald Rawlings and Associates," the female voice greeted them. "How may I direct your call?"

"My name is Adrian Monk," he responded. "I'm a private investigator. I was hoping to speak with Mr. Rawlings regarding a case I'm working on. It involves Mrs. Corson and her dog, Poochie."

"Just a moment. I'll see if Mr. Rawlings is available," the woman said. She put them on hold and Musak filled the office. Sharona turned back to the computer to read more about dogs.

"Ugh, I wouldn't want to be a dog," she said. "They can't eat chocolate. Even the slightest bit would kill them." Monk looked at her, confused as to why not eating chocolate would be a bad thing. "Me not eating chocolate is like you not using wet wipes."

"Don't even joke about that," he said. The hold music stopped and they were greeted by a fairly pleasant male voice. He seemed more upbeat than they would've thought a lawyer would be.

"This is Donald Rawlings. What can I do for you today, Mr. Monk?"

"Mr. Rawlings-" Monk began, but Rawlings interrupted him.

"Please call me Donald."

"Okay, Donald," Monk continued. "I was checking to see if you can confirm that you were in meetings with Albert Corson last week Monday and this past Monday."

"Yes, I was," he replied. "Hang on. Let me get to my calendar and I can tell you the times." They waited and listened to Rawlings type on his computer to pull up his calendar. "Okay, last week we met at the mansion between two and four in the afternoon. This week he came to my office and we met from nine to ten in the morning. Why do you ask?"

"I think he may be involved in some shootings that have happened within the past week," Monk said.

"Shootings? What kind of shootings?"

"Four dogs have been shot within the past week with a high-powered rifle," Sharona said. She skimmed the police reports until she found what she was looking for. "Last week's shooting happened at 3:22 pm and this week's happened at 9:17 am."

"Well Albert was with me during those times, like I said," Rawlings stated. "But I can see why you would think he would be involved."

"I know, it seems crazy for Mr. Corson to come up with this elaborate plan in order to kill Poochie without suspicion," Monk said. "Especially when Poochie will die of old age in about 8 or 9 years."

"Oh, it's not crazy," Rawlings said. "Albert's being cut out of his mother's will."

"What? How?" Sharona asked. This certainly boosted up Monk's theory. "She's dead. How can her will change?"

"There are circumstances when a will can change posthumously," Rawlings said. "It was Loretta's dying wish that Albert be cut from this family. She had planned on doing it months ago, but her condition deteriorated so rapidly in the last month that it hadn't gone through yet."

"But doesn't she have to sign something to make it official?" Monk asked.

"Not necessarily," Rawlings said. "But that's why it has taken so long to get it pushed through. There's a lot of specifics involved with a posthumous change in the will. She signed a dying declaration, but there's more to it than that."

"So, basically if Poochie died before the will changed, the money would go to Albert, right?" Sharona asked.

"That's right," Rawlings said. "But if Poochie doesn't die within the next two weeks, Albert loses out on the family money."

"Why would Mrs. Corson cut her own son out of her will?" Monk asked.

"Albert never got along with either of his parents. He's greedy and selfish and all he has ever cared about was the family money and status," Rawlings said. "Don't get me wrong. He's brilliant. Extremely intelligent and athletic. But he only looks out for himself, no one else."

"What happens to the money if the will change does go through?" Sharona asked.

"It'll mostly go to charity," Rawlings said. "Animal related charities of course. Loretta loved all animals."

"You've been a great help, Donald," Monk said. "Thank you so much for your time."

"No problem," Rawlings said. "I almost wish I couldn't give Albert an alibi."

"Oh, I have ways around that," Monk said, exchanging a smile with Sharona. "Thank you again."

"Good luck with your case, Mr. Monk."

They said their goodbyes and Sharona nodded her head. "Okay, I'm on your train here, Adrian, but I still don't see how."

"Neither do I, but hopefully when we visit the crime scenes tomorrow, we'll figure that out."