Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse Page 4

  I wondered how many of the neighbors were thinking the same thing I was: Architecturally speaking, it was a shame the fire didn’t burn down all six of the ugly town houses on that side of the street. The neighbors’ homes, by contrast, were wood-frame Eastlake Victorians standing shoulder-to-shoulder, narrow and tall. Each house had the requisite bay windows to increase the available light, decorative gables to add some individual flair, and tiny garages that were barely able to fit a single car.

  The uniformed officer guarding the fire scene recognized Monk, lifted up the yellow caution tape, and nodded us past.

  The interior of the living room was a gutted, scorched skeleton of what it once was, with the charred furniture and melted TV still eerily in place. An African-American woman in a bright blue SFFD windbreaker with the words ARSON INVESTIGATOR written in big yellow letters on the back examined the rubble in the far corner of what was left of the room. Her hair was braided with colorful white and pink beads. Julie had been nagging me to let her do that to her hair, which would have been okay with me if it didn’t cost $120.

  Monk stepped in gingerly, trying not to get a speck of soot on himself, which was impossible. We’d barely come through the door when we were greeted by a familiar face.

  Captain Leland Stottlemeyer stood off to one side, smoking a fat cigar, his wide tie loosened at his open collar. He was a perpetually weary man, with a mustache that seemed to grow bushier as his hairline receded. He didn’t look pleased to see us.

  “What are you doing here, Monk?” he said.

  “We came to talk to one of the firefighters,” Monk said. “The firehouse dog was killed last night.”

  “You’re investigating pet deaths now?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “It’s for a very special client,” Monk said.

  I couldn’t help smiling, and Stottlemeyer noticed. In that instant he knew the client was me, or someone close to me. Stottlemeyer is a detective too, after all.

  “We were told that this fire was an accident,” I said.

  “It probably was,” Stottlemeyer said. “But since a lady died, we have to treat this like a crime scene until the arson investigator makes her determination. So we send someone down to stand around until then. It’s routine.”

  “So why didn’t you send Lieutenant Disher?”

  Stottlemeyer shrugged. “It’s been raining all week and it’s a sunny day. I wanted to get out. Gives me a chance to smoke my cigar.”

  Monk sneezed. And then sneezed again.

  “Whoever lived here had cats,” Monk said.

  “How do you know?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I’m allergic to cats.”

  “You’re allergic to plastic fruit, dandelions, and brown rice, and that’s just for starters,” Stottlemeyer said. “How can you tell it’s cat dander that’s making you sneeze?”

  Monk sneezed. “That was definitely a cat sneeze.”

  “You can tell the difference between your sneezes?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Monk said. “Can’t everybody?” Stottlemeyer took a deep drag on his cigar, then flicked his ashes on the floor.

  Monk stared at him.

  “What?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Aren’t you going to pick those up?”

  “They’re ashes, Monk. Take a look around. The entire place is in ashes.”

  “Those are cigar ashes,” Monk said.

  “Oh.” Stottlemeyer nodded his head knowingly. “They don’t belong with the other ashes.”

  Monk smiled. “I knew you’d see reason.”

  “Not really.” Stottlemeyer flicked his cigar again. Monk lunged forward, catching the ashes in his cupped hands before they could hit the ground.

  Monk looked up, relieved. And then he sneezed, but managed not to blow the ashes out of his hands. “Anyone have a Baggie?”

  Stottlemeyer glared at him, mashed out his cigar against the blackened wall, and dropped the stub in Monk’s open hands.

  “You can take the pleasure out of anything, Monk. You know that? Talk to Gayle, the arson investigator.” Stottlemeyer tipped his head toward the African-American woman in the SFFD windbreaker. “I’m sure she can help you.”

  Monk made his way to the woman, walking like a man carrying a vial of nitroglycerine through a minefield. He moved cautiously and deliberately, careful not to get soot on his clothes or spill a single fleck of cigar ash from his hands.

  Stottlemeyer and I observed his slow progress. It was strangely fascinating.

  “How are you holding up with Monk as a houseguest?” Stottlemeyer asked me.

  “It’s only been a few hours.”

  “A few hours with Monk can seem like decades,” he said. He took a pen from his pocket, scrawled something on the back of a business card, and handed it to me. “This is my home number. If you need a break, give me a call. I can take him out to the car wash.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” I said. “That’s very nice of you.”

  “You and I are the only ones who take care of him. We have to back each other up.”

  “We’re sort of like partners.”

  “Sort of,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “He likes the car wash?”

  “Loves it,” Stottlemeyer said.

  Monk finally reached the arson investigator, who was bent over with her back to him, examining something on the floor. I heard him clear his throat to get her attention. Gayle straightened up and turned around.

  “Hello, Gayle. I’m Adrian Monk. I’m a consultant to the police.” Monk shrugged a shoulder to draw her attention to the Junior Firefighter badge on his lapel. “And I’m one of your brothers.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Could I have a Baggie?”

  She took a clear plastic evidence bag out of the pocket of her windbreaker.

  “Could you hold it open for me?”

  She did. He emptied his ashes and the cigar stub into the bag and clapped his hands together, brushing off whatever microscopic traces might have been left. And then he brushed them a couple dozen more times for good measure.

  “Thank you,” Monk said, and left her holding the bag, his attention drawn to the coffee table. Its thick glass top and metal legs had survived the fire virtually unscathed. The table was in front of a pile of springs and ashes that I guessed was once the couch. More springs and ashes, the remains of two armchairs, were on the other side of the table.

  Gayle sealed the bag and, with nowhere else to put it, reluctantly shoved it into her pocket to throw out later. I knew exactly how she felt.

  “Where was the body found?” Monk asked, squatting beside the coffee table and squinting at an ashtray, a mug, and a glob of plastic that resembled a TV remote.

  Gayle glanced at Stottlemeyer for approval, and he nodded.

  “On the couch,” she said.

  “Where on the couch?”

  The investigator pointed to the end of the couch farthest from Monk. “She was sitting in that corner, her hand on the armrest. The cigarette fell from her fingers and landed on a stack of newspapers on the floor, setting them aflame. The fire spread from there, engulfing the couch, the drapes, and eventually the entire room. She had piles of old newspapers. Matches and cigarettes everywhere. It was like kindling, a fire waiting to happen.”

  Monk made his way over to the TV, looking from it to the couch, then to the remains of the chairs.

  “Have you found any traces of an accelerant?” Stottlemeyer asked the arson investigator.

  “Nope,” Gayle said. “The cigarette definitely caused this fire. It looks like an accident.”

  Monk nodded in agreement. “That’s what it looks like.”

  “Great,” Stottlemeyer said. “I can make it home early tonight and enjoy my Sunday off.”

  “But it’s not,” Monk said.

  “Excuse me?” Gayle said with attitude, hands on her hips.

  “It’s not an accident,” Monk said. “It’s murder.”

  “Oh, hell,”
Stottlemeyer said.

  “He’s wrong,” Gayle said.

  “No, he’s not,” Stottlemeyer said miserably.

  “When it comes to murder, he’s never wrong.”

  “I’ve been doing this job for ten years.” Gayle opened her coat to show Monk the badge pinned on her uniform. “This is a real fire department badge, Mr. Monk. And I can tell you there is absolutely no evidence of arson.”

  Monk made his way to what had been the edge of the couch. “You said she died right here.”

  “Yes,” Gayle said. “Her name was Esther Stoval, sixty-four years old, and a widow. The neighbors say she was a chain-smoker. Always had a cigarette in her mouth or in her hand.”

  “Did she live here alone?” Monk asked.

  “With about a dozen cats,” Gayle said. “They fled in the fire and have been coming back all day. We’ve got them out back waiting for Animal Control.”

  “Damn,” Stottlemeyer muttered, then looked at me. “Can you tell the difference between one of your sneezes and another?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Me neither,” he said with relief. “So it’s not just me.”

  “It’s not just you,” I said.

  “If she was by herself, why was she sitting here?” Monk asked. “At this edge of the couch?”

  “Because it was comfortable?” Gayle said. “What difference does it make?”

  “Her coffee mug, her TV remote, and her ashtray are on the coffee table at the other end of the couch,” Monk said.

  I followed his gaze. The remote was a melted lump of plastic on the glass, but the mug and the ashtray were intact.

  “If she sat there, she could see the TV,” Monk said, gesturing to the other side of the couch. “But sitting here, where her body was found, the TV is blocked by that chair. Why would she want to look at an empty chair?”

  Stottlemeyer looked back and forth between the couch and the TV and the remains of the chair.

  “She wouldn’t, not unless someone was sitting in it,” Stottlemeyer said. “Someone else was here.”

  Gayle looked at Monk. “Damn.”

  She was impressed.

  I was pretty impressed, too. That was twice in one day I’d seen Monk extrapolate a whole chain of events based on where a person—or a dog—happened to be sitting.

  Who knew sitting could be so important?

  Stottlemeyer took out his cell phone, flipped it open, and made a call. “Randy? It’s me. Go down to the morgue. Tell the ME to move Esther Stoval’s autopsy to the front of the line. It’s a homicide. If you have any Sunday plans, cancel them.”

  He snapped his cell phone shut and glanced at Monk. “I’m glad you stopped by, Monk. This one might have slipped past us.”

  And that’s when I remembered why we’d stopped by in the first place.

  5

  Mr. Monk Learns to Share

  We found Firefighter Joe Cochran sitting on an overturned bucket in the backyard, pouring milk into bowls and letting the cats crawl languorously all over him. He was a big man in his early thirties, who radiated strength and stoicism, qualities that seemed at odds with the tenderness he was showing to the cats. He stroked them gently, nuzzled them against his stubble-covered cheeks, and purred to them. For a moment I found myself wishing I could trade places with one of those cats.

  The thought startled me. I’ve been involved with a few men since Mitch died, but none of them seriously, and none lately. I’d managed not to think about men for a long time, and was a little unnerved by how close to the surface those feelings really were. All it took was one glance at a rugged and tough, but sweet and tender, fireman to bring them all back.

  My God, who was I kidding? Any woman would have felt the same way. He was the cover of a romance novel come to life. I just hoped when he spoke he didn’t have a high, squeaky voice or a horrible lisp.

  Repulsed, Monk stopped in his tracks. “How can he do that?”

  “He’s obviously a man who loves animals,” I said.

  “I’m not,” Monk said.

  “Really?” I said in mock surprise.

  “You go talk to him,” Monk said. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Don’t you want to ask him some questions?”

  “I can read lips.”

  “You can?” I asked.

  “This is as good a time as any to learn,” Monk said.

  I was hardly a natural at this detecting business, as I’d proved already. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be nice to talk to Joe without Monk there?

  “I can ask him to come over,” I offered weakly.

  “No,” Monk said. “The cats might follow him. I could sneeze to death. It’s a horrible way to die.”

  “Fine,” I said, glancing back at Joe. My heart fluttered. It felt like high school all over again. “Any advice for me?”

  “Remember to enunciate.”

  I took a deep breath and headed over to the hunky fireman. Hunky. Those were the terms in which I was thinking. How was I going to ask probing, sleuthful questions of Firefighter Joe when I’d mentally devolved into an adolescent girl?

  “Joe Cochran?”

  He looked up at me. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Ma’am. He was brawny and polite. And God, what a smile.

  “I’m Natalie Teeger,” I said. “I work for Adrian Monk, the detective.”

  I motioned to Monk, who waved.

  Joe rose to his feet and waved at Monk. The cats leaped off of him. “Why won’t he come over here?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “The reason we’re here is because my daughter, Julie, is a student in one of the middle-school classes you visit each year. She heard about what happened to Sparky.”

  At the mention of his dog’s name, Joe’s eyes grew moist. It endeared him to me even more.

  “The kids care that much?” he said.

  “So much that she hired Mr. Monk to find whoever killed him.”

  “Excuse me.” He turned his back to me and took a few steps away before wiping the tears from his eyes. I can’t tell you how much I wanted to hold him, and comfort him, and wipe those tears away myself.

  I swallowed hard and waited. After a moment he faced me again. “Forgive me, Miss Teeger.”

  “It’s okay. Call me Natalie, please.”

  “As long as you call me Joe.” He overturned another bucket, set it down beside his own, and offered me a seat. I took it.

  Monk whistled and stirred the air with his finger. I got the message.

  “Do you mind if we turn around?” I said, turning so I faced Monk.

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “Mr. Monk needs to see our faces,” I said. “He reads lips.”

  “Is he deaf?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “Is he a good detective?”

  “The best,” I said. “But eccentric.”

  “If he can find the son of a bitch who killed Sparky, I don’t care if he likes to run naked through Golden Gate Park singing show tunes.” He immediately caught himself, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. “Oh, my God. I forgot. Can he really read lips?”

  “I doubt it,” I said, and waved at Monk. He gave me a thumbs-up.

  Joe exhaled, relieved, and picked up one of the cats. “What do you need to know, Natalie?”

  I liked hearing him say my name. Did I mention his voice wasn’t the least bit squeaky?

  “Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt Sparky?”

  His face tightened, but he continued to gently stroke the cat. “Only one person. Gregorio Dumas. He lives a few doors down from the station house.”

  That would certainly make it easy for him to know when the company responded to a fire and if the station was empty.

  “What does he have against Sparky?”

  “Love,” Joe said. “Sparky was smitten with Letitia, Gregorio’s French poodle.”

  “And Mr. Dumas didn’t approve of the relationship?”

  “Letitia is a show
dog,” Joe said. “Gregorio was afraid Sparky would ruin her career. He warned me that if he caught Sparky in his yard again, he’d kill him.”

  “Anybody else have a problem with your dog?”

  Joe shook his head no. “Sparky was a smart, sweet, trusting animal. I’d take him to the cancer ward at the children’s hospital, and he was so good with those kids, even the tiniest, frailest child. Everybody loved him.”

  “Somebody didn’t,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

  His eyes started to tear up again, but this time he didn’t try to hide it from me. “He wasn’t just a dog to me, Natalie. He was my best friend. I know how corny that sounds, ‘a boy and his dog.’ But this job, and the hours I keep, aren’t conducive to relationships, if you know what I mean.”

  Unfortunately, I did. Being a single mother who works for an obsessive-compulsive detective doesn’t make for a great social life, either.

  “I spend a lot of time alone. But I wasn’t really alone, not with Sparky,” he said. “Now I am. He was all I had. I feel gutted and totally adrift. Do you know what that’s like?”

  I took his hand, gave it a squeeze, and nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

  I suddenly felt self-conscious. I withdrew my hand and stood up.

  “Mr. Monk will find whoever did this, Joe.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because he’s Monk.”

  “I’m told he’s got a long story,” Joe said. “I’d like to hear it sometime.”

  “Here are my numbers,” I said, writing them down on a piece of paper. “Please give me a call if you think of anything later that might help Mr. Monk’s investigation.” I took a deep breath. “Or if you want to hear that story.”

  “I will,” he said with a smile.

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I just smiled back at him and headed back to Monk, who hadn’t so much as taken a step from where he had been standing.

  “How much of that did you get?” I asked.

  “Just the part about enemas, Astroturf, and Wayne Newton’s hair.”

  “None of those things came up.”

  “I see,” Monk said. “I must have been reading the subtext.”

  There was subtext all right, but that sure as hell wasn’t it.

  For dinner I made Julie, Monk, and myself Dijon chicken breasts, petite peas, and mashed potatoes. Monk helped by counting out the peas onto our plates (we each had exactly twenty-four peas per serving) and laying them out in rows. He also served our mashed potatoes with an ice-cream scoop so they formed neat balls, which he carefully smoothed out with a butter knife.