Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse

looked out my window to see if he was trotting over here to defile Letitia some more, but the barking stopped and I didn’t see anything. Five minutes later, Letitia starts barking, so I look out the window again, thinking Sparky’s on his way over for some action, and I see a fireman walking out.”

“How do you know it was a fireman?” Monk asked.

“I could see his helmet and heavy coat,” Gregorio said.

“But not his face,” I said.

“He had his back to me,” Gregorio said. “And it was nighttime, and he was across the street. Now if you will excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”

He ushered me to the door. The instant I stepped outside, Monk waved his hands frantically in front of me, as if ants were swarming all over them.

“Wipe, wipe, wipe,” he said.

I gave him about thirty of them as we walked to the car, which was parked in front of the fire station.

“I need to shower,” Monk said. “For a year.”

“Who does he think he’s kidding?” I said. “He expects us to believe that a fireman killed Sparky? How lame is that? He’s just trying to deflect attention from himself.”

“He’s not the guy,” Monk said.

“How can you say that? Sparky knocked up his cash cow—or cash poodle—whatever. The point is, Gregorio lost sixty thousand dollars per year. That’s plenty of motive for murder, and he lives right across from the fire station, so he knows exactly when the firemen come and go.”

“He’s not the guy,” Monk said.

“He admitted he loathed Sparky and that he knew the firemen left at ten,” I said. “It probably happened just like you said. He went over there to poison the dog food or something and Sparky surprised him.”

“He’s not the guy,” Monk said.

“Will you please stop saying that?” I asked. “Did you see his hair? He’s got to be the guy. How do you know he’s not the guy?”

“He’s too fat,” Monk said. “He never could have made it to the pickax before Sparky took him down. But he’s lying.”

“About what?”

“He was in the fire station the night Sparky was killed.”

“How do you know?”

“His laundry,” Monk said. “I saw the two missing firehouse towels folded with his socks. Can you believe that? With his socks.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was busy defending myself from that vicious dog and its slavering jaws of death.”

I suspected the slavering part was what concerned him the most. Then again, if I lick my lips, he accuses me of slavering.

“Gregorio Dumas is still in possession of stolen property,” I said. “Though you’ve got to wonder why he took the towels in the first place.”

“I do,” Monk said. “I also wonder how Sparky got Letitia pregnant.”

“I could explain that to you,” I said. “But do I really have to?”

“I don’t mean how he did it, but how he was able to do it.”

“He’s a dog, she’s a dog, I think that’s all that really matters to dogs,” I said. “That’s why they call them dogs.”

“What I mean is, the backyard is protected by a fence topped with flesh-cutting razor wire. How did Sparky get into the yard?”

“Maybe the fence was installed after the deed was done?”

We didn’t get a chance to ponder the question because my cell phone rang. It was Stottlemeyer. He wanted to see Monk in his office right away.

Stottlemeyer’s office was more than just an office. It was his refuge. Here he could do all the things his wife wouldn’t let him do at home. He could smoke cigars. Eat junk food. Pick his nose. He could take off his shoes, put his stockinged feet up on the desk, and browse Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue. The office was also filled with all the stuff she wouldn’t let him display around their house, like his baseball memorabilia, his Serpico movie poster, his collection of cigar labels, and the bullet that was dug out of his shoulder a few years back.

So as much, and as often, as Stottlemeyer complained about having to work late and on weekends, I knew he took more comfort and solace in being in his office than he was willing to admit.

“I hate coming in here on my day off,” Stottlemeyer said as we gathered in his office. The bullpen outside was sparsely occupied by three or four detectives.

Stottlemeyer was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes to remind himself, and anyone who saw him, that he was supposed to be home relaxing.

Lieutenant Randall Disher, by comparison, was in his usual ill-fitting, off-the-rack suit and tie, as if it were any other day of the week. He idolized Stottlemeyer, so he was never entirely comfortable around him. A tremor of eager-to-please anxiety underscored his every word and action.

“We could use your help on this one, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “And since you’re the one who brought this unsolvable homicide to our attention, I think you’ve got a duty to solve it for us.”

“Unsolvable?” Monk asked. “There’s no such thing.”

“That’s the spirit,” Stottlemeyer said. “Tell him what we have, Randy.”

Disher referred to his notebook. “Ordinarily in these kinds of accidents, where someone falls asleep while smoking, it’s not the fire that kills them but the smoke.”

“Did the medical examiner find smoke or soot particles in the victim’s lungs or nasal passages?” Monk asked.

“No,” Stottlemeyer said. “Meaning Esther Stoval was dead before the fire started.”

“There you go,” Monk said. “It’s murder. You solved it. What’s the unsolvable part?”

“We’re getting to that,” Stottlemeyer said. “Go on, Randy. Tell him the rest.”

“The ME found bits of fabric in her windpipe and petechial hemorrhages in the conjuntivae of her eyes that come from increased pressure in the veins when—”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda,” Stottlemeyer interrupted him. “In other words, she was smothered with a pillow.”

“But we’ll never get anything off the murder weapon because it was incinerated in the fire,” Disher said. “Along with any fingerprints or other trace evidence that the killer might have left in the room.”

“We’ve got no witnesses, either,” Stottlemeyer said. “We canvassed the neighborhood. Nobody saw or heard anything.”

“So you’re saying you can prove it was murder but not who did it,” Monk said. “And you’ll never be able to prove who did it because all the evidence went up in flames.”

“You got it,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re looking at the perfect murder.”

Monk tilted his head from one side to the other. I’ve seen him do that before. It’s like he’s trying to loosen up a stiff neck, but I think what really goes on is that his mind refuses to accept some fact he’s seen or heard.

“I don’t think so,” Monk said.

“You already see the mistake the killer made?” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk nodded. “He shouldn’t have killed Esther Stoval.”

“You got anything more substantial than that for us to run with?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Not yet,” Monk said. “But I’m working on it.”

“That’s good to hear,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s a start.”

“What do you know about the victim?” I asked.

“From talking to the neighbors, we know that Esther was a miserable, chain-smoking harridan whom nobody liked,” Stottlemeyer said. “Worse than that, she stood in the way of everybody on her block getting stinking rich.”

He explained that Lucas Breen, a developer known for rejuvenating tired neighborhoods with innovative