Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse

thought, even if he had been in a hurry. We were eight or ten serious blocks from the Excelsior, and we’d been walking for about twenty minutes.

“That’s a good idea,” Monk said. He looked like he could use the rest, too.

It was also a chance to dry off a bit. Drizzle isn’t so bad until it accumulates and you suddenly realize you’re soaked, which we both were.

Besides, we’d more or less proven that Breen could have walked from the Excelsior to Esther’s place, which was only a few blocks from the fire station, in a half hour.

Everything in the station was gleaming, of course. Even the turnouts, the firefighting rigs hanging in the open racks, were all clean, the latches and zippers shining.

The firemen were all in the kitchen eating pizza. I couldn’t help noticing that Sparky’s bed basket and rubber hot-dog squeak toy were still there. Monk also noticed it. I guess Joe wasn’t willing to accept that Sparky was gone quite yet. I knew the feeling. I kept Mitch’s clothes hanging in the closet for almost a year after he died. And I know Monk still has the pillow his wife slept on. It’s in a plastic bag in his closet.

Joe broke into a big smile the minute he saw me, jumped out of his seat, and rushed over to greet us. But once he got to me, he wasn’t quite sure what he should do. Kiss me? Hug me? Shake my hand? We settled on a friendly hug.

“Natalie, Mr. Monk, what a nice surprise. You’re just in time to join us for some pizza.” Joe glanced back to Captain Mantooth, who held out a slice to Monk on a napkin.

“No, thank you,” Monk said. “We just stopped by to ask you some questions.”

Once again I was out of the loop. I thought it was a happy coincidence that we ended up in front of the firehouse.

“Captain Mantooth, did you notice any towels missing before Friday night?”

“Sure, they’re always disappearing,” Mantooth said. “They’re like socks. You know how that is, Mr. Monk.”

“No, I don’t.” Monk looked genuinely perplexed.

“Everybody loses socks,” Mantooth said. All the men around him nodded in agreement. So did I. “You’ve never lost a sock?”

“How could I? They’re either on my feet or they’re being carried in the basket back and forth between the hamper, the laundry room, and the sock drawer,” Monk said. “I don’t see how it’s humanly possible to lose a sock.”

“It’s one of the great mysteries of life,” Joe said. “Where do all those socks go?”

“The same place as our towels.” Mantooth laughed.

“And my panties,” I added. Mantooth’s smiled faded. I looked around. Everybody was staring at me. “C’mon, guys, everybody loses underwear.”

The men shared glances, shook their heads, and looked at me with bewilderment, especially Monk and Joe.

“I know this for a fact,” I said.

“I want you to think about something, Captain,” Monk said, saving me from further embarrassment, though I’m sure that wasn’t the reason he spoke up. “In general, were you more likely to notice a towel or two missing after you returned from responding to a fire?”

Mantooth mulled that over for a moment. “Now that you mention it, yeah, maybe you’re right. But to be sure I’d have to check my records.”

“You keep a record of missing towels?” I asked, incredulous.

“I keep track to justify the expense of buying new ones,” Mantooth said. “I have to account for every penny that I spend.”

I had a feeling he would whether he had to or not. No wonder Monk wanted to be a fireman. Mantooth was almost as anal as he was, which gave me reason to wonder what Joe’s dark side might be like. Joe had been amazingly punctual when he came to pick me up for our date. Was punctuality a thing with him? What would happen the first time I was late to meet him somewhere?

Monk turned to Joe. “Did Sparky run around the neighborhood only when the company was on call to a fire?”

“Yeah,” Joe said.

“How come you didn’t tie him up?”

“Sparky always came back,” Joe said. “I didn’t want to restrict his freedom.”

“When he came back,” Monk asked, “what did he smell like?”

Joe seemed bewildered by the question. I certainly was. “Like crap. I don’t know what he got himself into.”

“How bad was the smell?”

“I usually had to give him a bath as soon as he got back or Cap would give me hell.”

“I like a clean station,” Mantooth said. “Cleanliness is the outward expression of order.”

“Amen, brother,” Monk said, and then he smiled at me. I’ve seen that smile before, usually just before somebody gets arrested and sent to prison for a very long time. “Let’s go have a talk with Mr. Dumas.”

I followed Monk across the street to Gregorio Dumas’s house and knocked on the door. Monk stood directly behind me, using me as a shield, his hands poised to protect his groin from canine attack. How gallant.

Gregorio opened the door wearing a red smoking jacket, pajama pants, and so much bling that he made Mr. T, Sammy Davis Jr., and Liberace look under-accessorized by comparison. I know those celebrity references are dated, but somewhere between the time I graduated college and the day I became a mother, my cultural needle got stuck. I don’t want to think about how out of touch I am with American popular culture. It makes me feel like I’ve become my mother, and that’s scary.

Anyway, back to Gregorio. Monk asked if the dog was out back and, if she was, if we could come in and talk to him for a moment.

Gregorio reluctantly invited us in. We took a seat on the couch and he sat in a chair across from us. He didn’t look too happy about our being there.

“Can we make this quick? Jeopardy is on,” Gregorio said.

“That’s the game where they give you the answers and you have to come up with the questions,” Monk said.

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh, great,” Monk said, “let’s play.”

“What do you mean?” Gregorio said. “You want to watch TV with me?”

“Let’s have our own game. I’ll give you the answers and you can give me the questions. Ready? Here’s the answer: Roderick Turlock’s gold.”

Gregorio flinched as if he’d been slapped.

“C’mon, Mr. Dumas,” Monk said, “take a guess.”

Gregorio didn’t say anything, but he began to sweat under his pompadour. Monk mimed the sound of a buzzer.

“Time’s up. The question is: Why have you been tunneling from your house to the sewer and from the sewer to the fire station? That was fun, wasn’t it? Here’s another answer: To wipe your footprints off the firehouse floor. Can you tell me the question?”

Gregorio licked his lips and wiped his brow.

“You aren’t even trying, Mr. Dumas,” Monk said.

“I am,” he said. “I just don’t know the question. The answer makes no sense.”

“I know, I know,” I said, raising my hand and waving it enthusiastically.

Monk smiled and pointed to me. “Yes, Natalie, what’s your guess?”

“Why did Mr. Dumas steal the towels?” I said.

“Correct!” Monk said. “He tunneled under the firehouse searching for the gold whenever the firemen left the station. But he didn’t want Sparky barking and attracting attention to his digging, so he’d lure him out of the station with a rubber hot-dog squeak toy. It’s Sparky’s favorite. There’s one on Mr. Dumas’s porch that’s identical to the toy in Sparky’s basket.”

All the disparate facts, all the things we’d seen and heard, suddenly fell into place for me. It was an