Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“She’s your mistress,” Stottlemeyer said.

Breen grinned with smug self-confidence and tugged at the cuffs of his monogrammed shirt. “Is that what she says?”

Stottlemeyer shook his head.

“I didn’t think so,” Breen said.

“We know you bought her a bouquet of flowers from the florist in this lobby,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Do you? I buy lots of flowers from Flo. I buy them for my wife, my secretary, my clients, and to beautify my office. How do you know her bouquet came from me? It could have come from anybody in this building. The woman could even have bought the bouquet here herself.”

“You bought it for her,” Monk said. “Probably the same time you left her your shirt. She was wearing it when we met her. The buttons are monogrammed with your initials.”

“My wife donated some old clothes to Goodwill,” Breen said. “She always hated that denim shirt. Perhaps this woman you talked to enjoys shopping for bargains at secondhand clothing stores.”

“How did you know it was denim?” Monk asked. “We didn’t tell you what kind of shirt she was wearing.”

“The buttons,” Breen said quickly. “Only my denim shirts and short-sleeved sportswear have my initials on the buttons instead of the cuffs.”

“How do you know we weren’t talking about one of your short-sleeved shirts?”

“I’m a happily married man and faithful to my wife, but even if I weren’t, adultery isn’t a crime.”

“But murder is,” Monk said. “You killed Esther Stoval.”

“That’s laughable,” Breen said. “I had no reason to want her dead.”

“Esther knew about your affair and was blackmailing you,” Monk said. “On Friday night you slipped away from the fund-raiser, smothered Esther, and set fire to her house.”

“You’re forgetting that I didn’t leave the Excelsior hotel until midnight,” Breen said.

“Yes, you did, and we can prove it,” Stottlemeyer said. “You were mugged on the street a block away from the hotel. We have the mugger, and we know you reported your stolen credit cards to your bank. But here’s the odd thing: You didn’t report the mugging to the police. Gee, I wonder why.”

Breen sighed wearily. “I briefly stepped out of the hotel for a smoke, and that’s when I was mugged. It hardly qualifies as ‘leaving.’ ”

“Then why didn’t you tell anybody about it?” Stottlemeyer said.

“Because I promised my wife I’d quit smoking. If she knew I was still smoking cigars, she’d have my head.”

“That’s why you didn’t report the mugging? Because you were afraid your wife would find out that you were still smoking?” Stottlemeyer said, incredulity dripping from every word.

Breen absently tugged again at the cuffs of his handmade shirt. I don’t know if it was a nervous habit, or if he just wanted us all to admire his cuff links.

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Captain. I didn’t tell the police because I knew the press would pick up on it and the mugging would be all over the news. The last thing I want to do is create the impression that the neighborhood is a hotbed of crime. I have an ownership interest in the Excelsior. We’d lose room bookings, weddings, and convention business. But it’s more than that. I love San Francisco. I don’t want to do anything that might hurt the city’s image or cause a decline in tourism.”

“That’s a good story, and we’re all moved by your civic pride,” Monk said. “But here’s what really happened. You left something behind in Esther’s house. So you stole a firefighter’s coat and helmet in order to go back into the house and get it. But you didn’t know the firehouse had a dog, and when he came at you barking and growling, you killed him with a pickax.”

“Now you’re accusing me of murdering a dog, too?” Breen said. “This is outrageous. Do you have any proof to back up this fantasy of yours?”

“The mugger said you reeked of smoke,” I said.

“Reeked? He sounds like my wife. My God, everybody is antismoking now, even the muggers. Like I said before, I was having a cigar. That’s what he smelled. The wonderful aroma of a Partagas Salamones.”

Breen looked past me, something outside catching his eye. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a bum walking past the window. It was the same bum whom Monk had gifted with a couple dozen Wet Ones, shuffling by in his overcoat, pushing a rickety grocery cart overflowing with garbage. He saw me watching him and flipped me off.

Breen turned to Stottlemeyer, and when he spoke, his tone was much harder than before. “You’ve taxed my patience long enough with this inane inquiry. Make your point and get it over with.”

“Monk is right. You killed the lady and the dog, and you’re going down for it. All four of us sitting here know that,” Stottlemeyer said. “The thing is, since you’re such a booster of the police department and all, I thought I’d give you the chance to cut a deal before we both spend a lot of needless time and expense on this.”

“I heard you were a rising star in the department, Captain, and that you, Mr. Monk, were a brilliant detective. Obviously I was misinformed. I’m deeply disappointed in both of you. We’re done here.”

Breen rose from his seat, acknowledged me with a tip of his head, and walked back to the elevator.

“He’s disappointed in us, Monk.” Stottlemeyer finished his coffee. “I’m crushed; how about you?”

“He’s going to make life hard for you, Captain,” Monk said.

“Not as hard as I’m going to make it for him,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ll get search warrants tonight, and we’ll ransack his home and office for that little item he went back to Esther’s house to get—just as soon as you tell me what that little item is.”

“Something very, very incriminating.”

“Which is . . . ?” Stottlemeyer said.

“Something that points directly, irrefutably, and conclusively to him as the killer.”

“Yes, I get the concept of incriminating,” Stottlemeyer said. “But what is it, exactly, that I should tell the judge that we’re looking for?”

Monk shrugged.

Stottlemeyer looked at Monk, then at me, then back to Monk. “You don’t know?”

“Something so unbelievably damaging to him that he’d literally walk through the red-hot flames of hell to get it back.”

“Well, there go my search warrants,” Stottlemeyer said. “So what you’re basically saying is, we’ve got bupkis.”

“Actually,” Monk said. “It’s probably less than that.”

13

Mr. Monk Does His Homework

Stottlemeyer drove us back to the Excelsior and used his badge to get my car out of the parking lot for free. It must be nice to have a badge and be able to park wherever you want without worrying about fees or tickets.

I made Monk promise not to say anything to Julie about the attempted mugging. She’d lost her father, and I didn’t want her worrying every time I left the house with Monk that she might lose me next. If Monk had a problem with my lie of omission, he didn’t say anything.

When we got home, lugging in our Pottery Barn purchases, Julie was at the table working on her homework, and Mrs. Throphamner was on the couch watching TV. Mrs. Throphamner’s dentures were on a napkin on the coffee table, facing the TV so they, too, could enjoy Diagnosis Murder.

I introduced Monk to Mrs. Throphamner. “He’s staying with us for a few days.”