Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse (27 page)

That was all nice to know, but what really mattered most was that Lucas Breen was being held without bail behind bars in the prison ward of the hospital.

As far as Monk, Stottlemeyer, and I were concerned, the murders of Esther Stoval, Sparky the fire dog, and the homeless man were solved.

We sat in Stottlemeyer’s office for our usual post-arrest wrap-up. It was a chance for Monk, Stottlemeyer, and Disher to congratulate one another on a job well-done, since nobody else was going to do it.

“After what happened today,” Stottlemeyer said, “we may make sourdough bowls of clam chowder standard equipment in every patrol car. Not only will it cut down on high-speed pursuits, but they’re tasty, too.”

Monk didn’t appreciate the joke, mainly because he wasn’t paying any attention. He was too busy trying to rub out the speck of chowder from his jacket with a Wet One, which wasn’t easy. Not only was the stain staying put, but Monk had a hard time holding the wipe with his heavily bandaged hand. He had more bandages on his hand for a scratch than Lucas Breen had for his gunshot wound.

“What about your administrative review hearing?” I asked Stottlemeyer.

“Canceled,” Stottlemeyer said. “The deputy chief is talking about a commendation ceremony instead.”

“For you?” I said.

Stottlemeyer shook his head and glanced at Disher, who was watching Monk wrestle with his stain. “For you.”

Disher looked up and his cheeks immediately flushed. “Me? Really?”

“You not only saved Monk’s life, but you defused a potentially deadly situation with an armed assailant without anybody getting killed or seriously injured, including the perp.”

I liked the fact that Breen was now a mere perp. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

“What about you, sir?” Disher said. “You deserve some recognition for refusing to back down despite the political pressure from a corrupt police commissioner.”

“I’m getting to keep my job, which is enough for me,” Stottlemeyer said. “Defying authority and bullheaded stubbornness aren’t qualities the department likes to encourage.”

“And what does Mr. Monk get?” I asked.

“The department’s gratitude and respect,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I’d settle for a strong stain remover,” Monk said.

All in all it was a good day, a vast improvement over where we were the day before—up to our waists in stinking garbage.

“Is it okay if we let the firefighters know that Sparky’s killer has been caught?” I asked.

Stottlemeyer nodded. “Sure, as long as they don’t announce it to the media. The chief hates it when somebody beats him to the TV cameras.”

So we said our good-byes, and on the way back home Monk and I stopped by the firehouse to announce Breen’s arrest.

When we got there, the firefighters were once again cleaning and shining the fire trucks under Captain Mantooth’s direction and eagle eye. Monk went straight to the stack of neatly folded towels and picked one up.

“May I?” Monk asked.

“We would be honored, Mr. Monk,” Captain Mantooth said.

Monk smiled gleefully and got to work polishing the already gleaming chrome grille.

Joe climbed down off the truck and joined us. He wore an SFFD T-shirt that was one size too small and showed off his tight chest and strong arms. My breath caught in my throat. He was so good-looking.

“Did you solve the murder you ran off to last night?” Joe asked.

I nodded. “I didn’t; Mr. Monk did. He also caught Sparky’s killer. It was Lucas Breen.”

“The developer?” Captain Mantooth said in amazement.

“Yes, that’s the guy,” I said.

Hearing this, the rest of the firefighters began to abandon their duties and wander over.

“Why would a rich, powerful man like that want to kill a firehouse dog?” Joe asked.

That was a good question, and all the firefighters gathered around me to hear my long, detailed answer, leaving Monk blissfully alone to shine the fire truck to his heart’s content.

When I was finished with my story, there was a lot of head shaking and astonished looks. I tugged Joe’s sleeve and led him away while his fellow firefighters were occupied discussing what they’d learned.

“This is fantastic news. Let’s go out this weekend and celebrate what you’ve done for Sparky,” Joe said. “And for me.”

“That’s a really sweet suggestion, but—”

He interrupted me. “Let’s bring Julie, too. I want to thank her again for bringing Mr. Monk into this. We can make a day out of it. Besides, I’d like to get to know her.”

I put my hand on his cheek to stop him. “No, Joe, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want Julie to start caring for you as much as I have,” I said. “It’s why we can’t see each other anymore.”

I took my hand away. He looked as if I’d slapped him with it.

“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “I thought things were going so well.”

“They were,” I said. “You’re wonderful, and I really enjoy being with you. I can see us becoming very close.”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Then what’s the problem?”

“That
is
the problem. Who you are. And all of this.” I waved my hand to encompass the firehouse around us. “You’re a firefighter.”

“So?”

“You risk your life for a living, and that’s noble, and great, and heroic,” I said. “But it’s wrong for me, wrong for Julie. We both lost a man we loved who did the noble, great, heroic thing. You’re so much like him. We’d both fall in love with you, and I can’t go through it again.”

He forced a smile. “What if I promise I won’t get hurt?”

“You can’t make that promise.”

“Nobody can,” Joe said. “You could get run over tomorrow by a truck while crossing the street.”

“I know, but I don’t make a living of leaping in front of speeding trucks every day,” I said. “I can’t get involved ever again with anyone who has a dangerous job. I can’t take the worry and the risk, and I can’t do it to my daughter. She needs—we
both
need—a man in our lives who has the safest job on earth.”

“I’m not that guy,” Joe said.

“I wish you were.”

“I wish I were, too.” He took me in his arms and gave me a soft, sweet, sad kiss. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He smiled, turned his back on me, and walked outside. I watched him go, trying hard not to cry, then saw Captain Mantooth and Monk watching, too. Monk tossed his towel into the basket and came over to me.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

“Eventually,” I said.

He saw the tears in my eyes and my trembling lip.

“Would you like to borrow my Marmaduke book?”

I smiled and nodded, a tear rolling down my cheek. “That would be great.”

 

When we told Julie that Sparky’s killer had been caught, she threw her arms around Monk and startled him with a big hug.

“Thank you, Mr. Monk.”

“It’s nice to have a satisfied client,” Monk said.

“I did something for you,” she said. “Can I show you?”

“Sure,” Monk said.

Julie motioned for us to follow her, and she hurried ahead of us down the hall to her room. As soon as her back was turned, Monk motioned to me for a wipe. I gave him one.

“Children are so special,” he said, wiping his hands thoroughly, “but they’re walking cesspools of disease.”

I gave him a look. “Did you just call my daughter a walking cesspool?”

“She’s also bright and adorable and lovable,” Monk said. “From a safe distance.”

She stood in front of the door to her room, her hand on the doorknob.

“Okay, prepare yourselves,” she said.

Monk glanced at me. “Am I going to need shots for this?”

Before I could reply, she opened her door and waved us inside with a big, proud smile on her face. I peeked in first.

She’d cleaned her room. But saying that doesn’t do it justice. It was immaculate, with everything organized.

“You should see this, Mr. Monk,” I said.

He hesitantly stuck his head in and then looked at Julie. “What have you done?”

“I’ve Monked it.”

“Monked it?” he said.

“My books are arranged by author, genre, and copyright date, and my CDs are organized in even-numbered stacks by artist.” She strolled into her room and opened her closet. Her clothes were arranged by color and type. So were her shoes. “I organized my closet and all of my drawers.”

Monk went over and looked at her shelf of stuffed animals with obvious admiration. “You’ve arranged your animals by species.”

“And size,” she said. “And whether they are amphibians, reptiles, birds, or mammals.”

“That must have been fun,” he said, and he meant it. In fact, from the expression on his face, I think he envied her the experience.

“Oh, yes,” Julie said. “I had a great time.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This was a major change for a kid whose idea of making her bed was picking her pillow up off the floor.

“It must have taken you hours to do this,” I said.

“Actually, it’s taken me a few days, but I wanted to show Mr. Monk . . .” Julie stopped and shrugged, at a loss for words to explain herself. “I don’t know. I just wanted to say thank-you.”

I gave her a kiss. “I love you.”

“I didn’t do this for you, Mom.”

“Can’t I be proud of you anyway?” I said.

Julie turned to Monk. “What do you think?”

I was curious to know that myself. Monk touched a whisker on one of her stuffed lions and smiled.

“I think I’m sorry that I have to go home tomorrow,” he said.

 

 

 

 

I woke up in the morning to find Monk all packed, dressed, and ready to go. He insisted on making breakfast for Julie and me. I figured it would be bowls of Chex all around, but he surprised me by saying he’d be making eggs.

“I’d like mine scrambled, please,” Julie said.

“Perhaps you’d like some LSD and some weed with that too.” Monk gave her a chastising look, then glanced at me as if to say I’d failed as a parent in some fundamental way.

Julie’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What’s LSD? And why would I want to eat weeds?”

“Never mind,” I said, giving Monk a chastising look of my own. “So how are you preparing them?”

“There’s only one way,” Monk said.

He expertly cracked the eggs on the rim of the pan and the yolks spilled out, the egg whites forming perfect circles. I’m not exaggerating—
perfect
circles.

“How did you learn to do that?”

“Lots of practice,” Monk said. “It’s all in the wrist.”

“Could you teach me?” Julie asked.

“I don’t think we have enough eggs,” Monk said.

“How many does it take?”

“One thousand,” Monk said.

Julie and I both looked at him.

“You know the exact number?” I said.

“It was actually nine hundred and ninety-three,” Monk said. “But I broke seven more to make it even.”

“Of course,” I said. “Makes perfect sense.”

“Can you buy some more eggs today?” Julie asked me.

“I’m not buying a thousand eggs,” I said. “You’ll just have to learn two eggs at a time over breakfast each morning.”

“That could take years,” she whined.

“Now you have a goal in life,” I said.

Monk toasted some sourdough bread, which he cut into even halves and served to us on separate plates, along with oranges that were completely peeled and sliced in perfect wedges.

The breakfast was so perfect, in fact, it looked synthetic and strangely unappetizing, as if it were all made of plastic.

Julie had no such reservations. She devoured her breakfast, finishing up just as her ride to school arrived. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and ran out.

Monk cleared the table and I washed the dishes. After that, we were all alone with nothing to do. No murders to solve. No crimes to investigate.

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” I asked.

“Moving back into my house and cleaning,” Monk said. “Lots of cleaning.”

“You haven’t been there in days,” I said. “What is there to clean?”

“Every inch,” Monk said. “The entire building has been tented and pumped full of poison. It’s a death trap. We’re going to be on our hands and knees scrubbing for days.”

“You will; I won’t,” I said. “I signed on to be your assistant, not your maid. I’ll supervise.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll be sitting on the couch reading a magazine and watching you work,” I said. “If you miss a spot, I’ll let you know.”

I picked up my purse and my car keys. He grabbed his luggage and we went out to the car. Mrs. Throphamner was in her garden, already tending to her roses. I remembered I still owed her money.

“Good morning, Mrs. Throphamner,” I said. “Your flowers are looking lovely today.”

“So are you, dear,” she said.

At least she didn’t have any hard feelings.

“Oh,” Monk said. “I almost forgot.”

“Me, too,” I said, reaching into my purse. But before I could pay her, Stottlemeyer drove up and got out of his car.

Monk set down his suitcases and we walked over to greet him.

“Monk, Natalie,” Stottlemeyer said. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” It amazed me that he could still appreciate it, considering a typical day meant he had plenty of ugliness and death in store. “Do you need Mr. Monk’s help on a case already?”

“Nope,” Stottlemeyer said. “I was on my way into the office and thought I’d stop by with the good news. We’ve got Breen.”

“We had Breen yesterday,” Monk said.

“We had cat hair yesterday,” Stottlemeyer said. “Today we’ve got a fingerprint. The crime lab found his prints inside a firefighter’s glove. He might have been able to explain away the cat hair, but he can’t talk himself out of that. You came through for me again, Monk, like you always do.”