“I don’t recall you phrasing it as an order, sir,” Disher said.
“Good,” Stottlemeyer said. “Then neither do I.”
“Somebody should really call an ambulance,” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer looked down at Breen, who was moaning and squirming on the ground. “Yeah, he’s in a world of hurt.”
“I was thinking about me,” Monk said, and held up his hand. I couldn’t see his palm on the monitor, but I could see the expression on Stottlemeyer’s face.
“That’s a scratch, Monk.”
“People spit on sidewalks,” Monk said. “Dogs urinate on them. This scratch could be fatal.”
“You’re right,” Stottlemeyer said. “Randy, get the paramedics here pronto.”
Disher nodded, took out his phone, and made the call.
Stottlemeyer put his arm around Monk. “You did good, Monk. Real good. The clam chowder was an inspiration.”
“Not really,” Monk said, and showed Stottlemeyer a speck on his jacket. “My jacket is a total loss.”
23
Mr. Monk and the Perfect Room
While we were at the police station giving our statements, Monk and Stottlemeyer learned that they were right. Crime-scene investigators found cat dander in Breen’s house and in the wreckage of his car that, at least in their preliminary examination, matched the hairs recovered from the homeless man’s body and Esther’s cats. They sent the samples out for DNA testing, but there was little doubt how it would turn out. Meanwhile, the forensics unit was still processing the prints and fibers they’d recovered from the firefighting equipment.
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.”