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“Maybe the dog urinated on his roses.”

I could see how that could strike Monk as a compelling motive for murder.

“So assuming this insane gardener was that intent on killing Sparky,” I said, “why did he wait for the dog to go after him? Why didn’t he just walk up to the dog and clobber him with a baseball bat or something?”

“He would have had to bring the baseball bat with him,” Monk said. “And then he’d have to dispose of it later. Then there’s the risk that it might be found and could somehow be traced back to him.”

“And if he keeps it, it might link him to the crime later,” I said.

Monk nodded.

It made sense. The case wasn’t so confusing after all.

“On the other hand,” Monk said, “maybe he didn’t expect Sparky to be there.”

“But Sparky was always there,” I said.

“Only when Joe was on duty,” Monk said. “Otherwise Joe took the dog home with him.”

It had been only a few minutes since Captain Mantooth had told us that, and already I’d forgotten it. I obviously wasn’t cut out for detective work.

“So you think Sparky’s murder was an accident,” I said. “You think the killer was after something else and got caught by the dog.”

“Not necessarily,” Monk said. “He could still have been going there to murder Sparky.”

I was getting confused all over again.

“How can you kill a dog that isn’t there?”

“You could poison his food.”

I thought about it. The killer staked out the station on a day he knew that Joe wouldn’t be working, waited for everyone to leave to fight a fire, then sneaked inside to poison the food. But instead the killer was attacked by the dog he’d come to kill, a dog that wasn’t supposed to be there, and had to protect himself with the pickax.

It could have happened that way.

Or the other way.

Either way, it wasn’t too complicated. I could deal with it.

“Or the dog was killed by accident,” Monk said, confusing things for me all over again. “And the guy was in the firehouse for an entirely different reason.”

“Like what?” I said. With that question, I gave up trying to make sense of the case. That was Monk’s job, not mine.

“I don’t know,” Monk said. “But I once solved a murder that was all about a penny. . . .”

The house that had caught fire was still standing, but the first floor was charred and gutted, the windows broken and rimmed by black where flames had licked out. The property was cordoned off with yellow caution tape, and several firefighters picked through the rubble while others hosed things down.

The smell of smoke was heavy in the air, the streets and gutters inundated with soot-blackened water, the storm drains clogged with burned debris. There was a fire truck, a black-and-white, an SFFD sedan, and an unmarked police car parked in front of the house.

The people in the neighborhood were out on their porches and milling on the sidewalks, looking at the house and talking animatedly among themselves. There’s nothing like a fire to bring a community together.

The burned house was one of a half dozen identically bland, blockish town houses built side by side in the 1950s. They must have been designed by somebody who was really into the “international modern style” popularized by Le Corbusier, Richard Neutra, and Mies Van Der Rohe, only done artlessly and on the cheap (as you can probably tell, I took a few architecture courses and have been waiting for an opportunity to show off what little I remember). The town houses were unadorned by moldings, eschewing style for function, and the doors and windows were flush with the flat walls around them, making the places stand out in sharp (and, if you ask me, offensive) contrast to the gables, cornices, and bay windows of the utterly charming Victorian homes across the street.

I wondered how many of the neighbors were thinking the same thing I was: Architecturally speaking, it was a shame the fire didn’t burn down all six of the ugly town houses on that side of the street. The neighbors’ homes, by contrast, were wood-frame Eastlake Victorians standing shoulder-to-shoulder, narrow and tall. Each house had the requisite bay windows to increase the available light, decorative gables to add some individual flair, and tiny garages that were barely able to fit a single car.

The uniformed officer guarding the fire scene recognized Monk, lifted up the yellow caution tape, and nodded us past.

The interior of the living room was a gutted, scorched skeleton of what it once was, with the charred furniture and melted TV still eerily in place. An African-American woman in a bright blue SFFD windbreaker with the words ARSON INVESTIGATOR written in big yellow letters on the back examined the rubble in the far corner of what was left of the room. Her hair was braided with colorful white and pink beads. Julie had been nagging me to let her do that to her hair, which would have been okay with me if it didn’t cost $120.

Monk stepped in gingerly, trying not to get a speck of soot on himself, which was impossible. We’d barely come through the door when we were greeted by a familiar face.

Captain Leland Stottlemeyer stood off to one side, smoking a fat cigar, his wide tie loosened at his open collar. He was a perpetually weary man, with a mustache that seemed to grow bushier as his hairline receded. He didn’t look pleased to see us.

“What are you doing here, Monk?” he said.

“We came to talk to one of the firefighters,” Monk said. “The firehouse dog was killed last night.”

“You’re investigating pet deaths now?” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s for a very special client,” Monk said.

I couldn’t help smiling, and Stottlemeyer noticed. In that instant he knew the client was me, or someone close to me. Stottlemeyer is a detective too, after all.

“We were told that this fire was an accident,” I said.

“It probably was,” Stottlemeyer said. “But since a lady died, we have to treat this like a crime scene until the arson investigator makes her determination. So we send someone down to stand around until then. It’s routine.”

“So why didn’t you send Lieutenant Disher?”

Stottlemeyer shrugged. “It’s been raining all week and it’s a sunny day. I wanted to get out. Gives me a chance to smoke my cigar.”

Monk sneezed. And then sneezed again.

“Whoever lived here had cats,” Monk said.

“How do you know?” Stottlemeyer said.

“I’m allergic to cats.”

“You’re allergic to plastic fruit, dandelions, and brown rice, and that’s just for starters,” Stottlemeyer said. “How can you tell it’s cat dander that’s making you sneeze?”

Monk sneezed. “That was definitely a cat sneeze.”

“You can tell the difference between your sneezes?” I asked.

“Sure,” Monk said. “Can’t everybody?” Stottlemeyer took a deep drag on his cigar, then flicked his ashes on the floor.

Monk stared at him.

“What?” Stottlemeyer said.

“Aren’t you going to pick those up?”

“They’re ashes, Monk. Take a look around. The entire place is in ashes.”

“Those are cigar ashes,” Monk said.

“Oh.” Stottlemeyer nodded his head knowingly. “They don’t belong with the other ashes.”

Monk smiled. “I knew you’d see reason.”

“Not really.” Stottlemeyer flicked his cigar again. Monk lunged forward, catching the ashes in his cupped hands before they could hit the ground.

Monk looked up, relieved. And then he sneezed, but managed not to blow the ashes out of his hands. “Anyone have a Baggie?”

Stottlemeyer glared at him, mashed out his cigar against the blackened wall, and dropped the stub in Monk’s open hands.

“You can take the pleasure out of anything, Monk. You know that? Talk to Gayle, the arson investigator.” Stottlemeyer tipped his head toward the African-American woman in the SFFD windbreaker. “I’m sure she can help you.”