Monk made his way to the woman, walking like a man carrying a vial of nitroglycerine through a minefield. He moved cautiously and deliberately, careful not to get soot on his clothes or spill a single fleck of cigar ash from his hands.
Stottlemeyer and I observed his slow progress. It was strangely fascinating.
“How are you holding up with Monk as a houseguest?” Stottlemeyer asked me.
“It’s only been a few hours.”
“A few hours with Monk can seem like decades,” he said. He took a pen from his pocket, scrawled something on the back of a business card, and handed it to me. “This is my home number. If you need a break, give me a call. I can take him out to the car wash.”
“Thank you, Captain,” I said. “That’s very nice of you.”
“You and I are the only ones who take care of him. We have to back each other up.”
“We’re sort of like partners.”
“Sort of,” Stottlemeyer said.
“He likes the car wash?”
“Loves it,” Stottlemeyer said.
Monk finally reached the arson investigator, who was bent over with her back to him, examining something on the floor. I heard him clear his throat to get her attention. Gayle straightened up and turned around.
“Hello, Gayle. I’m Adrian Monk. I’m a consultant to the police.” Monk shrugged a shoulder to draw her attention to the Junior Firefighter badge on his lapel. “And I’m one of your brothers.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Could I have a Baggie?”
She took a clear plastic evidence bag out of the pocket of her windbreaker.
“Could you hold it open for me?”
She did. He emptied his ashes and the cigar stub into the bag and clapped his hands together, brushing off whatever microscopic traces might have been left. And then he brushed them a couple dozen more times for good measure.
“Thank you,” Monk said, and left her holding the bag, his attention drawn to the coffee table. Its thick glass top and metal legs had survived the fire virtually unscathed. The table was in front of a pile of springs and ashes that I guessed was once the couch. More springs and ashes, the remains of two armchairs, were on the other side of the table.
Gayle sealed the bag and, with nowhere else to put it, reluctantly shoved it into her pocket to throw out later. I knew exactly how she felt.
“Where was the body found?” Monk asked, squatting beside the coffee table and squinting at an ashtray, a mug, and a glob of plastic that resembled a TV remote.
Gayle glanced at Stottlemeyer for approval, and he nodded.
“On the couch,” she said.
“Where on the couch?”
The investigator pointed to the end of the couch farthest from Monk. “She was sitting in that corner, her hand on the armrest. The cigarette fell from her fingers and landed on a stack of newspapers on the floor, setting them aflame. The fire spread from there, engulfing the couch, the drapes, and eventually the entire room. She had piles of old newspapers. Matches and cigarettes everywhere. It was like kindling, a fire waiting to happen.”
Monk made his way over to the TV, looking from it to the couch, then to the remains of the chairs.
“Have you found any traces of an accelerant?” Stottlemeyer asked the arson investigator.
“Nope,” Gayle said. “The cigarette definitely caused this fire. It looks like an accident.”
Monk nodded in agreement. “That’s what it looks like.”
“Great,” Stottlemeyer said. “I can make it home early tonight and enjoy my Sunday off.”
“But it’s not,” Monk said.
“Excuse me?” Gayle said with attitude, hands on her hips.
“It’s not an accident,” Monk said. “It’s murder.”
“Oh, hell,” Stottlemeyer said.
“He’s wrong,” Gayle said.
“No, he’s not,” Stottlemeyer said miserably.
“When it comes to murder, he’s never wrong.”
“I’ve been doing this job for ten years.” Gayle opened her coat to show Monk the badge pinned on her uniform. “This is a real fire department badge, Mr. Monk. And I can tell you there is absolutely no evidence of arson.”
Monk made his way to what had been the edge of the couch. “You said she died right here.”
“Yes,” Gayle said. “Her name was Esther Stoval, sixty-four years old, and a widow. The neighbors say she was a chain-smoker. Always had a cigarette in her mouth or in her hand.”
“Did she live here alone?” Monk asked.
“With about a dozen cats,” Gayle said. “They fled in the fire and have been coming back all day. We’ve got them out back waiting for Animal Control.”
“Damn,” Stottlemeyer muttered, then looked at me. “Can you tell the difference between one of your sneezes and another?”
“No,” I said.
“Me neither,” he said with relief. “So it’s not just me.”
“It’s not just you,” I said.
“If she was by herself, why was she sitting here?” Monk asked. “At this edge of the couch?”
“Because it was comfortable?” Gayle said. “What difference does it make?”
“Her coffee mug, her TV remote, and her ashtray are on the coffee table at the other end of the couch,” Monk said.
I followed his gaze. The remote was a melted lump of plastic on the glass, but the mug and the ashtray were intact.
“If she sat there, she could see the TV,” Monk said, gesturing to the other side of the couch. “But sitting here, where her body was found, the TV is blocked by that chair. Why would she want to look at an empty chair?”
Stottlemeyer looked back and forth between the couch and the TV and the remains of the chair.
“She wouldn’t, not unless someone was sitting in it,” Stottlemeyer said. “Someone else was here.”
Gayle looked at Monk. “Damn.”
She was impressed.
I was pretty impressed, too. That was twice in one day I’d seen Monk extrapolate a whole chain of events based on where a person—or a dog—happened to be sitting.
Who knew sitting could be so important?
Stottlemeyer took out his cell phone, flipped it open, and made a call. “Randy? It’s me. Go down to the morgue. Tell the ME to move Esther Stoval’s autopsy to the front of the line. It’s a homicide. If you have any Sunday plans, cancel them.”
He snapped his cell phone shut and glanced at Monk. “I’m glad you stopped by, Monk. This one might have slipped past us.”
And that’s when I remembered why we’d stopped by in the first place.
5
Mr. Monk Learns to Share
We found Firefighter Joe Cochran sitting on an overturned bucket in the backyard, pouring milk into bowls and letting the cats crawl languorously all over him. He was a big man in his early thirties, who radiated strength and stoicism, qualities that seemed at odds with the tenderness he was showing to the cats. He stroked them gently, nuzzled them against his stubble-covered cheeks, and purred to them. For a moment I found myself wishing I could trade places with one of those cats.
The thought startled me. I’ve been involved with a few men since Mitch died, but none of them seriously, and none lately. I’d managed not to think about men for a long time, and was a little unnerved by how close to the surface those feelings really were. All it took was one glance at a rugged and tough, but sweet and tender, fireman to bring them all back.
My God, who was I kidding? Any woman would have felt the same way. He was the cover of a romance novel come to life. I just hoped when he spoke he didn’t have a high, squeaky voice or a horrible lisp.