Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse by Lee Goldberg Read Free Book Online

deaf?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Okay,” he said. “Is he a good detective?”
    “The best,” I said. “But eccentric.”
    “If he can find the son of a bitch who killed Sparky, I don’t care if he likes to run naked through Golden Gate Park singing show tunes.” He immediately caught himself, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. “Oh, my God. I forgot. Can he really read lips?”
    “I doubt it,” I said, and waved at Monk. He gave me a thumbs-up.
    Joe exhaled, relieved, and picked up one of the cats. “What do you need to know, Natalie?”
    I liked hearing him say my name. Did I mention his voice wasn’t the least bit squeaky?
    “Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt Sparky?”
    His face tightened, but he continued to gently stroke the cat. “Only one person. Gregorio Dumas. He lives a few doors down from the station house.”
    That would certainly make it easy for him to know when the company responded to a fire and if the station was empty.
    “What does he have against Sparky?”
    “Love,” Joe said. “Sparky was smitten with Letitia, Gregorio’s French poodle.”
    “And Mr. Dumas didn’t approve of the relationship?”
    “Letitia is a show dog,” Joe said. “Gregorio was afraid Sparky would ruin her career. He warned me that if he caught Sparky in his yard again, he’d kill him.”
    “Anybody else have a problem with your dog?”
    Joe shook his head no. “Sparky was a smart, sweet, trusting animal. I’d take him to the cancer ward at the children’s hospital, and he was so good with those kids, even the tiniest, frailest child. Everybody loved him.”
    “Somebody didn’t,” I said, and immediately regretted it.
    His eyes started to tear up again, but this time he didn’t try to hide it from me. “He wasn’t just a dog to me, Natalie. He was my best friend. I know how corny that sounds, ‘a boy and his dog.’ But this job, and the hours I keep, aren’t conducive to relationships, if you know what I mean.”
    Unfortunately, I did. Being a single mother who works for an obsessive-compulsive detective doesn’t make for a great social life, either.
    “I spend a lot of time alone. But I wasn’t really alone, not with Sparky,” he said. “Now I am. He was all I had. I feel gutted and totally adrift. Do you know what that’s like?”
    I took his hand, gave it a squeeze, and nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
    I suddenly felt self-conscious. I withdrew my hand and stood up.
    “Mr. Monk will find whoever did this, Joe.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “Because he’s Monk.”
    “I’m told he’s got a long story,” Joe said. “I’d like to hear it sometime.”
    “Here are my numbers,” I said, writing them down on a piece of paper. “Please give me a call if you think of anything later that might help Mr. Monk’s investigation.” I took a deep breath. “Or if you want to hear that story.”
    “I will,” he said with a smile.
    I didn’t know what else to say, so I just smiled back at him and headed back to Monk, who hadn’t so much as taken a step from where he had been standing.
    “How much of that did you get?” I asked.
    “Just the part about enemas, Astroturf, and Wayne Newton’s hair.”
    “None of those things came up.”
    “I see,” Monk said. “I must have been reading the subtext.”
    There was subtext all right, but that sure as hell wasn’t it.
     
    For dinner I made Julie, Monk, and myself Dijon chicken breasts, petite peas, and mashed potatoes. Monk helped by counting out the peas onto our plates (we each had exactly twenty-four peas per serving) and laying them out in rows. He also served our mashed potatoes with an ice-cream scoop so they formed neat balls, which he carefully smoothed out with a butter knife.
    Julie watched all this with rapt attention. It took her mind off her sadness, that’s for sure.
    While we ate, I filled her in on what we’d learned so far, which didn’t sound very substantive to me but seemed to impress her. She gave Monk a