Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse

by Lee Goldberg

  “As our guard informed you downstairs,” she said to Stottlemeyer, “Mr. Breen is very busy and would prefer that you return at another time.”

  She opened her calendar and ran a sharp, red-polished fingernail down the page. “I believe he can accommodate you in March of next year, assuming you’re still engaged in your present position on the police force.”

  Stottlemeyer forced an insincere smile of his own. “Tell Mr. Breen that I appreciate how busy he is and that I need only a moment of his time to apologize.”

  “You’re here to apologize?” she said, arching a perfectly tweezed eyebrow.

  “I’m here to prostrate myself at his feet,” he said.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “He likes that,” the receptionist said. This time her smile was real and vaguely sadistic.

  “I’m sure he does,” Stottlemeyer said.

  She called Breen and told him why we were there. I don’t know what he said, but after a moment she nodded at us.

  “You may enter.” She tipped her head toward Breen’s office. I wondered if she was real or a vaguely lifelike robot, and if when she hummed, it sounded like the music we heard in the elevator.

  The doors to Breen’s office slid open as we approached. Breen stood in the center of the room, looking nothing like the man we saw the previous night. He was completely recovered from his cold and dressed in one of his custom-made suits.

  “You’re looking better this morning,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “You have sixty seconds,” Breen said, checking his watch. I could see the monogram on his cuffs.

  “That’s all I’ll need,” Stottlemeyer said. “I just wanted to apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused you over the last few days. You told us from day one that you’d never set foot in Esther Stoval’s house.”

  “I never met the woman,” Breen said. “But you wouldn’t listen. Instead you accused me of committing every murder in this city.”

  Stottlemeyer held up his hands in a show of surrender. “You’re right; I was wrong. I listened to Monk when I should have listened to you. I don’t blame you for being pissed off.”

  Breen sneezed and wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “Indeed. Speaking of Monk, where is he?”

  “He’s got a problem with elevators,” I said. “So he stayed down in the lobby. But I can call him on my cell phone. I know he’d like to say a few words to you.”

  I took out my phone, hit speed dial, put it on the speaker setting, and held it out so we could all hear what Monk had to say.

  “This is Adrian Monk,” he said over the speaker. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Testing, one, two, three,” Monk said.

  Stottlemeyer took the phone from me and yelled into it, “We can hear you, Monk. Get on with it. Mr. Breen doesn’t have all day. We’ve wasted enough of this man’s time.”

  Breen nodded appreciatively at Stottlemeyer, sniffled, and dabbed his nose with his handkerchief. His eyes were beginning to get teary.

  “I want to say how sorry I am for intruding on you last night,” Monk said. “I hope you will accept this gift as a small token of remorse for the discomfort you’ve been through.”

  I reached into my bag and pulled out a big, white, fluffy cat, a Turkish Van with tan markings on her head and tail, and held it out to Breen.

  He immediately started sneezing and backed away. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m allergic to cats.”

  “So you wouldn’t have one in your house,” Monk said.

  “Of course not.” Breen glared at the phone as if it were Monk standing there, then shifted his look to me. “Would you mind getting that cat away from me, please?”

  I stowed the cat in my open bag.

  “You didn’t have a cold last night; you had an allergy,” Monk said. “Your overcoat was covered in cat dander from Esther Stoval’s house. You trailed dander all over your den when you brought your coat in to burn. That’s why I was sneezing, too. I’m also allergic to cats, which is how I know you murdered Esther Stoval, Sparky the firehouse dog, and the homeless man.”

  It was the cat in the Marmaduke comic that sparked Monk’s realization. He remembered sneezing when he first met the homeless man on the street days ago and again at the man’s lean-to under the freeway last night. He’d assumed the man slept with cats, but there were no cats anywhere near the man’s shelter.

  Breen’s face reddened with fury. He turned his watery glare at Stottlemeyer. “I thought you came here to apologize.”

  “I lied. I came to arrest you for murder. Since we’re on the subject, you have the right to remain silent—”

  Breen cut him off. “I’m allergic to pollen, mildew, and one of my wife’s perfumes. A runny nose doesn’t prove a damn thing.”

  “The cat hair does,” Monk said. “Esther got that Turkish Van only a few days before her murder. It’s a rare breed. I’ll bet we’re going to find dander from that cat, and others that she owns, in your house and in your car.”

  “We’re searching your house now,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll do a DNA analysis and compare the dander we find to what we’ve recovered from the homeless man’s body and Esther’s other cats. It’s going to match.”

  “Yet you said you don’t own a cat and that you’ve never set foot in Esther Stoval’s house,” Monk said. “That leaves only one explanation. You’re a murderer.”

  It was a strange experience. Monk was summarizing his case and nailing a killer without even being in the same room. It couldn’t be half as satisfying for Monk as being able to look his adversary in the eye. It certainly wasn’t for me. But it was enough. Breen wasn’t going to get away with murder. He was going to prison.

  Breen sneered, which was a lovely sight to see. It was a weak, halfhearted sneer. It lacked the sleazy power and smug self-confidence of all the other sneers he’d blessed us with over the past few days.

  “You planted the evidence to frame me as part of some twisted, personal vendetta.”

  “Save it for your trial,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re coming with us.”

  Breen ignored Stottlemeyer and marched out to the reception desk. “Tessa, get my lawyer on the phone immediately.”

  We followed him out and, just as we reached him, he whirled around, grabbed the cat out of my bag, and flung the screeching animal at Stottlemeyer’s face. He staggered back, struggling with the furious, clawing cat.

  Breen bolted for his office, aiming his remote at the doors as he passed. Stottlemeyer pulled the cat off of his face, dropped it on the receptionist’s lap, and chased after Breen, but the doors slid shut with a solid clank in his face just as he reached them.

  “Damn,” Stottlemeyer yelled.

  “What’s going on?” Monk demanded over the phone.

  “Breen is getting away,” I told him; then I turned and confronted the receptionist, who was casually petting the cat. “Open the doors.”

  “I can’t,” she said.

  I wanted to strangle her.

  “Okay.” Stottlemeyer took out his gun and, for a moment, I was afraid he was going to shoot her. “I’ll do it.”

  He aimed at the doors.

  “They’re bulletproof,” she said.

  Stottlemeyer swore and holstered his weapon. “Does he have a private elevator in there?”

  She didn’t answer.

  The captain spun her chair so she faced him, leaned down, and got nose-to-nose with her.

  Tiny rivulets of blood streamed down his face from the cat’s scratches. I don’t know how she felt about his scary visage, but the cat was terrified. The cat leaped out of her lap and scrambled up my leg and into my bag.

  “I asked you a question,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Save your questions for Mr. Breen’s lawyer,” she said, her voice cracking just a bit.

  “How would you like to be charged as an accessory to murder?”

  “You can’t do that,” she said. “I didn’t kill anyone.�
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  “You helped a triple murderer escape. I’m sure the jury will be very sympathetic to you.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Monk said from my cell phone. “They’ll see right away what a warm, honest person you are.”

  She blinked once. “Yes, he has a private elevator.”

  “Where does it go?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “To the parking garage,” she said.

  Stottlemeyer pointed to the security monitors. “Let me see it.”

  She hit a button, and a view of Breen’s Bentley gleaming in its parking space in the underground garage showed up on one of the screens. On another monitor we could see Monk pacing in the lobby, holding the cell phone to his ear.

  Stottlemeyer yelled into my cell phone.

  “Monk, Breen is making a run for it. He’s going to the parking garage. I can’t get down there in time. You’ve got to stop him.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Monk said.

  “I don’t know,” Stottlemeyer said, “but you’d better think of something fast.”

  Monk rushed out of frame on the monitor. Stottlemeyer handed me back my cell phone, took out his own, and called the police station for backup.

  I turned to the receptionist and pointed to the screen that showed the lobby view. I wanted to see what Monk was doing.

  “Can you move this camera?” I asked.

  “It’s fixed in place,” she said.

  Of course it was. The entire security system had been specifically programmed not to do anything Stottlemeyer or I wanted it to do.

  “Can you show me the garage exit and the street outside of it?”

  She hit a button and two images appeared on either side of a split-screen display. One camera looked down into the garage from the street. The other camera was outside, showing the exit and the sidewalk in front of the garage.

  I glanced at the other screen, the one that showed the Bentley in its parking space. Breen ran out of the elevator and got into his car.

  I looked back at the split screen. Where was Monk? What was he doing?

  There was an easy way to find out. I put the cell phone to my ear, but all I got was a dial tone. Monk had hung up.

  Stottlemeyer flipped his phone shut and joined me. “Where’s Monk?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  We watched the garage monitor as Breen backed up and sped out of his parking space, burning rubber.

  “I’ve called for backup and put out an APB on Breen’s car,” Stottlemeyer said. “A Bentley shouldn’t be too hard to spot on the streets or on one of the bridges.”

  “If he doesn’t ditch it as soon as he’s out of here,” I said.

  “We’ll alert the airports, train stations, and the borders.”

  That didn’t give me much reassurance. Fugitives with fewer resources than Breen succeeded in eluding the authorities for years. Breen probably had an emergency stash of money hidden somewhere. I knew with horrifying certainty that if Breen got out of the building he’d simply evaporate.

  He’d never be found.

  We watched what unfolded next on the security camera feeds at the receptionist’s desk. We saw the Bentley speeding up the ramps toward the exit. And then we saw Monk.

  He stood on the sidewalk directly in front of the garage exit, a round loaf of sourdough bread in each hand.

  Stottlemeyer squinted at the screen. “Is that bread that he’s holding?”

  “Looks like it to me,” I said, shifting my gaze between the monitors. One screen showed Monk blocking the exit and another showed Breen’s Bentley racing toward him.

  “What the hell is Monk doing?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Getting himself killed,” I said. “Breen is going to plow right over him.”

  Breen was rocketing toward the exit, making no effort at all to slow down as he closed in on Monk. If anything, he was speeding up.

  But Monk didn’t move. He stood there like Clint Eastwood, stoically facing the car down, holding the loaves of bread. Even Clint would have looked ridiculous and insane.

  At the last possible second, Monk threw his loaves at Breen’s windshield and dove out of the way. The loaves burst on impact, splattering chunks of bread and thick clam chowder all over the glass, completely obscuring Breen’s view.

  The Bentley flew out of the exit into the street. Steering blind, Breen fishtailed into a turn and slammed into a row of parked cars. The Bentley crumpled like a crushed soda can, setting off a shrill wail of car alarms up and down the street.

  Stottlemeyer looked at me in stunned disbelief. “Did I just see Monk stop a speeding car by throwing two bowls of clam chowder at it?”

  “Sourdough bowls,” I said, pretty shocked myself.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said, and ran to the elevators. “I can’t wait to write that in my report.”

  I glanced at the monitor and saw Monk stagger to his feet. He took out his phone and dialed. My cell rang just as Stottlemeyer stepped into the elevator.

  “You’d better call a paramedic,” Monk said.

  “Is Breen hurt?” I asked.

  “I am,” Monk said. “I scraped my palm.”

  “I think you’ll live,” I said.

  “Do you have any idea how many people walk on that sidewalk each day? Who knows what they have under their shoes. A deadly infection could be raging through my veins as we speak.”

  While Monk talked, I saw something on the monitor that scared me a lot more than the germs on the sidewalk. Lucas Breen was emerging from his mangled car. He was disheveled, bloody, and covered in broken glass.

  And he was holding a gun.

  “Mr. Monk, Breen has a gun!” I said. “Run!”

  Monk turned around to see Breen staggering toward him, aiming his gun with a shaking hand. People on the street screamed in panic and took cover. Even the receptionist gasped at the sight, and she was thirty floors above the street, safe behind her desk, watching it all on the screen.

  But I knew how she felt. It was like watching a horror movie, only these weren’t actors.

  The only people left standing on the street were Monk and Breen, his face twisted with rage.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Monk said, still holding the phone to his ear.

  “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,” Breen said. “I hate you with every molecule of my being.”

  I could hear him clearly over the phone, and I could see the whole, terrifying scene playing out from various angles on the security-camera monitors.

  “Stall him,” I said. “Stottlemeyer is on his way down.”

  “It would be a big mistake,” Monk said.

  “Oh, really? Give me one reason I shouldn’t blow your head off,” Breen said.

  “It would be bad for tourism.”

  Breen grinned, several of his teeth missing. “See you in hell, Monk.”

  There was a gunshot, only it was Breen who spun around, the gun flying out of his hand.

  Monk turned and saw Lieutenant Disher rising from his cover behind a car, his gun pointed at Breen, who was clutching his injured hand.

  “Police,” Disher said. “Raise your hands and lie facedown on the ground. Now.”

  The developer sank to his knees, then lay forward, his arms outstretched in front of him.

  Disher ran up to Breen, pulled his arms behind his back, and handcuffed him.

  “Good shot,” Monk said.

  “Lucky shot,” Disher said. “I was aiming for his chest.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he was aiming for,” I said into the phone. “Thank him, Mr. Monk.”

  “You saved my life,” Monk said. “Thank you.”

  “Just doing my job,” Disher said, but he was obviously quite proud of himself. I was proud of him, too.

  That’s when Stottlemeyer rushed out of the building and over to the men. “Randy, what are you doing here?”

  “I figured you might need backup,” Disher said. “So I followed you and parked outside.”<
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  Stottlemeyer did a quick appraisal of the situation, took a rubber glove out of his pocket, and used it like a rag to pick up Breen’s gun.

  “In other words,” he said, “you violated a direct order.”

  “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.