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

he was willing to admit.
    “I hate coming in here on my day off,” Stottlemeyer said as we gathered in his office. The bullpen outside was sparsely occupied by three or four detectives.
    Stottlemeyer was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes to remind himself, and anyone who saw him, that he was supposed to be home relaxing.
    Lieutenant Randall Disher, by comparison, was in his usual ill-fitting, off-the-rack suit and tie, as if it were any other day of the week. He idolized Stottlemeyer, so he was never entirely comfortable around him. A tremor of eager-to-please anxiety underscored his every word and action.
    “We could use your help on this one, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “And since you’re the one who brought this unsolvable homicide to our attention, I think you’ve got a duty to solve it for us.”
    “Unsolvable?” Monk asked. “There’s no such thing.”
    “That’s the spirit,” Stottlemeyer said. “Tell him what we have, Randy.”
    Disher referred to his notebook. “Ordinarily in these kinds of accidents, where someone falls asleep while smoking, it’s not the fire that kills them but the smoke.”
    “Did the medical examiner find smoke or soot particles in the victim’s lungs or nasal passages?” Monk asked.
    “No,” Stottlemeyer said. “Meaning Esther Stoval was dead before the fire started.”
    “There you go,” Monk said. “It’s murder. You solved it. What’s the unsolvable part?”
    “We’re getting to that,” Stottlemeyer said. “Go on, Randy. Tell him the rest.”
    “The ME found bits of fabric in her windpipe and petechial hemorrhages in the conjuntivae of her eyes that come from increased pressure in the veins when—”
    “Yadda, yadda, yadda,” Stottlemeyer interrupted him. “In other words, she was smothered with a pillow.”
    “But we’ll never get anything off the murder weapon because it was incinerated in the fire,” Disher said. “Along with any fingerprints or other trace evidence that the killer might have left in the room.”
    “We’ve got no witnesses, either,” Stottlemeyer said. “We canvassed the neighborhood. Nobody saw or heard anything.”
    “So you’re saying you can prove it was murder but not who did it,” Monk said. “And you’ll never be able to prove who did it because all the evidence went up in flames.”
    “You got it,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re looking at the perfect murder.”
    Monk tilted his head from one side to the other. I’ve seen him do that before. It’s like he’s trying to loosen up a stiff neck, but I think what really goes on is that his mind refuses to accept some fact he’s seen or heard.
    “I don’t think so,” Monk said.
    “You already see the mistake the killer made?” Stottlemeyer said.
    Monk nodded. “He shouldn’t have killed Esther Stoval.”
    “You got anything more substantial than that for us to run with?” Stottlemeyer asked.
    “Not yet,” Monk said. “But I’m working on it.”
    “That’s good to hear,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s a start.”
    “What do you know about the victim?” I asked.
    “From talking to the neighbors, we know that Esther was a miserable, chain-smoking harridan whom nobody liked,” Stottlemeyer said. “Worse than that, she stood in the way of everybody on her block getting stinking rich.”
    He explained that Lucas Breen, a developer known for rejuvenating tired neighborhoods with innovative mixed-use developments, wanted to demolish those six ugly town houses and build a Victorian-style condominium and retail project. Esther Stoval was the only homeowner on the block who wouldn’t sell, enraging her neighbors, who’d already sold their places to Breen and whose deals were contingent on her selling as well.
    “Looks like there’s no shortage of suspects,” I said.
    “They all could have done it,” Stottlemeyer said. “They could have stood in a line and taken turns holding the pillow to her face. But we have no way of proving any of