Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse Read Online Free PDF Page A

the open doorway. I could see a rubber hot-dog chew toy in the basket.
    I couldn’t figure out how, or when, Monk noticed the scratches and the dog bed. It seemed to me that from the moment we got there all his attention had been on the fire trucks. But I was wrong.
    Monk cocked his head, looked around the station, then took a few steps forward, as if he were placing his feet in a set of footprints in the sand.
    “The murderer crept in through the open garage and reached this point, the second point in our triangle, when the dog saw him and charged,” Monk said. “He looked around for something to defend himself with and spotted those.”
    Monk whirled around to face the axes, shovels, and rakes neatly arranged along the wall to the left of us, every tool in its proper place. At least I knew why that had attracted Monk’s attention.
    “He ran over there, the dog closing in on him. He grabbed the pickax off the wall and swung it at the dog at the last possible second.” Monk took a few steps forward and stopped near the open racks of coats, helmets, and boots. He tapped the floor with his foot. “Sparky died right here. The third point in our triangle.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “Simple geometry,” Monk said again.
    “He’s right, Miss Teeger,” the captain said, coming up behind me. “That’s exactly where we found the poor dog when we got back, right here in front of the turnouts.”
    “The what?” I said.
    “It’s what we call our firefighting gear,” he said. “All the stuff we wear into a fire.”
    Monk looked past me. “Uh-oh.”
    “Uh-oh, what?” I asked.
    He went over to the rack of heavy fire coats, which were all aligned front-to-back in a neat row. One of the coats was hanging from a hanger that was facing a different direction from the others.
    Naturally, Monk took the coat off the hanger, turned the hanger around, and hung the coat up again, careful to make sure the shoulders lined up with the ones behind and the ones in front.
    Mantooth shook his head in amazement. “He’s more of a stickler for order than I am.”
    “Than anybody,” I said.
    “I wish all my guys were like him.”
    “Be careful what you wish for,” I said.
    Monk came back and wagged his hands in front of me for some wipes. I reached into my purse and gave him two.
    “Are you absolutely sure nothing has been stolen from the firehouse?” Monk said while cleaning his hands.
    “All of the equipment is accounted for, and none of the guys have reported anything missing from their lockers,” Mantooth said.
    “How about something that you wouldn’t think of as important?” Monk said. “Something so insignificant, obscure, and unremarkable that nobody would necessarily miss it?”
    “Then how would we know if it was gone?”
    “I once solved a murder where it turned out all the killer was after was a piece of paper jammed in a copying machine.”
    “We don’t have a copying machine.”
    “I once solved a murder where it turned out all the killer was after was a rock in a goldfish aquarium.”
    “We don’t have any goldfish.”
    Monk glanced at me. “This is going to be a tough one.”
    “Come to think of it,” Mantooth said, “we’re missing two towels.”
    “What kind of towels?” Monk asked.
    “The ones we use to clean and polish the fire truck,” Mantooth replied. “We had thirty-four the day before the fire and thirty-two afterward. I know this sounds silly, but I’m kind of compulsive about keeping track of the towels.”
    “It sounds perfectly natural to me,” Monk said. He’d found a kindred spirit.
    “Do you really think someone would come in here to steal two towels?” the captain said.
    Monk shrugged. “Where do you keep them?”
    “In the basement, by the washer and dryer.”
    This was getting ridiculous. There was no way someone killed a dog over a couple of towels. So to stop the insanity, I piped up with a question of my own.
    “Captain Mantooth,” I said, “can you