I didn’t know how to pull that off except to nag Monk to go back to LA until he finally gave in. But before I could do that, I needed a day to decompress from our last trip and to do some basic household tasks, like laundry and grocery shopping.
So I called Monk and told him I wouldn’t be coming by that day. He was absolutely fine with that. He needed at least a day to either clean, disinfect or burn everything that he’d taken with him to Los Angeles.
I took Julie to school, and when I came back, I saw a familiar fire engine red pickup truck parked in front of my house. It belonged to Joe Cochran, the firefighter I’d dated not so long ago. We’d met when Julie convinced Monk to investigate the killing of Joe’s firehouse dog, who had been murdered while the company was away fighting a fire.
Joe and I went on only a couple dates, and just when I began to feel the chemistry between us, I dumped him.
It wasn’t because I wasn’t attracted to Joe. It was because I was too attracted to him. I couldn’t risk my heart and Julie’s getting involved with another man in a life-and-death profession.
But just seeing his truck made my heartbeat quicken, and I had to consciously force the smile off my face as I steered my car into my driveway.
If I’d known I was going to see him, I would have put on something nicer than sweats, a wrinkled tank top and a hooded fleece jacket.
Joe got out of his truck to greet me, with a big, affable grin on his face. He had round, lovable cheeks that softened his natural brawniness and made him seem strong and cuddly instead of muscular and tough. His big arms looked like they could snap a tree trunk or keep a woman very snug and warm against his chest.
I did such a wonderful job of controlling my emotions that when I got out of the car all I did was give him a friendly kiss on the cheek instead of tackling him onto the grass, tearing off his clothes and having my way with him.
He put his big hands on my shoulders when he returned my kiss and I found myself yearning for him to pull me close to him.
“This is a nice surprise,” I said.
“I’ve been thinking about you for months,” Joe said. “You have no idea how many times I’ve driven by and thought about stopping.”
“I could give you a rough estimate,” I said.
“You’ve seen me?”
“Your truck isn’t exactly subtle,” I said. “And I like to sit in front of my little bay window and read magazines.”
“That’s why I like to drive by,” he said.
“So what made you stop this time?”
“I need you and Monk again,” he said. “The company got called out to put down a car fire last night, and when we got back, we discovered that someone had stolen some of our rescue equipment.”
“And you want Monk to investigate,” I said.
“And you, too,” he said.
“This sounds like a ploy to see me again,” I said.
“Of course it is,” Joe said. “But we’d really also like to get our hydraulic tools back.”
“Mr. Monk only investigates murders,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true. “And he’s already got a case, a very important homicide down in Los Angeles, that’s taking his full attention.”
“Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You’ll just have to trust the police to handle it.”
“You could investigate,” he said.
“I’m not a detective,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ve picked up a few tricks from Monk.”
“You just want me to hang out all day at the firehouse so you can woo me.”
“That, too,” he said. “You’re very woo-able.”
“You don’t have to wait for someone to steal something from the firehouse to take me out for a cup of coffee.”
“But you dumped me,” he said.
“Coffee isn’t dating,” I said. “It’s coffee.”
“I’m not sure that I see the distinction,” he said. “But I’m certainly not going to argue the point.”
We walked down the street to my favorite little coffeehouse, which was across from Sorrento’s and next door to a little independent bookstore with several copies of Ian Ludlow’s latest book displayed in the window.
The coffeehouse was furnished with grungy but inviting thrift-shop couches, and we settled onto one with our coffees and cakes.
We talked for hours.
He told me about his latest firefighting exploits and his loneliness when he wasn’t at the station. I told him all about Trevor’s case, my fears about losing my job and my jealousy of Sharona’s relationship with Monk.
It was such a relief to be able to unload all of my anxieties on someone—and Joe was a great listener. He didn’t offer me a lot of advice, but that wasn’t really what I was looking for. He made me feel comfortable and safe.
Afterward, he slipped his hand into mine and walked me slowly back to my house. When we got there, I impulsively and stupidly invited him in for coffee.
I knew we’d already had gallons of fresh-brewed coffee, and all I had in my kitchen was the foul instant stuff, but that wasn’t the point. It was an excuse to stay together for another stolen hour or two. There was this wonderful glow between us, probably caffeine-induced, and I wasn’t ready to let it go yet.
I guess you know where this story is headed, so I won’t drag it out.
Yes, we made love.
Yes, we did it even though I’d dumped him and had no intention of beginning a relationship with him. But we had a natural chemistry together and I needed him. So I let my emotions, and the moment, overrule my intellect.
Besides, it was a lazy afternoon and Julie was at school, so there was none of the elaborate planning that usually went into scheduling my rare intimacies as a single mother.
It had all happened so naturally, and we were so good together, that it felt inevitable and right. And afterward, I felt none of the guilt that I thought I would for my emotionally reckless indulgence.
Joe seemed to understand without a word between us that this wasn’t the beginning of something or even the end—just a few intimate hours between two people who liked each other and needed some comfort. His kisses were warm and sincere, and I luxuriated in the safety and strength of his arms.
I stayed in bed for an hour or two after he left, cuddling the SFFD T-shirt he’d forgotten and drifting in and out of a dreamless sleep, feeling his arms around me even though he was long gone.
I guess my horoscope had been right after all.
I managed to get out of bed, shower and do a little laundry before Julie got home from school. But I didn’t get around to grocery shopping. So for dinner, we took advantage of Julie’s cast-vertising discount and went to Sorrento’s for pizza.
As soon as we walked in, the crowd noticed Julie’s cast-vertising and also took advantage of her discount. I thought the proprietor might get upset, but I was wrong. He was so pleased with the business she’d brought him that he gave us our pizza for free.
On Friday morning, my horoscope didn’t say anything about unpredictability or romance. Instead, it told me I was creative and resourceful. It was nice to hear, but I like my horoscopes to tell me the future, not offer me insights into my personality. I rely on fortune cookies for that.
I was feeling centered and rested in a way I hadn’t in a while. I was beginning to rethink the wisdom of keeping Firefighter Joe at a distance. Maybe my heart was telling me something my brain should pay more attention to.
But I had more pressing things to consider than romance. I had to get Monk focused on Trevor’s case again. The sooner Monk solved it, the better things would be for everyone.
And then I could carefully consider the emotional perils of my sporadic love life.
Julie could tell there was something different about me that morning, but her radar wasn’t so well-honed that she could tell why.
She did, however, wonder why a man’s SFFD T-shirt was among the clothes that were folded and washed on
the dryer.
“You’ve never seen this?” I said. “It was a gift from the fire station after Mr. Monk solved the case.”
In a way, it was true.
“Isn’t it a little big for you?” she said.
“It keeps me warm in bed,” I said. That was true, too. She seemed to sense the honesty in that, or she’d lost interest in pursuing the subject, so she let it go.
We went out to the car so I could drive her to school. But I only got the car a few feet out of the driveway before I noticed there was something very wrong with the steering. I got out, looked under the car and saw some gunky fluid all over the driveway. I didn’t know anything about cars, but I knew it wasn’t good when they started bleeding.
So I called another mother to pick up Julie, getting myself deeper into debt with the local moms, and then I called the auto club. While I waited for the tow truck, I called Monk to let him know I’d be late.
The repair shop told me that some doohickey or thingy had broken and that it would take a day to get the part and make the repair. They arranged for me to drive a little Toyota Corolla while my Jeep was in the shop.
Monk was standing outside his apartment building when I arrived in my compact car. He was pacing on the sidewalk, patting his chest and taking deep, luxuriant breaths.
“What are you doing, Mr. Monk?”
“Breathing,” he said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes, I hear it’s really catching on,” I said. “Pretty soon, everybody is going to be doing it.”
“Air.” He took another deep breath and let it out slowly, watching it dissipate like smoke. “I really, really like it. You should try it.”
“I’ve had plenty,” I said. “So what’s our next step in the investigation?”
“Breathing,” he said. “Lots of breathing.”
“How does that get us closer to discovering who killed Ellen Cole?” I asked.
Monk rolled his shoulders. “I’m thinking maybe Trevor did it.”
“No, you’re not,” I said.
“All the evidence clearly points to him.”
“It’s pointing in the wrong direction,” I said. “You proved that.”
“There’s no hard evidence,” Monk said.
“You saw what you saw,” I said. “That’s evidence enough for me. And it usually is for you, too.”
“All those things I said down there, all those things I think I saw, you can’t really take them seriously,” Monk said. “I was under the influence.”
“Of what?”
“Toxic gas,” he said. “It clouded my thinking.”
“Mr. Monk,” I said, “you know and I know that he’s innocent.”
“I can’t go back to Los Angeles,” Monk pleaded.
“You have to,” I said. “You owe it to Sharona. She saved you. Now you have the chance to save her.”
“I would be saving her by staying here,” Monk said. “Trevor is a bad, bad man.”
“She loves him,” I said. “You know what it’s like to lose someone you love. We both do. Do you really want her to feel our pain, too?”
He took a deep breath, savoring it. “But I like to breathe.”
“You can breathe down there,” I said.
“I don’t want to have webbed feet,” Monk whined.
“Now you’re incentivized to wrap up the case quickly.”
“Incentivized?” Monk said.
“It’s a common word, Mr. Monk. Even twelve-year-olds use it.”
We were about to head inside and, I hoped, make arrangements to return to Los Angeles when my cell phone rang. It was Captain Stottlemeyer.
“Hey, Natalie, welcome back. I hear Monk made quite an impression down in La-La Land.”
“He still has more work to do there,” I said.
“It will have to wait,” Stottlemeyer said. “I need him.”
“He’ll be back,” I said.
“I need him now, Natalie.”
“Mr. Monk is busy,” I said. “He has another case.”
“If duty calls, I have to answer,” Monk said, “even if it means I can’t leave San Francisco ever again.”
“The other client has my sympathies,” Stottlemeyer said, “but she doesn’t have Monk on a retainer, which means we come first.”
He was right, of course. Damn him.
“Is this a simple case?” I asked.
“Would I be calling Monk if it was?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mr. Monk Goes to the Beach
Baker Beach is an idyllic half-mile stretch of smooth sand beneath the Presidio’s steep bluffs, which were topped with forests of cypress and pine. To the northeast was a striking view of the Golden Gate Bridge that dramatically illustrated how the span earned its name. I lived in San Francisco and I still wished I had a camera with me so I could take a picture of the bridge from this angle.
Captain Stottlemeyer was waiting for us on the sand, leaning against a brown-and-yellow sign that warned beachgoers of hazardous surf and treacherous undertow. His face seemed to carry the same warning.
Monk strode up to Stottlemeyer and rubbed his hands together eagerly. He was so eager to work he didn’t even bring up the point that the sand was uneven and should be raked.
“Okay, what have we got?” Monk asked. “Let’s catch us a murderer.”
Stottlemeyer eyed him suspiciously. “What are you so jolly about?”
“You’ve given him a temporary reprieve from having to go back to LA,” I said.
“You don’t want to be within a one-hundred-mile radius of that place,” Monk said. “You wouldn’t believe what goes on down there.”
“It can’t be any stranger than what happens here,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I sincerely doubt it,” Monk said.
“You haven’t seen what we’ve got to deal with today,” Stottlemeyer said and tipped his head toward the rocks and tide pools behind him.
There was a huddle of police officers and crime-scene techs farther up the sand, presumably gathered around a corpse, but that wasn’t what caught Monk’s attention.
It was the sunbathers. They were all nude.
Monk immediately spun around and turned his back to the sunbathers, who were letting it all hang out. And I mean that literally. These weren’t supermodels working on their tans. The full force of gravity, fatty foods and age had hammered these people.
I had to admire the sunbathers’ casual confidence and their complete lack of shame. These were people who were totally comfortable with their bodies and accepted whatever imperfections they had as natural facts of life. I haven’t achieved that same sense of confidence.
“You’re going to have to call in reinforcements,” Monk said to Stottlemeyer.
Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants Page 14