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you’d better make it quick.”
    “Pray that I do,” Monk said.
    And that’s exactly what he did, putting his hands together, closing his eyes, and mumbling to God as I drove on.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Mr. Monk Meets the Chief

    T he police station occupied the first floor of Trouble’s city hall, a two-story building with Doric columns, arched windows, faux turrets, and a cupola on top of the domed roof. The architectural flourishes, which were meant to create a sense of authority and permanence, might have worked on a grander scale but were overpowering on such a small building and conveyed instead a buffoonish pomposity.
    I couldn’t say the same about the police chief, Harley Kelton, who was rugged, relaxed, and unpretentious in every way. There was stubble on his cheeks and his hair, lightly flecked with gray, was disheveled, like he’d just rolled out of bed. He wore a denim shirt, jeans, and running shoes. I would never have guessed he was a cop, much less the chief, if not for the badge clipped to his belt.
    His station was as simple and straightforward as he was. There was a front desk instead of a counter and it was occupied by a secretary who looked old enough to have personally witnessed the Gold Rush. Behind her were three other desks, each occupied by a uniformed officer and equipped with computers, and there were two holding cells, one of which was open and occupied by a man who was snoring.
    Kelton’s desk was in the far back corner of the room so he had a view of his entire domain. We sat in the stiff wooden chairs facing him.
    “I’ve been expecting you,” he said after we made our introductions and took our seats. He leaned back in his creaking chair and put his feet up on the desk. Monk winced.
    “Does that mean you’re glad to see us,” I said, “or that you were dreading our arrival?”
    He smiled at me and it felt as intimate as a kiss.
    “I can’t imagine anyone being unhappy about seeing you, Ms. Teeger, and I am familiar with Mr. Monk’s reputation as a detective. But we aren’t the inexperienced country bumpkins that Captain Stottlemeyer thinks we are. I was a homicide detective in Boston.”
    “You shouldn’t do that,” Monk said.
    “Do what?” he asked.
    “Put your feet up on the desk,” Monk said. “It’s unsanitary.”
    “This isn’t a hospital and I don’t perform surgery on my desk.”
    “There are wild animals in the streets and you’re putting whatever you’ve stepped on all over your files and papers that you share with other people. And from the crumbs at the edge of your blotter, I know you eat at your desk, too. Think what might be going into your mouth with each bite.”
    Monk shivered all over at the thought.
    Kelton took his feet off the desk. Monk motioned to me for a wipe.
    “Why did you leave the Boston Police?” I asked Kelton as I gave Monk his wipe. But instead of using it on his hands, Monk began to wipe the desk where Kelton’s feet had been. Kelton watched him warily for a moment.
    “I was fired for being a drunk,” he said. His frankness disarmed me almost as much as his smile did. He seemed to realize that. “Acknowledging your failings is part of the recovery process.”
    “I see,” I said. “How’s that going?”
    He shrugged. “Some days are better than others.”
    “And today?”
    “Much better since you walked in,” he said.
    He was flirting with me and I liked it. Working with Monk involved a certain degree of social isolation. Sure, I got out when he was investigating things, but most of the people we talked to were cops, grieving relatives, possible suspects, and cold-blooded killers. The investigations didn’t create particularly flirtatious circumstances.
    Granted, I was still in a police station and talking to a cop, but already I could see that Kelton wasn’t like anybody in law enforcement I’d met before.
    “Is everyone in this town an alcoholic?” Monk dropped his used wipe into Kelton’s trash can.
    “No,”