Free Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu by Lee Goldberg

looking at us both with obvious amusement.
    “Where is my car?” I demanded.
    “You’ll have to ask the towing company,” Officer Krupp said.
    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You had my car towed ?”
    “It was parked illegally and was impeding traffic,” he said. “Here’s your ticket.”
    Krupp handed me the yellow ticket, which I promptly balled up and threw at his chest. He pretended not to notice, never taking his eyes off my face.
    I pointed at Monk. “Do you know who he is?”
    “Yeah, I do,” Krupp said. “He’s the wack-job who is costing me a decent pension.”
    “He’s the wack-job who can fire you right now,” I said.
    “With a critical shortage of cops on the street?” He smiled, full of smug satisfaction. “I don’t think so.”
    “Fine,” I said. “Give me the keys.”
    He gave me my car keys, but I kept my hand out. “I want the keys to your patrol car.”
    “That’s an official police vehicle,” he said. “You’re a civilian.”
    “He’s the captain,” I said, gesturing to Monk again. “Or maybe you’d like to argue that with the mayor? I happen to have Smitrovich on my speed dial.”
    I started hunting in my purse for my cell phone, but the officer knew he was beaten. He handed over the keys to his patrol car.
    “Thanks,” I said, and looked at Monk, who seemed startled. “Let’s go, Captain.”
    We headed for the patrol car.
    “You’re serious?” Monk said.
    “Would you prefer to ride in the backseat of a taxicab that has served a thousand people?” I saw Monk shiver with revulsion. “That’s what I thought.”
    We reached the patrol car and got in. There was a laptop computer, a rifle, and a mike mounted in front of the center console, but otherwise it wasn’t so different from any other car. I stuck the key in the ignition and started the car up. The engine roared with a ferocity that made my Jeep Cherokee sound like a golf cart. I had the feeling that if I pressed the accelerator, flames would shoot out of the exhaust.
    This was going to be fun.
    My cell phone rang. I took it out of my purse and answered it. It was Officer Curtis at headquarters, calling to report that another citizen of the city of San Francisco had met a violent end. She gave me the address of the crime scene, and I told her which patrol car we were in so she could reach us on the radio. I also asked her to track down the towing company that had my car.
    Officer Curtis was about to hang up when Frank Porter asked for the phone. He had checked the credit card statements of the Golden Gate Strangler’s victims for any running-shoe purchases in the last three months. There weren’t any; nor did any of the victims shop at the same stores.
    I hung up. The first thing I did was tell Monk what Porter had found out. Monk sulked. Then I told him what Officer Curtis had called about.
    “You’ve got a fresh homicide,” I said.
    “It’s not another Strangler victim, is it?”
    I shook my head. “It’s a hit-and-run in the Mission District.”
    He sighed wearily. “That doesn’t sound like a particularly difficult case. You interview the witnesses, track down the car that matches the license plate or the description of the vehicle, and then check it for blood or other evidence from the scene.”
    In other words, solving this case would depend more on grueling legwork than brilliant deductions. Monk didn’t like putting in that much effort, not unless it involved removing a stain from something.
    “There’s a detective on the scene. I’m sure it’s not necessary for you to be there,” I said, trying hard to sound uninterested. “After all, you’re the captain. You’ve got important administrative work to do.”
    I admit it, I was manipulating him. I wanted to drive the car. And I wanted to drive it fast .
    “Do you know how to get to the crime scene?” Monk said.
    I nodded and tried to suppress my smile. “Can we use the siren?”
    “That what it’s there