"What is all of this?" Natalie exclaimed in surprise. Adrian was rolling an entire rack full of suitcases out of his apartment.

"I have to come prepared," he told her, wheeling it towards Stottlemeyer's car at the corner, "You know how these restaurants mess things up; I intend to come prepared."

Natalie shook her head but decided not to say anything. Adrian opened the car's trunk and loaded his belongings inside. "Evening Monk," an incredulous but resigned Stottlemeyer greeted him when he climbed into the car himself, "Nice to know you're prepared if World War III breaks out in the next couple of hours."

"Are you feeling any better Captain?" Adrian had to ask.

"I'm happy to say yes, because just as I was coming here to get you, this came over my voice mail," Stottlemeyer pressed the button on his cell phone for the message. "Hello, Captain Stottlemeyer?" came a nervous voice that was definitely Marilyn Schmidt's, "There's something I have to tell you. Meet me at the Hong Yong at six thirty, and I'll tell you what happened to Arthur."

"Incredible Natalie mused as they pulled out into traffic.

"Almost too incredible," Adrian was somewhat suspicious, "Incredible she'd know we were going to the Hong Yong anyway. It seems too convenient."

"Or it could be the big break we were waiting for," Stottlemeyer said with deep hope, "The sooner we close this one the better; the press and the mayor have been all over me on this one, and Lord knows I've got enough to worry about right now as it is."

He gripped he fingers hard on the steering wheel as he said this. Adrian shook his head softly. He prayed that Schmidt's widow would close the case as well, and that she wouldn't finger Karen as the killer.

They arrived at the Hong Yong Kitchen about fifteen minutes later. The receptionist on duty, a prim-looking Asian woman, did a double-take in surprise upon seeing the detective wheeling his rack into the restaurant. "Excuse me sir," she asked, walking in front of him, "What is all this?"

"Um, don't, don't take this too hard," Adrian told her, "You, you probably know the state health inspector gave this restaurant a B rating," he pointed at the card in the front window, "I can't, I can't in good conscience...what I'm saying is...I, I have to bring my own food with me."

"I'm sorry sir, but if you want to eat here, you'll have to have what's on our menu," she told him.

"You sure?" the detective frowned, "I mean, it's no..."

"Four of us at the table nearest the door you've got," Stottlemeyer pushed the rack to her, "Is the owner in?"

"Um, no, he's out on family business at the moment," the receptionist told him, "Why?"

"Police business," the captain flashed her his badge, "We'd like a word with him when he gets back; we need to know about some people who were here a few nights ago. And don't lose anything on this rack, or my friend here might just kill all of us."

"Irving, four here," the receptionist called to the nearest waiter. Adrian drew the topmost suitcase off the rack as they were led to their table and opened it to reveal cleaning utensils. Once they were there, he waved for everyone to stand back while he set about cleaning the tabletop...and the booth's seats...and the floor underneath the table...and the window next to it...and arrange the placemats and untensils so their formed a perfect square on the tabletop. It was about ten minutes after this began that he nodded and finally sat down. "I, I really don't need one," he told the waiter as he was handed a menu, "I'm, I'm not going to eat anything."

"Mr. Monk, it's not going to kill you to try something new for once," Natalie told him, "You just might like what they have here."

"I might, but I sincerely doubt it," he told her, "And please don't invoke your Grandpa Neville to make me, or I just might dig him up and kill him...again."

"Sir, you will have to order something if you want to stay here," the waiter informed him.

"Just pick something, Monk, anything," Stottlemeyer handed him his menu. Adrian reluctantly scanned it over. "Uh, I guess I'll take...no, that's not going to...I'll have...no I won't...I think..."

"Four number sixes," Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes and snatched the menu back, "And make sure you cook it as well as you can."

"I, I can go into the kitchen with you and verify you're giving me a full-cooked meal," Adrian told the waiter, who did not respond as he shook his head and walked off, "In fact, I should probably inspect the whole kitchen while I'm at it, just to be absolutely sure everything here's kosher."

Without warning, he drew another wipe and started wiping at the floor again. "Uh, I think it's clean by now, Monk," Disher told him.

"Just want to make sure," Adrian said. It was another two minutes before he popped up again looking content. "Now, now we're good," he told everyone.

"Anyway, back on Planet Earth," Stottlemeyer announced wearily, "Hopefully they'll be able to tell us exactly when Schmidt Junior and Hallett were in here so we can know exactly where they were at what times."

"And then we concentrate on what else makes no sense yet," Adrian added, "What exactly was used to kill Arthur Schmidt? We know the killer stole Esther Hollway's vacuum and oxygen tanks to create a high pressure firing device for the rifles he had, but what did he load them with? No bullet casings, no blades, no nothing at the crime scene. And there were no paint flecks from his gloves on the floor, so he didn't pick anything up afterwards. And who else was...?"

The sound of the restaurant's gong ringing cut him off. There was loud applause as a man in a sparkling red suit with a microphone in hand entered the dining area. "Well folks, it's six thirty, and as you know, all March long, it's Hong Yong Karaoke time!" he proclaimed, "Tonight, we're going to start off with...you, sir, what's your name?"

Adrian found the microphone shoved right into his face. He gulped nervously. "I'm, I'm...Adrian, Adrian Monk," he whimpered in a very low whisper, "And I...I...I'm Adrian Monk."

"Well Adrian, what song would you like to sing for everyone here?" the man asked him.

"Uh,..." Adrian felt every eye in the restaurant boring into him. He swayed in discomfort, "Ac, Actually, I'm...can I pass? I'm not really a singer at all."

"Come on, Adrian," the man goaded him, "Any tune will do."

Adrian gulped again. Weakly, he leaned toward the microphone. "I love you baby," he sang very softly and nervously, "I want to twist with you all night. I...really need you, you...uh...turn me on like a light. And we'll...go swim with the mermaids all day, and...eat...a big plate of hay...heeeeeeeey, Maccaroni...anyone know how the rest of it goes?"

Every single person in the restaurant was confused beyond belief. "OOOOOOOK, moving right along...," the man with the microphone moved to the next table. No sooner had he left than the waiter arrived with their meals. "Four number sixes," he announced, setting their dishes before them.

"Um...?" Adrian frowned at his meal, which did not look the leastbit kosher by his definition of the word.

"Never hurts to try, remember?" Natalie whispered in his ear. Adrian shrugged, lifted his fork (after wiping it down to get rid of any germs that might have been left their by its previous user) and hesitantly took a bite from the plate. "Hey, you know, this really isn't half bad," he admitted, his expression relaxing. He took several more bites and actually smiled. "See, if you just learn to trust people," his assistant patted him on the back, "you'll find you'll like a lot of things."

"Even bird's nest casserole," Disher innocently remarked.

"WHAT!?" Adrian's yelp caused everyone in the restaurant to turn towards him again. What they saw this time was the detective jumping up and hopping around as if he were on fire. "Quick, call the paramedics!" he screamed at the waiter, "I need a stomach pump and an intestine transplant A.S.A.P.!"

"Sir, if you'll just relax..." the waiter tried to tell him.

"Relax!?" Adrian continued panicking, "I'm very relaxed right now! I'm about as relaxed as they come! You haven't even come close to seeing me panic! Captain, arrest this man for endangering the public with this thing!"

Before Stottlemeyer could say anything, there came the ringing of the bells above the front door as another customer came in. This time, however, this sound was accompanied by that of a woman screaming from the alley next to the restaurant. "Marilyn Schmidt," Adrian realized once the scream had made him stop panicking.

"Our confession..." Stottlemeyer realized he probably wasn't going to get it. The four of them bolted from their seats, leaving the waiter to call after them, "Hey, who's paying for all this? You owe thirty bucks!", and barrelled out the door and into the alley. Their fears were immediately confirmed: Arthur Schmidt's widow lay face down in the middle of the alley with a knife in her back. "Police, stop!" Stottlemeyer shouted at a shadowy figure disappearing around the alley's far corner. He took off in pursuit. His associates filed around the body. "Well, at least there's one less suspect out there now," Natalie remarked, shaking her head.

"I knew it wasn't going to be that easy," Adrian sighed, swaying hard from side to side due to the open dumpster not more than three feet away from the corpse.

"Uh guys, better take a look at this," with a worried look on his face, Disher held up a piece of paper that had been lying on Marilyn's back. Written on it in pen was the message:

WIFE OF PIG IS DEAD,

JUSTICE IS COMPLETE

K.S.

The three of them exchanged uneasy glances. None of them needed to say out loud what K.S. presumably stood for. Disher quickly shoved the note into his tuxedo pocket as Stottlemeyer came running back up. "Lost him," the captain grumbled, "He's probably halfway across the city by now. Lieutenant, call the forensics crew; maybe we can get the prints on the knife."

"They won't find any, Captain," Adrian squatted down as far as he dared, given that there was a large amount of standing water around the body, which also unnerved him, "There's more paint flecks from a glove here."

"Same gloves her husband's murderer used, Monk?" Stottlemeyer inquired.

"Yes, Captain, the same."

"All right, I'll go have Marshall picked up again," the captain said.

"But what if it's not him?" the detective pointed out, "We don't have complete proof on him yet."

"Unless he's working in tandem with someone," Disher suggested, "He could have been hired by John Schmidt or Hallett or Karen or someone we don't..."

"What?" Stottlemeyer spun towards him, "What was that?"

"Uh..." Disher turned pale as he realized he'd just given away the forbidden information. He glanced at Adrian and Natalie for any assistance in getting out of the jam. Seeing that none was forthcoming, for they were just as surprised at the abrupt revelation as he was, he stammered, "I, um, uh, said, er, um, Marin...yeah, uh, Schmidt might have had a contact up in Marin County, uh, yeah, someone who..."

"Randall Disher, you said Karen," Stottlemeyer leaned in very close to him, "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"