It was just after sunset that Adrian-with a wipe firmly over his finger-rang his brother's doorbell. It took about forty seconds for the door to creak open and Ambrose's face to appear in the opening. "Adrian, Natalie, so nice of you two to drop in," the instruction manual writer greeted them, "What happens to be the occasion? I didn't hear from Dad..."

"No, no, Ambrose," Adrian told him, "We'd, we'd like to look at some of your newspapers; we're working on an important case right now."

"Arthur Schmidt's death, I presume?" Ambrose inquired correctly, "It's been all over the news, so I was guessing you'd be on it. Come on in."

He opened the door all the way and gestured them inside. The den was cluttered with the usual collection of mail and half-typed instruction sheets. Ambrose's three-dimensional chess set sat on the coffee table, showing Ambrose was partially through another game with himself. Adrian walked over and centered all of the pieces on their squares. "So are you winning lately, Ambrose?" he asked with just a tinge of sardonism.

"That would depend on how you define winning," Ambrose responded cryptically. He turned to Natalie asked with a warm smile, "Would you like a drink?"

"Actually, I am a bit thirsty," Natalie admitted, "What do you have?"

"How about a nice soda?" Ambrose asked. When she nodded, he gestured toward the kitchen and said, "This way and we'll go fix it up for you."

The kitchen was meticulously arranged as always, with Ambrose's dishes all washed for the evening and sitting in the drying rack (much to Adrian's delight; he had no idea how he'd have survived if he'd come when Ambrose hadn't cleaned them yet). One clean plate, however, still sat in front of what had been their father's seat. Adrian stared wistfully at it. While it had been nice to finally see his father again after all the years apart, the void was still there now that he was on the road again. "He's still going to stop by some day," his brother leaned over his shoulder, "I have to be ready when he comes."

Adrian couldn't really think of anything to say to this. He knew how disappointed Ambrose had to been to not have been able to meet their father at Christmas as well. He watched as Ambrose turned slowly and reached into the cabinet over the sink for the mug marked with a big number four. "Why, why are you doing that?" the detective asked him.

"What?" Ambrose gave him a quizzical look.

"Why take Number Four?" Adrian pointed out, "Number One's right there on the end, that makes more sense to use that first."

"Number Four is my guest mug for the month," Ambrose told him, "You know I rotate the guest mugs every month; you've known that for at least the last seventeen and a half years."

"But I think Natalie would be happier with Number One, wouldn't you?" Adrian glanced at her.

"It doesn't matter, Mr. Monk," she told him, "If Ambrose wants the fourth one, let him use the fourth one."

"How, how about he takes Number Four, then, and I take Numbers One, Two, and Three, and that way you have things...nice and even?" the detective suggested.

"Mr. Monk, I'm not THAT thirsty," she was starting to look frustrated again.

"I'm getting Number Four," Ambrose reached for the mug.

"I'm telling you, Number Four doesn't want to be disturbed," Adrian grabbed for it at the same time. their arms knocked the mug marked with the number three off the shelf, causing it to shatter on the floor into dozens of pieces. Both Monk brothers gasped in horror at its fate. "Now look what you've done!" they shouted simultaneously at each other.

"Hey, easy!" Natalie stepped between them, "Do I have to separate you two?"

"Look at it!" Adrian pointed at the broken mug as if it were a poisonous serpent, "He killed Number Three! It's dead!"

"It wasn't my fault!" Ambrose protested, "I suppose you're going to say what happened to Number Nine was deliberate too while you're at it!"

"Well I'm not replacing it!" Adrian shouted, "If you want another Number Three, you'll have to go out and get...!"

"STOP!" Natalie shouted loud enough to break every window in the house. This easily prompted the brothers into silence. "Mr. Monk," she rounded on her employee, "If this mess means so much to you, go clean it up and let Ambrose go."

"I WAS going to clean it up," Adrian walked toward the hallway, pausing briefly to add, "But he DID kill Number Three; I'll testify in court it was murder."

Natalie shook her head. "I swear, some day I'd love to know how you were able to put up with him when you were younger," she confided in Ambrose as he put Mug #4, now filled with orange soda, in front of her.

"Sometimes I wonder myself," Ambrose admitted. He gave her an awkward smile. "So, um, happy belated birthday, since I didn't get a chance to see you then," he blurted out, "How's Julie doing?"

"Good, very good, in fact she just missed honor roll last semester," Natalie told him, "I'm glad she's willing to put some effort into school now. How about you?"

"Oh, I've got the usual quota of manuals to be done by next week," Ambrose said, staring out the window, "I should probably get started again once our business here is over and done with. Of course, I do try and call out more Saturday night, but the line's always busy."

He seemed rather depressed. "Wait...you've been calling Crimestoppers too?" Natalie was amazed.

"It was fairly obvious that the head clerk stole the money from the Redding Bank of Northern California," Ambrose recalled the details of one crime in particular, "He was the only one who knew how to break down the vault at the key time. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm, not the more adventurous brother..."

There came a creaking from behind the door. Adrian slipped into sight again, broom and dustpan in hand. "Ambrose, I...I..." he started to say.

"Please, don't say anything," Ambrose shrugged, "You were always the one destined to do great things."

There was deep disappointment on his face that made Adrian feel quite guilty. "Ambrose, you don't understand, I have a responsibility to Trudy," he explained, "If I can't solve her case, I have to solve as many others as I can."

"I have a responsibility to her too!" Ambrose let out a cry filled with pity, "I owe her something too; probably the same thing you do!"

"Ambrose, how many times do we have to go over this?" Adrian told him, "It was not your fault Trudy was in that garage; do you understand!?"

Ambrose lowered his head, apparently not fully convinced. "I can't do what you do," he said softly, "You can go and help anyone any time you want. Crimestoppers is all I have. And I can't redeem myself if I can't tell them what I know."

For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence in the kitchen. "But anyway, "Natalie broke it, "We did come here on a case."

"Oh yes, Arthur Schmidt," Ambrose mood brightened, "What do you know so far?"

"Not as much as we'd like," Adrian admitted. He and Natalie related everything they knew so far. Ambrose took it all in silently. "OK," he said once they were finished, "What I'm thinking is that Schmidt was lured there by the killer..."

"Which would be easier if we had any clue where he was killed," his brother added.

"...Schmidt charged the killer once the sharp objects hit him in the chest," Ambrose continued, "He was right on top of the killer, who didn't have the best angle to shoot at him and was lucky he managed to sever his jugular. Schmidt then somehow knew how to come to you."

"How, I don't know," Adrian swept up the piece of Number Three and dumped them into the trashcan. Then he walked over to the sink and rearranged the dishes in order of plates, cups, and utensils, "Like I said, I never met him before in my life."

"So how do you explain the stab wounds on his chest lining up as perfectly straight as they are?" Natalie inquired to Ambrose.

"Well, given your description of them, it's fairly clear that whatever was run into him was flung through the air rather than shoved in," the instruction manual writer explained, "To inflict the kinds of wounds you've described, they'd have to be traveling at a rate of at least sixty-five feet per second, faster than most people can throw. Plus, the wounds are grooved, hinting that the objected were jagged rather than perfectly straight, so you can definitely rule out iron spikes or anything along that line."

"Interesting, Ambrose," Adrian straightened several pictures of his family on the wall, "The reason we came by, though, is that we were hoping you had some information in the papers about Schmidt and Hallett and the proposed merger Hallett told us about. We need to know more about the board and the deal."

"As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember reading three articles about that would-be deal, so let's go see what we can find," Ambrose led the way into the den, where every newspaper for the last thirty-five years lay stacked as far as the eye could see. The instruction manual writer gazed at the middle of the stack against the middle of the far wall. "It, It would help to keep them in more of a chronological order," Adrian pointed out.

"I have my own system," Ambrose said defensively, "You wouldn't understand."

"You've got that right," Adrian shook his head. Ambrose reached into the stack he was examining and extracted a paper marked January 22. "It was on the middle of page five," he said, opening up the paper to the point in question. The three of them proceeded to read:

SCHMIDT AND HALLETT TO BE SOLD TO OVERSEAS GROUP

A deal was announced today that would allow Schmidt and Hallett Financial House to be bought out by the Togoshaki Limited Corporation of Japan, a well-known financial institution in that country. Terms of the sale were not released to the press, but one investor has publicly decreed the deal, saying that it was made without the board of directors' approval. The investor, whose name was not released, has said the decision will be challenged.

"Well, nothing there we don't already know," Adrian shook his head, "What else is there, Ambrose?"

"Give me a minute," Ambrose scanned a stack of newspapers nowhere near the stack he'd gotten the previous paper out of. This time he took one from the bottom of the stack. "This one's from February third," he told them, "On page three."

"How do you remember that?" Natalie was impressed.

"It's a blessing and a curse," Ambrose admitted. He joined her and his brother in reading:

S & H BOARD DIRECTOR AXED

James Marshall, 44, was today relieved of his duties as chairman of the board of Schmidt and Hallett Financial House as the company's internal struggle over a potential buyout from an overseas firm intensified. Marshall had been serving in this capacity for the last five years.

"I worked hard to get that job," a seemingly bitter Marshall told reporters from his Pacific Heights residence, "Arthur Schmidt took it from me because I tried to veto his secret and illegal deal with Togoshaki Limited. He'll pay for this, I'll tell you right now."

Schmidt had no comment. This paper learned today that Schmidt and Hallett will be the focus of an impending FCC investigation on...

"Wait a minute," Adrian jerked his head up, "Marshall...Hallett said he was working as his aide."

"I remember," Natalie nodded, "Has he been sheltering him in some way?"

"I'd love to know what Marshall's up to," Adrian straightened the creases in the newspaper, "I hope it's not him, given how attentive he is to detail like me, but if it is..."

Natalie's cell phone rang before he could finish. "Yes?" she said into it, "Really? That helps. He is? We'll be there. The lieutenant," she informed the Monk brothers, "They think they know where Schmidt was killed. The captain's going to be there, so we'll have to be careful what we say."

"No problem there at all," visions of a Stottlemeyer upset over his ex's potential involvement in Schmidt's murder had plagued Adrian all day. He turned to Ambrose. "You, you wouldn't mind if we borrowed the paper for a while, just so we can read the rest of what you've got?"

"Do you realize what that would do?" Ambrose protested, "That would throw out of whack everything I've worked so hard to...!"

"We'll give it right back when we're done," Natalie reassured him. Ambrose thought it over for a minute, then shrugged and produced another newspaper from the stack closest to the door. "It's on page four," he informed his guests as they headed for the door, "Try not to tear it. In the meantime, my advice is to try and figure out the time frame so you can judge who could have been at the crime scene when the murder took place. Oh, and Adrian?"

"Yes?" Adrian turned back around in the doorway.

"If it's not a problem, could you try to call out less on Saturday nights?" his brother gave him a hopeful look. Adrian quickly turned away and walked toward Natalie's car with his head down. "Why does he always insist on making me feel guilty?" he asked out loud.

"Well Mr. Monk, he does have a point," his assistant told him as they pulled out into traffic, "Maybe you should ease off of Crimestoppers for once in a while and give him a chance."

"But I told you, I'd be breaking my vow to Trudy if I did that," Adrian protested, "If it's that important to him, I'll ask them to put in a second hotline for him next week."

Natalie decided not to say anything to this. "He's right about whatever impaled Schmidt, though," her employer went on, "It's clear something out of the ordinary happened there. Maybe the crime scene will tell us what we need to know."