To advance the investigation, Marcus Shaw slept at the station for two consecutive nights.
He'd already sent out requests for information to neighboring provinces, but nothing of value came back.
So he turned to cold case files, focusing on murders where the perpetrator had been cautious and the motive obscure.
After plowing through stacks of files, his vision blurred and his mind grew foggy—he seemed to be drowning, swimming in any direction but seeing no shore.
On the third morning, he was ready to give up. He wanted to brush his teeth, order takeout, and eat a proper meal.
The beef noodles had just arrived. He was about to dig in when he absentmindedly pulled a file folder closer and started flipping through it. One bite of beef in his mouth, and his eyes landed on two names: Vince Conrad, Gordon Pike.
He pushed the noodles aside and stared at the black and white text.
It was a food poisoning case from two years ago.
Thirty-two teachers and students from two schools had eaten meals distributed by Longxin Catering. An hour later, they experienced chest tightness, vomiting, difficulty breathing—some even had convulsions before falling into comas. After hospital treatment, most recovered, but four died.
After the incident, food safety and public security agencies formed a joint task force, swiftly detained company personnel, and tested the ingredients.
The cause was nitrite poisoning. The company, to cut costs, had purchased a large batch of spinach and stored it at room temperature for three days, causing nitrite levels to spike.
Because the impact was severe—a major food safety incident—the State Council's Safety Committee supervised the case with a two-day deadline for resolution.
Marcus Shaw had been the one to handle it.
The procurement officer and head chef bore primary responsibility, each sentenced to fifteen years. The company's legal representative should also have been held accountable, but by the time they found him, he'd already committed suicide by medication—and the legal representative turned out to be a young man from out of town.
As for Vince Conrad and Gordon Pike, they'd been the delivery drivers and were never penalized. During the investigation, they gave statements to the police, identifying the deceased legal representative, Shane Mercer, as the one who personally managed the company's affairs. They said he'd been the one who interviewed them when they applied.
Marcus Shaw recalled that he hadn't taken those statements himself—another officer who'd since been transferred had handled them. That was why Gordon Pike's face had seemed familiar yet impossible to place.
The picture suddenly became clear.
Vince Conrad and Gordon Pike had been coworkers. Now Vince Conrad's mother was murdered in a hallway, and Gordon Pike had been killed—the connection must lie in this old case.
Energized, Marcus Shaw went through the original files page by page, afraid of missing any detail.
He found nothing obviously wrong.
Was it mere coincidence? Then why had Vince Conrad fled? Just because he'd beaten up the butcher?
Or did the case hide a deeper secret—someone targeting people who knew about it, trying to silence them permanently?
Including the investigator himself?
But what did the murdered vocational school teacher have to do with any of this?
Questions piled on questions. Marcus Shaw's temples throbbed. He decided to start with Vince Conrad and track him down.
Once he found the man, he might get answers.
He got up to fetch the forms for an identity tracking request.
As he returned to the office, he ran into Viktor Dunn heading out.
They didn't speak. Viktor Dunn hurried past.
Marcus Shaw stood there, watching his partner's retreating figure until it disappeared, then slowly moved on.
Inside, a colleague named Zack was holding up a wallet: "Hey, look—whose kid is this? So ugly."
Marcus Shaw recognized it as Viktor Dunn's wallet and said: "He just left. You can still catch him."
Zack studied the photo a moment longer: "Didn't think he was such a dumpy kid."
Marcus Shaw didn't engage. He sat down and started filling out forms.
Over four hours later, approval came through. Marcus Shaw couldn't sit still—he ran the query immediately. Vince Conrad had fled to Daqing, stayed two days, then moved to Qiqihar, remaining there until yesterday afternoon.
He'd purchased a ticket to Tongliao and was now staying at a local inn.
Marcus Shaw knew he'd have to go in person.
Dazed, he took a nearly five-hour train ride and arrived alone in Tongliao.
He stepped out of the station into a night that had draped itself over the city—bustling, brightly lit. He stood on the curb for a while, hailed a cab, and sped toward the inn.
The inn's facade was small, its neon pink letters flickering. The character for "home" in "Love Home Inn" was missing a dot, and a red plastic bag hung between the two strokes of the character underneath—making the whole thing look from a distance like "Love Grave Inn." Not an auspicious sign.
The innkeeper was a gaunt older woman with a leopard-print hair clip and thickly drawn eyebrows. Upon learning that Marcus Shaw wasn't looking for a room and wasn't local police, her face soured, and she became perfunctory.
Marcus Shaw mentioned Vince Conrad's name. The woman twisted her neck toward the computer, clicked twice, squinted at the screen, and said: "Checked out. Left about an hour ago."
Marcus Shaw didn't believe her. She swiveled the monitor for him to see.
Now he was stuck. Full dark had fallen, and his stomach growled. He ducked into a small noodle shop and ordered Lanzhou beef noodles.
Halfway through, his instincts kicked in—fearful of losing his window, he shoved the rest into his mouth, gulped two huge mouthfuls of broth, scallion stuck on his teeth, lips glistening with oil.
Paid up, stepped to the curb, hailed a cab, and headed straight for the municipal public security bureau.
The duty officer received him. After lengthy negotiation, they agreed to backfill the paperwork later and prioritize checking Vince Conrad's latest movements—locating him at another inn on the city's outskirts.
Afraid of losing the trail again, Marcus Shaw cabbed it over, found the innkeeper, learned the room wasn't checked out but the occupant was out.
Marcus Shaw showed his credentials, explained his purpose. The innkeeper led him to the room and unlocked the door.
Two snakeskin bags on the floor held clothes. A backpack sat on the bed, filled with everyday odds and ends—nothing of value.
As Marcus Shaw searched, the innkeeper grew nervous, asking: "What did he do? What crime? If I'd known, I'd never have rented him a room."
"Just a fight, nothing too serious."
The innkeeper looked relieved. "Then you'll wait here? His stuff's all here—he'll be back eventually."
Marcus Shaw noticed the innkeeper nervously twisting the keys in his hand and glancing at the stairs. "Actually, lock up. I'll wait outside."
The moment he stepped out, a hand clapped his shoulder. He turned to find a bespectacled middle-aged woman. "Sorry, it's dark—mistook you for someone else."
After she left, Marcus Shaw circled the inn twice, memorized the layout and key routes, tested a few vantage points, then crouched in the bushes opposite, hidden behind a low hedgerow, settling in to wait.
Summer mosquitoes were vicious—buzzing in his ears, dive-bombing his face. He kept swatting, but they wouldn't quit. Nearly an hour passed—no sign of Vince Conrad, but his legs were peppered with bites that only got itchier the more he scratched.
One bold mosquito even flew up his basketball shorts' leg and bit him on the inner thigh. He couldn't scratch properly, couldn't ignore it either.
Just as he was about to lose his mind, Nora called. His heart felt like a lost goose finding home, a frozen lake cracking open in spring. He picked up, delighted, then caught himself and tempered his voice.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Nothing, just wondering if you're coming back tonight. Should I save you some noodles?"
"Can't come back. Emergency trip—came to Tongliao to find someone."
Silence on the other end.
"I left in a hurry—didn't have time to tell you."
"Then be careful."
Marcus Shaw murmured acknowledgment. "It's fine, it's fine..." But he didn't know what else to say.
They sat in silence for several seconds. Finally, Nora said: "Then... I'll hang up?"
"Okay. Sleep early."
She said okay too.
Pocketing the phone, the mosquitoes kept crashing into his face and buzzing, but Marcus Shaw no longer swatted at them. He was too busy replaying the conversation.
An unexplainable warmth rolled through him—every bone soaking it up, like lying on a sun-puffed cotton quilt that had baked for eight straight hours.
He looked up. The deep blue-black sky was studded with bright stars, and he thought of Nora's mole—another kind of star.
He waited another half hour. It was nearly midnight. His legs were numb, sweat dripping. He surveyed the area, shuffled into the inn, bought two bottles of water, but didn't dare use the bathroom.
He crouched back in position, had barely two sips, when Vince Conrad suddenly appeared in his field of vision.
The man carried a thick stack of flyers, fanning himself with effort. His loose white T-shirt puffed with each breeze.
Marcus Shaw dropped the bottle, adjusted his stance, ready to sprint. He watched Vince Conrad enter the inn, counted to ten, then crossed the street.
But Vince Conrad hadn't gone straight upstairs—he was leaning over the front desk, chatting with the innkeeper.
Marcus Shaw walked in, and they came face to face. One second of silence, then Vince Conrad bolted inside. The innkeeper signaled with his eyes, and Marcus Shaw gave chase.
The inn had only a few rooms, but they'd been subdivided with partitions into a maze of tiny cubicles maximizing every inch. The corridors were narrow and winding. Even though he'd walked through once, it was disorienting.
Vince Conrad was fast. One misstep, and he'd disappeared. Marcus Shaw pulled at every door—some opened, some didn't.
Those that opened, he peered inside. Those that didn't, he knocked on. Twice he interrupted activities and earned curses.
As he was being cursed at again, a door slammed behind him and a white shape flashed past. Marcus Shaw gave chase but reached the back exit—Vince Conrad had escaped.
Without thinking, Marcus Shaw plunged outside. A steep little road stretched ahead, lit unevenly by streetlamps on both sides, rising and falling for several hundred meters, like paper dissolving in water.
Vince Conrad was running full tilt, head down. Marcus Shaw followed, nearly tripping from the momentum.
After about thirty seconds of pursuit, Vince Conrad's stamina gave out. Marcus Shaw grabbed him by the left wrist, slipped his arm under the elbow, twisted his body backward—Vince Conrad spun and crashed to the ground.
Marcus Shaw pinned his shoulder with a knee, one hand on the man's throat, and panted: "Run, run, run—that's all you do. What exactly are you guilty of?"