With no night trains, Marcus Shaw handcuffed himself to Vince Conrad and found a random inn, catching a few hours of fitful sleep.
Worried Vince Conrad might steal the key and escape while he slept, Marcus Shaw deliberately tossed the key onto the windowsill, and they lay at opposite ends of the bed—far enough apart that no trick would work.
Next morning, they caught the earliest intercity bus. Vince Conrad sat with hollow eyes, saying nothing. Marcus Shaw asked questions, but he didn't respond. So Marcus Shaw let him be and closed his own eyes.
Another five-plus hours of dazed swaying later, they were back in Changchun.
In the interrogation room, Vince Conrad's mouth stayed sealed. He breathed only through his nose. Marcus Shaw poured him a glass of water, left it on the table, and sat across from him, flipping through case files.
After nearly ten minutes, the seal finally cracked. Vince Conrad reached for the glass, brought it to his cracked lips, and drained it in long gulps.
Marcus Shaw went out and refilled it, but Vince Conrad didn't drink. He just sat there, mind somewhere far away.
Marcus Shaw cleared his throat: "Your mother's death—I suspect it's connected to the food poisoning case from two years ago. Do you know something? Or did you cross someone who then came after your mother?"
Vince Conrad's attention snapped back. He blinked.
"Cat got your tongue on the way back?"
Vince Conrad said nothing, picking at the stubble on his chin.
Marcus Shaw pressed on: "Don't you want me to catch the killer and avenge your mother?"
Vince Conrad stayed silent, but his eyes darkened noticeably.
Minutes passed. Since he clearly wouldn't talk, Marcus Shaw played his final card: "Gordon Pike—you remember him? Your coworker at Longxin Catering. After the company folded, did you two stay in touch?"
Vince Conrad's silence finally cracked. He sat up and stared straight into Marcus Shaw's eyes.
Marcus Shaw avoided his gaze, licking his lips, going back to the case files.
After a while, Marcus Shaw glanced over and saw Vince Conrad's hands interlocked under the table, knuckles white.
When Marcus Shaw didn't speak, Vince Conrad asked hoarsely: "Did you catch him? What did he tell you?"
Now it was Marcus Shaw's turn for silence. He didn't look up, treated the man as if he didn't exist.
Vince Conrad tried to stand, rattling the interrogation chair.
Marcus Shaw lifted his gaze from the file—iron-rod hard—and drove it straight through Vince Conrad, forcing him back down.
Vince Conrad said: "Where is he? I want to see him."
"Who?"
"Gordon Pike. Gordon Pike."
Marcus Shaw still didn't speak, propping his chin in mock contemplation, letting Vince Conrad fidget with frustration. Just as the man was about to make a bigger scene, Marcus Shaw said coldly: "He's dead. Killed this Wednesday."
Vince Conrad's eyes bulged, all color draining from his face. He sat frozen, statue-still.
After a long moment, he tried to speak but choked on his own saliva. He coughed violently, face and neck reddening, before managing: "Who killed him? Did you catch them?"
Marcus Shaw looked up. "Not yet. Leads went cold."
Vince Conrad seemed bitten by the words. His whole body shrank, a bead of sweat on his forehead, eyes darting.
"How did he die?"
"Making a delivery. Someone tampered with his motorcycle. He died on the road."
Vince Conrad said nothing. His eyes slowed their movement.
Marcus Shaw continued: "Right now I suspect Gordon Pike's death and your mother's murder were committed by the same person. You two used to work together, and both gave statements to the police. I don't believe in that much coincidence. There's something beneath the surface."
He leaned closer.
Vince Conrad sweated more. His hands under the table cracked as he gripped them, his expression vacant, speechless for a long time.
Marcus Shaw waited. Seeing he wasn't coming around, he left the room, crossed to the street vendor, and bought two servings of grilled cold noodles—one for himself, one for the suspect.
Back in the interrogation room, Vince Conrad still hadn't moved. The noodles sat untouched on the table.
Marcus Shaw was heading back to his office when he ran into Captain Reed. No escape—he had to stand there and receive instructions, which amounted to the usual "dig deeper, solve it faster." Marcus Shaw nodded without speaking, his mind wandering, staring at Reed's protruding belly, half expecting a shirt button to pop.
Finally released, Marcus Shaw hurried back. He'd barely unwrapped his own grilled noodles when Zack came sprinting in: "Marcus, come quick—he seems ready to talk."
Inside, Vince Conrad was drinking that glass of water. His Adam's apple bobbed repeatedly, like a small animal struggling inside a python's belly.
When he saw Marcus Shaw, he set the glass down with a clunk.
Marcus Shaw maintained his composure, showing no eagerness. Coolly: "Why'd you call me?"
Vince Conrad jerked his chin, indicating the seat.
Marcus Shaw pushed the grilled noodles aside. "Why didn't you eat?"
"Not hungry. Just thirsty."
Marcus Shaw went out and brought him another glass. He drained it again, then, out of nowhere, muttered: "It's him. It has to be."
"Who?"
Vince Conrad didn't answer, continuing as if to himself: "Fucking ruthless. After all this time, still won't let us go." He even burped—from the water.
Marcus Shaw sat down and regarded him steadily.
Vince Conrad suddenly leaned forward, eyes blazing: "If I talk, you have to protect me. Make sure he doesn't come after me."
Marcus Shaw sat up straighter. "You have my word." Seeing him still hesitate, he added: "If you come forward voluntarily, that counts as cooperation. If the circumstances aren't serious, you might avoid prison time."
Vince Conrad's gaze drifted from Marcus Shaw's face to the empty glass.
"It's... it's the catering company's boss."
Marcus Shaw's eyes widened: "The boss? The boss is dead."
Vince Conrad shook his head. After a long silence, he haltingly explained: "Shane Mercer was just a fall guy."
Marcus Shaw's tongue stumbled: "A what? Fall... fall guy? For whom?"
Vince Conrad sighed: "The real boss had always been behind the scenes. A man in his forties—everyone called him Sledge."
Marcus Shaw grabbed his pen and notebook: "Which Sledge? What's his full name?"
"I'm not exactly sure. Some said his surname might be Liu, others said Liang. Even whether 'Qiang' was in his name was up for debate. But everyone called him Sledge, so I did too."
Marcus Shaw wrote "Liu Qiang" and "Liang Qiang" on the paper, with a large question mark beside them.
"Do you know where he lived?"
"No. He seemed paranoid—distrusted everyone. Nobody knew where he lived. He rarely came to the company, and when he did, he was anxious, rushing in and out. Always wore a somber expression, like the world owed him something. Never smiled."
"Do you have his phone number?"
"I used to, but after the incident, we all scattered. Once when I was broke, I tried calling, but it was a dead number."
Marcus Shaw took a deep breath. The lead stung him like a wasp—his brain buzzed, swollen and numb. He shifted his stiff body, collected himself, and asked: "After the company went under, where did he go? What's he doing now—you have any idea?"
Vince Conrad shook his head.
"Not even a scrap of information?"
Vince Conrad kicked the table. "I told you—he's secretive. If he doesn't want to be found, nobody can."
Marcus Shaw fell silent, then softened his tone: "What about his appearance? Describe him for me—be detailed."
"About 170-something centimeters? Pretty stocky. Liked wearing black." He stopped, thought hard, then added: "Big eyes, big nose, big ears. And weirdly, no matter the weather, he always wore a hat—like he rented it and could never take it off."
Marcus Shaw's heart skipped. This matched the evidence they'd gathered. He asked quickly: "Did he like setting off fireworks?"
Vince Conrad blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Literally—fireworks."
Vince Conrad thought about it: "On the sixth day of the New Year, for the God of Wealth, he did set off some firecrackers with us. Whether he had a personal hobby for them, I wouldn't know."
"Anything else?"