Marcus Shaw recovered at home.
Nora wanted to take time off, but Marcus Shaw frowned and stopped her. "No need. These scratches are nothing. If you take leave, I'll go straight back to work."
She couldn't out-stubborn him, and she was afraid he'd truly get angry and shut her out again.
Every morning at five-thirty, she pushed open his door, peered in, and quietly closed it again before heading to the market for fresh vegetables. She'd cook them, leave his portion on the table, eat her own, and pack the rest in containers for his lunch.
One evening, her mother-in-law called. They chatted for a while before Nora let slip that Marcus Shaw had been injured.
A pause on the line, then her mother-in-law asked, "He's not going to die, is he?"
"Just cuts and bruises. Nothing broken, no internal injuries."
The voice sharpened. "So he's not dying? I thought it was something serious. He's a grown man—how fragile can he be? Besides, his job is supposed to be selfless and dangerous. Why all the fuss?"
Nora heard the faint scratching sound of purple nails on the phone receiver.
The next morning, Arthur Shaw showed up with two insulated food containers, waking Marcus Shaw from a deep sleep. One moment he was saying, "Son, maybe you should sleep in a bit more?" and the next he was setting braised pig trotters and duck soup on the nightstand, whispering, "Want to sit up and eat something while it's warm?"
A week later, Marcus Shaw returned to duty.
Two more anonymous letters had arrived. He didn't read them—tossed both straight into the drawer.
Viktor Dunn saw him first. "Fully recovered?"
"Fully recovered. Staying home was driving me crazy. Couldn't stop thinking about the case."
"You don't know how to enjoy a blessing. I'd love a paid injury leave."
Marcus Shaw glared at him. "Knock it off."
Viktor Dunn tossed a case file across the desk. "While you were out, I checked the vocational school. Holly Chen was Shane Mercer's homeroom teacher."
Marcus Shaw opened it eagerly. "That explains it."
"Shane Mercer attended for a year and a half. He was only six months from his practicum when he started skipping class. The school tried repeatedly to contact his family but couldn't reach anyone."
"He'd already been pulled into the catering company by Gordon Pike. He wanted to make money, so he kept it from his brother."
Viktor Dunn added, "I looked into his brother's death too. After his younger brother died, the older brother had a breakdown. One day, while working on scaffolding at height, he suffered a stroke and fell to his death."
Marcus Shaw's mouth felt rusted shut. He stared at the file without speaking.
Viktor Dunn called his name. He blinked. "Anything suspicious about the brother's death?"
"No. Several coworkers saw him fall. He had a history of unstable blood pressure and took medication for it regularly."
"At least that one wasn't murder. But still a tragedy."
The conversation turned to Dominic Hale. "I can't find any information on him," Viktor Dunn said.
Marcus Shaw sighed. "He's slippery. Used to be Quentin Magnus, now he's got a whole new identity. Who's to say he won't shed his skin again and become someone else tomorrow."
"Sounds like he's got methods..."
Marcus Shaw rubbed his temples. "He does. I've been thinking—he knew I was wiretapping him. He set me up."
"Using someone else to do his dirty work?"
"That nasal-voiced guy probably had no idea he was being used."
"Cold-blooded."
Marcus Shaw said, "I'm going to the catering company."
"It's sealed. Nobody's there."
"I know. But I want to look around. Might find something."
Viktor Dunn's expression changed. "Can't it wait until tomorrow? I have to go to the provincial department this afternoon—the captain asked me to pick up some reports."
"It's fine. I'll go alone."
Viktor Dunn still looked uneasy. "Are you sure? You just healed up. Don't go getting into fights."
Marcus Shaw smiled. "You just said it yourself—nobody's there. Who am I going to fight?"
Viktor Dunn relented with a laugh. "True."
They walked out together into the corridor. Marcus Shaw suddenly asked, "By the way, how did you know I was being beaten up that day?"
To his surprise, Viktor Dunn said, "Lucas Lutz called me. He said he saw you at the command center and was worried you'd go in alone. I didn't believe him at first—thought he was messing with me. But he came through."
Marcus Shaw pressed his lips together and said nothing.
Outside the station, Marcus Shaw was about to get in his car when he glanced across the street. "The grilled cold noodle stand isn't here today?"
"You don't know? The city inspectors did a raid. Someone reported the lady, and she got chased off. It's been days—no idea where she set up."
Marcus Shaw thought, life is hard for everyone. He looked up—the sun was perfect.
The catering company was a two-story building painted sky blue, with its own gate and yard, sandwiched between two large institutions. The iron gate was rusted and chained shut with a thick lock.
Marcus Shaw took out his keys and tried to clean the lock cylinder, but the key wouldn't fit. He flipped it, tried again—still no good. Bending closer, he found the keyhole packed with chewed-up gum.
He dug out his tools and probed the lock for a long time, but the gum wouldn't budge. He noticed two bricks by the roadside, picked one up, and started smashing the lock.
The noise drew attention. Passersby stared oddly. Marcus Shaw switched the brick to his left hand and pulled out his badge with his red-stained right hand. "Police business. Broken lock—not stealing."
After five or six minutes, the lock finally gave. The chain rattled, coating his hands in rust. One side of the gate refused to budge.
The yard was overgrown. Several blood-red traffic cones lay about, half-melted by the sun, tilting at odd angles. The ground-floor glass door was obscured by waist-high weeds. Marcus Shaw grabbed a stick and slashed through them, stirring up a swarm of gnats that nearly flew up his nose.
As he stepped toward the door, his foot slipped on a dead orange cat—flesh long gone, only fur wrapped around a tiny skeleton, collapsed like a deflated balloon.
The building smelled of bitter mold.
The ground floor was all kitchen and storage. Unused ingredients had rotted, leaked fluids leaving white residue trails. Fly carcasses and shells covered every surface; live flies orbited the remains.
Marcus Shaw scanned the room briefly, then climbed to the second-floor office. Filing cabinets gaped open, drawers yanked out and deposited on side tables and sofas. He brushed away cobwebs and shook off the dust, leafing through page after page—delivery contracts and supply receipts, every single one signed by Shane Mercer. Not a trace of Quentin Magnus.
He stared at the childish, crooked signatures. The man had been thorough—erasing every footprint he'd ever left. A fog settled in Marcus Shaw's mind. This trip was probably a wash.
By the time he emerged, it was past six. Caught by the evening breeze, his head cleared slightly. He'd just finished rewrapping the chain around the gate when a voice behind him asked, "Here on a case?"
He turned. A sanitation worker, maybe fifty, wearing a yellow-orange vest that made his dark face and arms look even darker. His broom swept a bottle into his collection basket.
"Yeah, just looking around."
"Find anything?"
"Not much. Still investigating."
The old man said, "Since this place was shut down, you're the second person to come by."
Marcus Shaw's ears pricked. "Who else was here?"
The man leaned on his broom, bending one knee. "About a month ago, a man drove up in a black car, sneaked inside, and stayed for ages."
Marcus Shaw thought of Dominic Hale's black Land Rover. "Bigger than my car?"
"Much bigger. Box-shaped, wide, tall."
He pulled out his phone and showed Dominic Hale's photo. "This man?"
The old man wiped his hands on his vest, took the phone, squinted at the screen for a long time. "Looks like him. I was sweeping across the street—couldn't see clearly from that distance."
"What was his build?"
"Kind of tall. On the heavy side."
"Was he wearing a hat? Dressed all in black?"
The man's eyes widened. "Hey, how'd you know?"
Marcus Shaw thought for a moment, then asked, "You work this route permanently?"
"You bet." He swung his broom. "This street and the two ahead—all mine. Big area, no raise. Been at it three or four years."
"Anything else you can tell me?"
The man went quiet, scuffing the crushed brick dust with his toe.
Marcus Shaw was about to prompt him when the man said, "I'm about to get off work. Kind of tired, and I still have to go home and cook."
"Who's at home?"
"Nobody. Just me. Been a bachelor my whole life." He stomped his foot.
Marcus Shaw looked up at the sky—not yet dark, but a thin crescent moon had already risen in the east. "Funny, I'm hungry too. Let's find a place and sit down for a proper chat."
They walked two blocks to an outdoor barbecue joint. Eighty lamb skewers, thirty breast skewers, twenty tendon skewers, five pairs of kidney—plus cold beer and noise, eating until the sweat poured.
Marcus Shaw pulled out Shane Mercer's photo. "Have you seen this man too?"
The old man glanced at it, then picked up a pair of kidneys and offered them. Marcus Shaw shook his head.
"Don't like the taste."
The man grinned, baring yellow teeth. "Eat what you need, young man. Kidneys are good for you."
Marcus Shaw didn't bite. He pointed at the photo and asked again.
The man picked at his teeth with a fingernail, pulled out a shred of meat, wiped it on the table, and said, "He looks familiar."
Marcus Shaw perked up. "Did he ever talk to you?"
The man excavated another bit of food from his mouth, swiped it on the tabletop, and said, "Said hello a couple times."
"Do you know what he did for a living?"
The man waved at the server. "I want something stronger. Beer doesn't hit the spot."
The server brought a bottle of erguotou and two glasses. Marcus Shaw opened it, filled both, and set one in front of his companion.
"You're not drinking?"
Marcus Shaw shook his head. "Too strong."
The man looked at him with disdain, grabbed the bottle, and drank straight from it. When he slammed it down, a third of it was gone. "Now that hits the spot."
Noticing Marcus Shaw still watching, he said evenly, "Looked like a worker. They made lunch boxes inside, and he delivered them. There were a few other young guys—three delivery cars in total."
Heat, exhaust fumes, smoke from the grill. Loud laughter, cursing, crickets.
The commotion was a net that held all the happy and unhappy people together, making them reluctant to leave.
After nearly two hours of eating and drinking, Marcus Shaw was drowsy but pushed through, hoping to dig up more.
But the old man started talking about himself. He'd actually had a wife—killed in a car accident seven or eight years ago. "We were set up by someone. Seemed good enough, so we made do. Nothing special."
"But you know what? People are stupid. Once she was gone, I couldn't stop thinking of the good things. Not needing her to wash my stinking socks, not needing her to have my baby. I miss her steamed buns, miss her pickled tiny onions."
Marcus Shaw said nothing for a while, then asked, "Are you drunk?"
"Please. I'm just getting started."
Marcus Shaw pointed across the street. "Bathroom." The man laughed at his small bladder and told him to hurry back.
In the bathroom, Marcus Shaw secretly took some pills. When he returned, the old man was opening a beer—eyes never leaving the bottle, flicking the cap off with the opener, the metal disc hitting the ground with a satisfying ching and rolling in a half-circle around the table.
Seeing Marcus Shaw, the man poured him a bowl and finished the rest of the bottle straight.
Marcus Shaw tried to steer the conversation back to the case, but the man just waved his hands, burping and answering in fragments.
Figuring he wouldn't get much more, Marcus Shaw drained his bowl and prepared to settle the bill.
He raised his hand to call the server, but his body went soft—collapsing toward the floor, his mind switching off like a light.
When he came to, his head pounded. His whole body was limp, as if only his brain remained and his limbs had been removed.
He opened his eyes. The world was hazy yellow—ceiling, light, walls, glass windows, all blending into a single golden haze, as though he'd been sealed inside a candied peach.
He struggled to sit up and saw a heavyset woman half-lying nearby, rolls of flesh visible beneath her open shirt, blowing a large bubble with her gum.
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Awake, little brother?"