Disguised Salesman
At the China Unicom branch, the lobby manager still sported his slicked-back hair, though he'd switched to a black tie. When he saw Marcus Shaw, he patted his breast pocket, pulled out a tiny plastic comb, and ran it through his hair a few times.
"Why don't you just recruit me already? Let me be a civil servant for once, so I can go back and brag."
Marcus Shaw said nothing. He pulled out the investigation request and handed it over. The slick-haired manager read it, dropped the frivolous act, and gestured: "Right this way."
He pulled up the SMS records for the kidnappers' ringleader. Among the senders, there were indeed two long numbers—so long they spilled outside the margins of the spreadsheet.
Marcus Shaw screenshot both numbers and sent them to his old classmate at the Technical Division. The reply came back: "Virtual dialing software. Untraceable."
Marcus Shaw's frustration deepened. Dominic Hale really knew how to commit tech-savvy crimes—infuriatingly hard to counter. He'd pulled the "killing with a borrowed knife" trick once before, and now he was at it again. Lately, Marcus Shaw had been outmaneuvered three times in a row. Truly despicable.
For several days, Marcus Shaw had been tracking Dominic Hale's movements. His last phone number was deactivated again, and his ID showed no activity. At this rate, he could adopt a new identity at any time—another golden cicada shedding its shell.
Marcus Shaw pulled up the surveillance footage from Captain Reed's murder and asked Vince Conrad to identify the suspect. Vince Conrad watched it a dozen times, then pointed at the figure in black on the screen. "Apart from the odd gait, the build matches. It's him."
"He wasn't just disguised and masked—he knew how to avoid cameras, hugging the walls the whole way."
Vince Conrad nodded. "Makes sense. Back then, he didn't leave any loose ends either. He always ran the company from behind the scenes. Hard to believe when you think about it."
Marcus Shaw thought, I refuse to believe he can erase every trace.
So he pulled out all the financial records from the catering company and went through them again with a fine-toothed comb.
After the incident, the company accounts had been frozen. The balance was just over 120,000 yuan, and somehow, no personal account linked to Dominic Hale could be found.
Sure, someone else could serve as the legal representative, but profits had to go somewhere. Why else run a company? It wasn't a charity.
Even assuming he knew when to cut his losses, how had he siphoned the money into his own pockets before everything fell apart?
Marcus Shaw refused to give up. He stared at the daily transaction ledger, line by line, for over ten hours straight. His vision doubled. Finally, he spotted something.
The company made regular payments to two accounts, labeled "meat product procurement." Each payment ranged from three to five thousand, up to ten or twenty thousand.
The frequency was high—at least once a week, sometimes three times.
Marcus Shaw noted both account numbers and headed to the banks.
Before going, he visited two schools that had ordered meals from the company and asked several teachers and students. From memory, they confirmed that meat was served daily, but not much—sometimes just a piece or two, mostly sausage and pork belly.
At the first bank, Marcus Shaw traced one account to a meat processing plant. He went to inspect it—paperwork in order, production floor reasonably clean.
The manager said, "We're a small business, legitimate operation. Our relationship with Longxin Catering was purely business. Had I known they were making money from dirty deeds, I would've refused point-blank—even if it meant going hungry."
As he was leaving, Marcus Shaw glanced at the factory's signboard and felt the name was familiar. He mulled it over for a while before remembering—he'd seen it on a supplier list when they busted the butcher selling zombie meat.
He considered turning back for a closer look, but figured the food and drug authorities had likely already dealt with it. Even if he investigated now, he probably wouldn't find anything new.
So he let it go.
At the second bank, he discovered the other account had already been closed.
The closure time was the afternoon of the day the scandal broke.
Marcus Shaw pulled the account holder information: Hu Feng. The photo was Dominic Hale.
He then pulled the transaction history. Before closing the account, Dominic Hale had withdrawn over 830,000 yuan in a single transaction.
"Isn't there supposed to be a one-day advance notice for withdrawals over 50,000?"
The manager replied, "In principle, yes. But he might have made the request in the morning, and if we had sufficient cash on hand, we could process it that afternoon."
Marcus Shaw pulled the bank's surveillance footage from that day. He found the window where the transaction took place. The man in the footage wore all black, a hat and mask. When withdrawing, apparently at the teller's request, he briefly pulled the mask down, then immediately put it back. Though it wasn't a full-frontal shot, Marcus Shaw recognized him—it was definitely Dominic Hale.
The withdrawal took over six minutes. Bundle after bundle of cash was passed through the window, and he stuffed it all into a black duffel bag without hesitation.
Throughout the process, he kept glancing back at the door.
Once done, he left immediately.
The manager noted, "For an amount like his, we could've arranged an escort vehicle. He didn't use the service."
Marcus Shaw then checked the surveillance outside the bank. Dominic Hale exited and got into a black Range Rover parked on the street.
Marcus Shaw copied both video segments.
He then traced the direction Dominic Hale drove off, asking at four shops along the street. Only one still had footage.
Dominic Hale hadn't driven even 300 meters before getting out in front of another bank, carrying the duffel bag of cash.
Marcus Shaw pulled that bank's surveillance footage too and, based on the timestamp of when Dominic Hale sat down at the window, found the transaction record.
New account, cash deposit.
The identity used was one Liu Xitong. From the photocopy of the ID on file, the photo was—again—Dominic Hale.
Marcus Shaw pressed his temples. How many fake identities did this man have?
Dominic Hale's new account hadn't been closed, but the balance was negligible—less than 10,000.
Likely abandoned already.
Marcus Shaw checked the exit footage and found a camera angle that clearly captured the license plate. He noted it down and rushed to the traffic police station to check the vehicle's travel history.
Dominic Hale was cunning—possibly sensing trouble, he hadn't gone out in recent days. Or if he had, he wasn't using his own car.
Marcus Shaw had to sift through older traffic camera footage, but after four or five hours, still couldn't pinpoint Dominic Hale's residence.
Officer Ji from traffic guessed, "He might have disabled the cameras near his home, creating surveillance blind spots. I'll report it to my supervisors—they'll likely send someone to check. If there are broken ones in our jurisdiction, we'll get them fixed ASAP."
Unwilling to give up, Marcus Shaw watched more video on his own and eventually discovered a pattern: in the past month, Dominic Hale had driven to a certain upscale residential complex six times.
Each time, he first visited various shops, buying things in big and small bags, then drove around aimlessly for a bit before heading to the complex.
His stays were brief—thirty minutes at most, as short as seven or eight minutes.
Street-level cameras only captured the complex entrance. What he did inside, which building or unit he visited—all invisible. Marcus Shaw noted the complex's name and compiled the exact times of each visit, planning to go check it out tomorrow.
By the time he left the traffic station, the sky was thick with stars.
Around the corner was a commercial street. Loudspeakers blared competing sales pitches. Men and women of all ages strolled about, casual, browsing one shop then another—buying if something caught their eye, treating it as a post-dinner walk if not.
Marcus Shaw thought for a moment, then got out and strolled too. Passing a silk scarf boutique, the young saleswoman—probably a college student working part-time—stood at the door with a forced smile, calling everyone "handsome" or "beautiful."
Marcus Shaw went in, picked out a pale pink scarf with subtle floral patterns for Nora. Then he remembered his father mentioning his mother's birthday this month, so he browsed some more and chose a purple leopard-print one, asking the shop assistant to wrap them together.
Stepping outside, the night wind embraced him.
"Auntie, this is our new massage chair from Shangdu—you should take a look. We have a promotion going on right now."
So saying, the young man in an advertising vest held out a flyer. The petite, permed older woman accepted it with a smile, studying it for a long time without speaking.
"Auntie, that outfit looks so good on you—vibrant, but not gaudy like some people. There's something lively about it. You're in your fifties, right?"
The petite woman smiled. "I look like I'm in my fifties?"
"Absolutely—and I'm guessing high. I almost called you 'big sister' just now."
The woman's eyes crinkled into slits, her small triangular gold earrings swaying with each laugh.
"I'm nearly seventy, and you're still teasing me."
The young man's mouth dropped open. "What? No way."
She laughed again. "I wouldn't lie to you."
"Then you look incredibly young. You must take good care of yourself. Anyone would be shocked."
"I do pay attention. At this age, you have to take care of yourself."
The young man nodded vigorously, then asked, "Do you ever have discomfort in your neck, shoulders, or lower back?"
The woman shifted her stance to a more comfortable position, thought for a moment, and said, "Occasionally. Sometimes when I bend over too much, it aches a bit. Sitting for too long too."
The young man said eagerly, "See? Even though you're healthy, there's no telling when a part might wear out and cause discomfort. At your age, after a lifetime of hard work, you deserve to enjoy yourself. Look at this massage chair—German import. You know Germany, right? Sure, they had the Nazis, but they also make things with incredible precision—high quality, durable. This chair might not look like much, but it's three-in-one: targeted spot massage, upper body massage, lower body massage, plus six intelligent massage modes—kneading, pressing, pushing, rolling, tapping, and friction. Whatever feels good, it delivers."
The woman pulled reading glasses from her bag and examined the flyer closely. The young man, sensing interest, continued: "We even have a 'Queen Mode.' Imagine watching TV, soaking your feet, taking a nap after a big lunch—it's like bringing business class into your home."
The woman nodded involuntarily, then pointed at the price—"9,998"—and said, "It looks nice, but it's a bit expensive."
The young man leaned in and whispered, "Don't look at that price. Today's your lucky day—I'll give you the internal discount, straight off two thousand."
The woman said nothing.
Out of nowhere, the young man added, "Auntie, now that I'm closer, I notice the fabric on your blouse is wonderful—light as a gossamer, the dye work so refined. It must feel incredibly comfortable."
Flustered by the compliment, the woman managed a smile. "It is comfortable, yes."
"Must've been expensive, right?"
She just smiled.
"I thought so. Cheap things don't match someone of your standing."
The woman covered her mouth and laughed, swatting the young man's arm. "Oh, you sweet-talker. I'm just an old lady—what standing do I have?"
"It's not sweet talk—anyone with eyes can see. Living in this complex, dressed like this, with your elegance—your children must dote on you. They must be government officials or big bosses, am I right?"
The woman's cheekbones hadn't lowered once. She nodded. "They're filial, though they're not that impressive. Just small business owners."
"Let your children pay for it—give them a chance to show their filial piety. It brings them good karma."
The woman said nothing, flipping the flyer over to study the back.
The young man shifted tone. "You know, my family isn't well-off either, but when I find something good, I want to do right by my parents too. Just two days ago, I saved up a few months' wages and bought one for my mom and dad. They love it so much they fight over it, won't get off all day."
The woman smiled faintly. "But I still think it's a bit much, I'd feel bad asking."
"What's there to feel bad about? Crows feed their parents, lambs kneel to nurse—it's our turn to give back. And let me tell you, I've only got two units left. The promotion's been flying off the shelves—if you don't act now, other grannies will snap them up. I'm only telling you because we hit it off. I wouldn't tell just anyone."
He finished with his eyes darting playfully, looking utterly sincere. The woman studied him—not tall, round face, thick brows, big eyes—she supposed he did look rather endearing. She asked, "Did you just graduate from college?"
"Not yet. Working my way through school, doing part-time jobs."
"A good kid, not easy. So—so how do I place the order? Get me one."
"Great!" The young man's dimples appeared instantly. He pulled out a sales card stamped with a red seal, filled in the woman's name, phone number, and apartment number, then added, "One more thing—our promotion has been so busy that our delivery team is short-staffed. We can only deliver to homes without cars who can't pick up themselves. If you're willing to wait, it'll be over a week. If you'd like it sooner, have your children pick it up—in stock and ready to go, and we'll round down the remaining balance to 7,900."
The woman signed, pulled out 500 yuan as a deposit, and said, "Fine, my son should be free. I'll have him pick it up this afternoon."
The young man pulled out his phone. "Great, hold on—let me call our warehouse." He dialed, hmm'd and ah'd for a bit, then asked, "Auntie, you're sure he can pick it up this afternoon? Around what time?"
"Five or six, roughly."
"Got it. I've reserved the time with the warehouse—they'll have it ready for you."