Marcus Shaw hadn't been home all night. He went through every lead once more. As soon as work hours started, he headed to the Meadow Branch to apply for a search warrant, then called Viktor Dunn and told him to wait at the precinct so they could move out together. Before his car even reached the entrance, he spotted Viktor Dunn standing with his head hung low by the grilled-noodle stall, listening to the vendor talk.
Marcus Shaw crept over and heard the vendor say earnestly, "Fate decides these things between people—you can't force it. Whoever's meant for you will come. If it doesn't work out, don't push it. You're still young, a big guy—clean yourself up, what's the rush? Look at me, nobody to dote on me, nobody to hold me—aren't I worse off?"
Viktor Dunn scratched his head and grinned sheepishly.
Marcus Shaw was reading a real estate ad on the utility pole: "Two-bedroom, one living room, urgent sale, 700,000, includes title transfer." The phone number strips below fluttered in the wind like tiny restless legs, waiting to be torn off by passersby.
Marcus Shaw clapped Viktor Dunn on the shoulder. He spun around, face reddening.
The vendor said, "Officer Shaw, have you eaten? If not, I'll make you something."
Marcus Shaw replied, "Already ate." He waved the search warrant at Viktor Dunn. "We're heading out. How much longer do you need?"
Viktor Dunn started shoving grilled noodles into his mouth and accidentally stabbed the inside of his cheek with a bamboo skewer.
The vendor urged, "Don't rush—food is fuel. Finish before you go." She turned to Marcus Shaw: "What's the rush, what case?"
Marcus Shaw hesitated, and she quickly said, "Right, I know—confidential. Not asking, not asking."
Marcus Shaw smiled and told Viktor Dunn, "I'm going inside to check on someone. When I come out, we'll leave directly."
Viktor Dunn nodded while chewing. After Marcus Shaw walked away, he turned back to the vendor and whispered, "Don't listen to him being all secretive. It's a murder—killed then violated. Argued at the market and the butcher hacked her."
He paused, then covered his mouth with one hand and added conspiratorially, "We've already got the guy. Just heading to search his place."
The grilled-noodle vendor stared, wide-eyed. "No way—over something that small? Killed someone? I don't buy it."
"Ma'am, you're too kind-hearted. You'll get taken advantage of, I'm telling you."
---
They went to the so-called "Yongping Alley"—actually the intersection of Yongping Road and Huinan Street East Second Alley. They searched back and forth but couldn't find the fried-cake seller. Viktor Dunn grumbled, "That bastard doesn't have an honest word in his mouth. We got played."
Just as they were debating whether to leave, Marcus Shaw spotted an oil stain on the ground near a utility pole. He ran over and asked a nearby innkeeper, who confirmed, "Yeah, someone sells fried cakes here every morning. But he didn't show up today—not sure why."
Marcus Shaw asked, "Do you know how to reach him?"
The man shook his head.
The two asked around and eventually tracked down the fried-cake seller's address. They hurried over.
It was a proper alley—narrow, long, and winding. Viktor Dunn had just complained about getting turned around when a small wooden lean-to came into view, propped against the side of a building, containing a large black iron wok.
Beside the first-floor balcony was a small door. Marcus Shaw knocked, and a thin-shirted man came out holding a palm-leaf fan, looking to be in his forties.
Marcus Shaw said, "We're police. We need to ask you about something."
The man at once grew cautious and said, "My shack isn't an illegal structure. If you want me to tear it down, I'll do it this afternoon."
Marcus Shaw waved his hand. "That's not it. I want to know—yesterday morning, did a butcher come and buy fried cakes from you?"
The man figured it out, tossed his fan, and said, "That bastard Luka Blackwell, what a jerk. He eats something that upsets his own stomach and blames my fried cakes. Now he sends the cops after me? Does he ever stop?"
Viktor Dunn said, "So you're confirming that yesterday morning, around five, he did buy food from you, and he did get sick?"
"It wasn't my fried cakes that made him sick. Ask anyone around here—I've been selling for five or six years. I won't claim they're gourmet, but food safety? I don't cut corners. Look at the oil in my wok—no weird smell, I change it frequently. The red bean filling is made fresh every two days, and the extras go in the fridge. I've never heard of anyone getting sick from my food. Why's his stomach so precious?"
Marcus Shaw lifted the wok lid and looked—sure enough, the oil was clear. Before he could speak, Old Zhang launched into another rant: "Since the police are here, you be the judge. He came making trouble, slandering my reputation, and even took a swing at me. Look at my eyebrow—damn near blinded me. I told him and told him, he wouldn't listen, just slugged me. Outrageous, absolutely outrageous! I looked it up on my phone—that's assault, isn't it? I'm a law-abiding citizen, you have to stand up for me." He touched his left eyebrow and winced for effect.
Marcus Shaw examined the wound, took photos, and had Viktor Dunn write up a statement. He concluded, "Don't worry—each thing is its own thing. If this checks out, we'll hold him accountable."
Then, following the address, they headed straight to Luka Blackwell's place.
It was a standalone bungalow with dirty gray walls and a shiny white-steel security door—badly mismatched, like a rotting log set with diamonds.
Marcus Shaw unzipped his backpack, pulled out two slim lock picks, inserted them into the cross-lock, and gave them a twist. A faint click, and the door opened.
Viktor Dunn grinned. "Didn't know you had that skill, Marcus."
The interior was filthy and chaotic, with a faint moldy smell. A towel of indeterminate color half-draped over an unwashed rice cooker. A mud-spattered yellow rubber boot shoved into a rusty iron can. Peanut shells and sunflower seed husks covered the floor—every step crunched.
Marcus Shaw said, "Look for anything like fireworks or similar items."
They searched patiently for a long time. Aside from some grubby pink receipts, they found nothing suspicious. These were meat sales receipts, the handwriting large and scrawling, like spiders had crawled across them—hard to read.
Marcus Shaw scrutinized them for a while and said, "These all say frozen meat. He doesn't even have a freezer here—where does he store it?"
Right after he said this, Viktor Dunn pointed at a small cobwebbed window in the back: "Marcus, look—there seems to be a small room behind the house."
They went around back, and sure enough, a separate small structure was attached to the main building.
This door was also steel, thick, and fitted with a combination lock. Marcus Shaw pressed his ear against it and heard a humming sound like a refrigerator, plus a faint chill seeping through. He concluded it was a converted cold room.
Earlier, Viktor Dunn had complimented Marcus Shaw's lock-picking. Now, that skill was completely useless.
They tried several combinations. None worked. The two leaned against the door, looked up at the clouds jostling each other in the sky, and felt the coolness on their backs.
Marcus Shaw said, "Given the look on his face when we mentioned it, he's definitely hiding something illegal in there."
"Not a frozen body or something?"
Marcus Shaw gave Viktor Dunn a sideways look. "You've been watching too many true crime shows."
With no other choice, Marcus Shaw called the branch to request a locksmith.
The sun was blazing overhead, radiating heat as if trying to flatten every last drop of energy out of people—nobody wanted to move. The two chatted and waited. Over half an hour later, the expert finally arrived.
He was a tall, thin bespectacled man with a bored expression, as if the world owed him money. Viktor Dunn tried making small talk, but the man ignored him, went straight to the door, pulled out a device that looked like a multimeter from his toolbox, connected two wires, found a small port beside the lock, and began pressing and turning, pressing and turning, over and over.
About ten minutes later, the door still hadn't opened—and instead, an alarm went off somewhere, wailing piercingly enough to give everyone a headache.
Viktor Dunn deliberately said in a loud voice, "Some expert you are. Marcus, maybe call them again and ask for a real one."
The expert finally proved he wasn't deaf. He turned his head, gave Viktor Dunn a look, and said, "Then hurry up. My daughter gets out of school soon."
Marcus Shaw quickly played peacemaker.
Before long, the alarm stopped. Though Marcus Shaw didn't understand the technology, he sensed success was near. The knot that had been loose in his chest tightened again.
Sure enough, the expert's lip curled, and the door opened. Cold air and a foul, fishy stench charged out like a marauding army.
The hum inside was even louder, but it was pitch black—only two or three red dots blinked, like another Unit 5 entrance.
"Lighting malfunction," the expert said. He packed up his tools, grabbed his case, and stepped aside.
Marcus Shaw and Viktor Dunn, using their phone flashlights, stepped bravely inside.
After just a few steps, Marcus Shaw—in his basketball jersey—was shivering. The cold seemed like a living thing, boring into his bones. He glanced back at Viktor Dunn, then his foot caught on something. He bent down and picked it up—cold, hard, heavy. Held it under the light: a package of frozen meat.
He checked the production date—over twenty years old. No quarantine stamp.
Marcus Shaw exclaimed, "No wonder!"