Chapter 242

An old Ford was parked on a filthy street. Someone knocked on the window, startling the two detectives—one old, one young—who had been sitting in the driver and passenger seats, staring listlessly at the alley entrance in the distance.

The older detective was much calmer, only glancing over to identify the visitor.

The younger detective, however, was more expressive. He let out a sigh of relief and said, "Who! Oh, Senior Special Agent James, it’s you."

The detective, who was there as support from the LAPD, watched as the veteran agent from the FBI climbed into the backseat, bringing donuts and coffee.

They needed these right now. Neither stood on ceremony; they took the food and started eating.

Agent James asked, "You’ve been monitoring this for a day and a night. Have you seen the target?"

"The guy with the scar on his face and black-and-white hair? No, we haven't seen anyone like that coming in or out," the young detective replied while eating.

The older detective added, "The alleyways here are complex. We can't rule out the possibility that the target left from another direction."

Agent James said with a troubled expression, "So, you mean we can't confirm if the target is even here?"

"But we did notice something," the young detective said.

"What is it?" Agent James asked.

The young detective replied, "Food delivery people came in at noon and in the evening yesterday. This neighborhood is a mess; very few shops are willing to deliver here. But since someone did, I imagine the tip must have been generous. Someone who can be that extravagant must be the type who just made a windfall."

Agent James asked with concern, "Can you confirm that?"

The young detective said, "I went into the alley yesterday to check the situation. The Fixman’s clinic is just like the tip said—the iron gate is pulled halfway down, signaling that someone is inside."

"During the surveillance yesterday, we saw someone who looked injured enter the alley; they might have been coming for medical help. It’s just that we didn't see anyone leave. Maybe they left from another direction."

Agent James asked, "Could they still be inside?"

"Judging by the person's injuries, they weren't that severe. And according to the intel, this underground clinic doesn't keep patients. As soon as they regain consciousness, even if they can't walk, they have to crawl out."

After hearing the answer, Agent James sat in the backseat, lost in thought for a moment. The two detectives in the front took the opportunity to quickly finish their food; for them, this was almost an instinct.

Once the two in the front finished eating, Agent James asked again, "Can you confirm that the location you found is correct and that there should be someone inside?"

The young detective replied, "The Fixman’s clinic is easy to recognize. There’s a street-art sign on the rolling iron gate that says 'Fixman'. The storefront looks like a butcher shop, with an empty transparent refrigerated display case."

"Can you confirm it again?"

"I'll go take a look," the young detective said, then opened the door and got out. He walked into the alley very naturally.

The older detective, still in the car, asked, "So anxious to confirm—is the higher-up planning to move?"

Agent James said helplessly, "According to the illegal medical staff who were caught, the Fixman received a payment of one million dollars in cash."

"Only about 380,000 was seized. The rest of the money is in another bag of the same style. Who wouldn't be tempted by that?"

"So, have the higher-ups decided how to split it?" the older detective asked bluntly.

A flash of regret crossed Agent James's eyes. If his superiors had agreed to let him lead a team to raid the place, the matter would have been resolved long ago. But since they didn't agree, he could only follow their instructions.

He said, "As far as I know, that illicit fund will be split fifty-fifty and held as evidence." As for which two sides, it was, of course, the FBI and the LAPD.

"So there was a result, which is why you were so anxious," the older detective said, unfazed. "Then the rest is to find a way to catch them red-handed before the Fixman hides the money. At the very least, we have to catch the person."

"Exactly. The longer we drag this out, the slimmer the chances."

At this moment, the young detective returned. Judging by his movements, he seemed well-versed in this kind of thing, appearing very natural. He didn't give off any sense of being a thief with a guilty conscience that would attract the attention of others.

He opened the car door with feigned ease, returned to the passenger seat, and said directly, "Confirmed, the Fixman’s clinic still has the iron gate half-down. I vaguely heard sounds inside. But for fear of attracting attention, I didn't get close to eavesdrop."

Agent James praised, "Good job, kid. I’m going to contact people. You two get ready as well." After saying this, he left the old Ford.

The young detective looked a bit caught off guard and asked the older detective next to him, "What preparations do we need to make?"

"It means they’re going to start sending people to seal off the neighborhood, contact the assault team to move out, and prepare to close the net and make arrests. Our mission is to keep watching and ensure the target doesn't leave."

Knowing what was about to happen, the two detectives, old and young, naturally perked up, watching the alley entrance and keeping a close eye on everyone leaving. But this wasn't a busy neighborhood, so in reality, not many people were coming or going.

The young detective suddenly asked, "Is it really okay to just arrest that doctor like this?"

"Is there something wrong with it?" the older detective asked.

"There was news before about someone practicing medicine illegally. But the higher-ups never wanted to open a case, so the matter just fizzled out. I thought everyone believed that as long as a silly doctor who serves the poor doesn't cause trouble, we shouldn't touch him. Now we're arresting him?"

"It's because he caused trouble. To assist in the investigation of Andrew Saxon—that habitual kidnapper, extortionist, and human trafficker—we need all the evidence. The doctor who performed surgery for him is, of course, included."

"Heh, I’d almost believe that if it weren't for those 600,000 dollars." The young detective made a complicated expression.

"Heh, without some incentive, how many cops could support their families on that salary without their wives and kids complaining? Just treat it as overtime pay." The older detective grumbled subtly about the inhumane working hours.

The young detective didn't have as much resentment as the older one, but he knew another thing: no matter how things looked to outsiders, the truth wasn't necessarily what they imagined.

His long career experience had shown him enough criminal cases where one could always find some 'unavoidable' reason behind them. In reality, it was all bullshit.

Good people do evil in the name of good deeds, and bad people use good deeds to cover up evil acts. So the young detective wouldn't simply assume that a doctor who served the poor was a flawless good person. Who knew what he was doing behind the scenes.

Therefore, the young detective had no obsession with whether to arrest the other party or not. Anyway, no matter who it was, once they were brought into the police station and vetted, everyone had skeletons in their closet.

Actually, the older detective was thinking more; he knew what the sword-and-shield graffiti on that rolling iron gate meant. It was just that everyone in the know had tacitly chosen to forget about it.

It wasn't that they dared to challenge the meaning behind that symbol, but that this might be the only chance they had.