Rainy nights in Chicago always lend a cinematic quality to crime; in front of a villa, the flashing red and blue police lights were particularly piercing in the rainy night.
Almost everyone from the Intelligence Unit was there, except for Old Ai.
Something had happened at school with his 18-year-old daughter, Lexi, so Hank had him handle his private affairs first, leaving the scene to the other colleagues.
Standing outside the dilapidated Victorian villa, screams of a woman and cries for help could be heard from inside from time to time.
The scene was a cacophony of noisy officers and crowds; all Bruce felt was damp cold and unease.
“Patrol has already cordoned off the perimeter,” Katherine said, walking over quickly from the other side.
Her hair was plastered to her cheeks under her rain hood; she had just gone to get a briefing from the patrol officers on the scene.
“The caller is a neighbor who heard screaming and the sound of breaking glass.
Dispatch says there are hostages inside, at least one female.”
Bruce adjusted the radio on his bulletproof vest: “Why is the Intelligence Unit taking this over?
Sounds like a standard hostage situation.”
“Because Dean Masters is on our list,” Hank Voight’s voice suddenly came from behind.
The Sergeant held a black umbrella, his face looking exceptionally grim under the streetlights.
“A washed-up painter with a history of drug abuse.
More importantly, his bank records show several recent large deposits from unknown sources.
Headquarters suspects he’s involved in some kind of illegal art business.”
The three walked toward the front door of the villa, where Antonio and Jay were crouching on the porch.
“Sergeant, we tried to talk to him, but there’s only crying and muffled shouting inside.
All the windows are covered by curtains.
Thermal imaging shows two heat sources on the second floor; looks like the woman is still being held hostage.”
Hank nodded and turned to Bruce and Katherine: “You two follow me in through the back door.
Erin, you and Jay take the front.
Antonio, you and Ruzek, find a sniper vantage point.
Remember, priority is rescuing the hostage, but we need Dean Masters alive too—he has information we need.”
The last sentence was clearly directed at Bruce; his performance these past few times had been far too aggressive.
Bruce shrugged helplessly at this, prompting Katherine to punch him in the shoulder.
…
The back door was a rotting wooden door with a long-rusted lock; Bruce pushed it gently, and it opened a crack.
Instantly, the smell of mold and some kind of chemical scent wafted out.
Bruce carefully identified them: turpentine, oil paints, and a faint smell of marijuana.
No smell of gas.
The house was pitch black, with only a faint light and sobbing coming from the second floor.
Bruce gave a ‘clear’ hand signal behind him and was the first to step inside.
Katherine followed closely with her gun raised.
Only Hank sauntered behind his two top generals, not even drawing his pistol.
The three reached the stairwell silently and met up with Antonio, who had entered through the front.
The five of them stepped onto the creaking stairs and slowly headed up.
The door to the second-floor studio was slightly ajar, light spilling through the gap.
Bruce pressed against the wall and peered through the crack; the sight was disturbing and highly impactful.
A thin, pale middle-aged man with messy hair and glazed eyes was holding a Colt 1911 pistol with a trembling hand, the barrel pressed against the temple of the woman in his arms.
The young woman being held was completely naked.
Her snow-white skin and curvaceous figure were almost dazzling under the light.
She stared with wide, terrified eyes, constantly begging for mercy and screaming out from time to time.
Canvases, paint tubes, and drug paraphernalia were scattered around the studio, along with an unfinished portrait of a nude woman.
“…They’re coming to kill me, I know it…” Dean Masters muttered to himself, tears and snot mixing together.
“They’re coming to kill me.
He’s already dead, it’s my turn next…”
Seeing this, Hank signaled to prepare for the breach.
But at that moment, Dean spotted the people outside the door.
He suddenly became agitated, his finger tightening on the trigger.
“You really did come!
It’s over, it’s all over!”
Bruce didn’t hesitate.
The gunshot was deafening in the small space.
The Colt 1911 flew from Dean’s hand as blood sprayed from his wrist.
Dean let out a miserable cry, staggered back into an easel, and then slumped to the ground, his eyes rolling back.
“Medics!” Hank rushed in, while Katherine quickly rescued the hostage, taking off her own jacket to cover her.
Bruce remained on alert, his eyes scanning the room.
The young woman gasped for air after the tape was ripped off, rambling incoherently: “He’s crazy…
kept saying someone was going to kill him…
said he was next…”
Medical personnel rushed upstairs and loaded the unconscious Dean onto a stretcher.
Hank crouched in front of Nadia, his voice intentionally gentle: “Ma’am, what’s your name?
I’m Sergeant Boyd, I’m in charge of this case.
Can you tell me what happened?”
She tremblingly lit a cigarette—God knows where she got it from.
“I…
my name is Nadia Decotis.
I’m the model Dean usually hires.
He was extremely nervous tonight, kept using, talking nonsense…
saying things like ‘the ink will never dry,’ ‘there’s too much green,’ and then he started smashing things…”
“Who did he say was coming to kill him?” Bruce interjected with a question.
“He didn’t give a name, just said ‘them’,” Nadia took a deep drag of the cigarette.
“Oh, right, he also mentioned someone named Noel.
Noel Ares.
I remember that name; I even saw him once.
He’s the one who supplied Dean’s white powder.”
Hank immediately stood up and keyed his radio: “All units, look for a white male named Noel Ares, possibly associated with Dean Masters.”
“Hank,” Bruce pointed to a safe in the corner of the studio, “do we need a search warrant?”
“Open it.” Hank was simple and direct.
A search warrant?
What was that?
He could have as many of those as he wanted.
Soon Antonio arrived with tools.
After a bit of tinkering, the safe was opened.
Inside was no cash or drugs, but several neatly arranged copper plates, chemical reagents, and several stacks of exceptionally fine paper.
Bruce picked up a sheet and held it to the light.
The paper had a special texture, subtle watermark patterns, and neatly cut edges.
“It’s not ordinary paper,” Katherine leaned in to look.
“It’s more like…”
“Banknote paper,” Hank said, his face grim.
“It’s counterfeit.
Dean isn’t just a regular painter; he’s an engraver.”
…
The next morning, in the 21st Precinct Intelligence Unit office, the whiteboard was covered with photos of items found in Dean’s studio.
Old Ai had arrived as well.
He pointed to one of the photos: “Forensics confirmed these are printing templates for US dollar counterfeits.
The denominations are mainly 20s and 100s.
The level of craftsmanship is extremely high—the work of a professional.”
“Dean Masters, 42, a dropout from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, history of alcoholism and drug abuse,” Erin reported her background check findings.
“Almost no legal income for the past five years, but in the last six months, over eight hundred thousand dollars was deposited into his account from unknown sources.”
“What about that Noel Ares?
Found him yet?” Hank stared at the whiteboard without turning around.
“Found him,” Antonio took over the topic, pulling out a photo of a shop called ‘Cowboys Heart’ from the desk.
“Noel Ares, thirty-eight years old, owns a western wear and leather shop on 64th Street.
No criminal record, but tax records show his shop has been losing money for years, yet it stays in business.”
Bruce raised his hand: “Assuming Noel is a member of the counterfeit ring, he might be responsible for raw materials—like the special paper, ink, and chemicals. This story is hosted at novelping . com.
A clothing store is the perfect cover.”
“Smart,” Hank nodded, fully agreeing with Bruce.
“Now, we split up.
Antonio, Old Ai, take the forensics team and thoroughly search Dean’s house.
Don’t miss a single secret room or scrap of paper.
Stacey, Hayek, you go find Noel Ares.
Use a drug investigation as a pretext and observe his reaction.”
“Yes, sir.”
…
At ten in the morning, at the ‘Cowboys Heart’ clothing store on 64th Street, the shop windows displayed leather jackets, cowboy hats, and riding boots, but the interior was suspiciously empty.
Bruce pushed the door open, the bell letting out a crisp ring.
There was no one in the shop, and Noel was nowhere to be seen.
Bruce and Katherine exchanged a look, both drawing their pistols.
They searched the shop while remaining on alert.
They soon found Noel’s body in the dressing room.
The man had been shot between the eyes and lay in a pool of blood with a look of terror.
It looked like he’d been dead for nearly a day; the body was already starting to smell.
Katherine quickly notified Hank and called for the forensics team to come to the scene.
Meanwhile, Bruce kept his gun raised and surveyed the surroundings.
He soon found a security camera in the corner.
Looking at the angle, it would perfectly capture the storefront and the street outside.
“Katherine, there’s a camera here,” Bruce called out to his partner.
The two looked at each other and tinkered with the computer at the checkout counter, finally pulling up the surveillance footage from before Noel was assassinated.
It happened yesterday at noon.
In the footage, a fully armed man whose face was obscured got out of a blue van and walked straight into the shop.
He raised a pistol equipped with a silencer, killed him with one shot, and made a cool exit.
The whole process took less than three seconds.
Moreover, the culprit had completely covered his face, making facial recognition impossible.
Just as the two were at a loss…
Bruce pointed at the blue van on the screen.
“Katherine, is that logo the church’s ‘Jesus fish’?”
Hearing this, Katherine enlarged the image of the vehicle.
Sure enough, on the rear of the van, a white logo came into view.
It was a church symbol.
The two took photos of the vehicle and the killer.
Leaving the scene to the arriving forensics team, they headed straight back to the Intelligence Unit to report to Hank.
“fuck, damn it,” Hank’s voice soon rang out from the Intelligence Unit, filled with suppressed rage.
“Another one?
In broad daylight?”
“It’s a professional hitman,” Katherine said, pinning the photos she and Bruce had found onto the whiteboard as she reported the situation.
“Clean and efficient, suppressed pistol.
The killer drove a van with a church logo.”
An hour later, after the forensics team had thoroughly searched the ‘Cowboys Heart’ shop, they found the missing puzzle pieces from Dean’s studio in the basement.
Boxes of blended specialty paper, rare inks and chemicals, and even a small intaglio printing press.
More importantly, they found a ledger kept by Noel, detailing the distribution channels for the counterfeit bills and the profit-sharing personnel.
“A three-man group,” Old Ai analyzed the ledger.
“Dean was in charge of engraving and printing; Noel handled the raw materials; this guy named Green was in charge of distribution—he might be the boss.
The hitman who killed Noel was likely just a temporary hire.”
“The killer drove a church van,” Bruce mused, looking at the photo.
“It could be a disguise, or he might actually be connected to a certain church.”
Hearing this, Hank gave a direct order: “Gene, check the registration for all church vehicles in the city.
Erin and Jay, track the possible route of that blue van through surveillance.”