After the undercover investigation incident, Wen Ruzhou and I entered a cold war.
To be precise, it was a unilateral cold war on my part.
She still came to work every day, still greeted Old Zhao with a smile, and still buried herself in organizing the materials for the Hongyun case. But she stopped initiating conversations with me, simply completing the tasks I assigned on time each day and leaving the reports on my desk.
I didn’t reach out to her, and she didn’t reach out to me.
This state of affairs lasted for three days.
On the third night, I worked overtime until ten o’clock, organizing the capital flow diagram for the Hongyun case in my office.
This line became more complex the further I traced it. The capital chain behind Hongyun was like a spiderweb, extending from our city through five or six layers of shell companies, eventually flowing in three directions: one portion went to the real estate market in Hainan, another went to an investment company in Shenzhen, and the last portion went to a place I couldn’t trace for the time being.
The third portion gave me the biggest headache.
Because within that capital flow, that SWIFT code appeared—pointing to Hong Kong.
I spread the hand-drawn flow diagram on the desk, lit a cigarette, and stared at it.
Hong Kong.
If Hongyun’s funds involved in the case flowed to Hong Kong, it meant this wasn’t a simple case of illegal fund-raising; there might be something much larger behind it. Cross-border capital transfers required channels, channels required connections, and connections required an exchange of benefits. The people who could operate along this line wouldn’t be small figures.
There were two knocks on the door.
I didn’t look up: “Come in.”
It was Old Zhao.
“Captain Shen, haven’t left yet?”
“Looking through materials.” I put out the cigarette. “Something up?”
Old Zhao walked in and set a document envelope on my desk: “Little Wen asked me to hand this over to you.”
I glanced at the envelope, remaining still: “What is it?”
“She said it’s supplementary material she put together for Zhou Jianguo’s case.” Old Zhao’s voice sounded a bit hesitant. “Captain Shen, is there some misunderstanding between you and Little Wen? These past few days she’s just been keeping her head down working without saying much. She looks quite pitiful.”
I fell silent for a few seconds.
“Got it. You can head home first.”
Old Zhao hesitated as if wanting to say more, but ultimately said nothing and turned to leave.
After the door closed, I picked up the document envelope.
It wasn’t thick, but I could feel quite a few items stuffed inside.
I opened it and poured the contents out.
The first item consisted of several printed tables—a ten-year summary of financial transactions for Zhou Jianguo’s bank account. The tables were meticulously made, with every deposit and withdrawal clearly marked with time and amount, accompanied by the corresponding bank branch code.
The second item was a handwritten analytical report, the handwriting just as neat as the previous one.
The title read: Supplementary Analysis of Zhou Jianguo’s Capital Chain—Along with Possible Connections Between the Dingsheng Case and the Hongyun Case.
I flipped to the second page.
“Based on existing evidence, Zhou Jianguo’s capital chain can be traced back in three directions…”
She listed three lines in the report.
The first line was the “Lin Meihua—Huacheng Trading—Zhou Jianguo” capital flow, which lasted for ten years, with a fixed twenty to thirty thousand yuan every month, totaling over three million yuan.
The second line was the “Zhou Jianguo—Wang Xiulan—Real Estate” capital transfer. This amount was not large, but it involved a real estate transaction valued at two million yuan.
The third line was the “Zhou Jianguo—Hengtong Trading—” capital flow. The source of this capital was unclear, as was its destination, but according to the original records of the Dingsheng case, the amount reached as high as twelve million yuan.
Twelve million yuan.
More than half of the total amount involved in the Dingsheng case went into Zhou Jianguo’s pocket.
Or rather, Zhou Jianguo helped someone process the funds through his account and took a commission.
Processing funds for others is one of the most common methods of money laundering. Passing illegal proceeds through multiple layers of accounts to convert them into legitimate income, with the intermediary taking a cut. The commission is usually between ten to twenty percent. Ten percent of twelve million yuan would be 1.2 million yuan.
Zhou Jianguo took so much money—what did he provide to his superior?
The report stated: “Based on the analysis of existing materials, Zhou Jianguo’s role was likely that of a capital broker. He lacked professional financial knowledge, but he had a broad local network, allowing him to reach those who needed money laundered and those willing to provide laundering channels. Through whom the illegal proceeds of the Dingsheng case were transferred and where they ultimately flowed remains unconfirmable due to insufficient evidence. However, it is worth noting that one year after the Dingsheng case was closed, a large deposit appeared in Zhou Jianguo’s account, with the source listed as ‘investment returns.’ The timing of this money is extremely subtle.”
I flipped the report to the very end.
The final paragraph made my fingers pause.
“Captain Shen:
This report is what I’ve put together over the past few days. Regarding the relationship between Zhou Jianguo and the Dingsheng case, I have some conjectures, but the evidence is insufficient to support them. If you’re willing, I would like to continue investigating this line.
Also, I was in the wrong regarding what happened that day. But I don’t regret going to Shunda, because there really was something wrong with that place. My method was simply wrong, failing to report to you beforehand.
I won’t be writing a self-criticism report, because I don’t believe I did anything wrong. But if this incident affects your assessment of me, I am willing to adjust my way of working.
Wen Ruzhou”
I set the report down and leaned back against the chair.
Refusing to write a self-criticism report, with the reason being she didn’t think she did anything wrong.
Was this woman genuinely stubborn, or was she locking horns with me?
I picked up the report again and read through it once more.
Her handwriting was very neat, every stroke written with force. Her analytical logic was clear as well, not the work of someone who only knew theoretical talk. But one point caught my attention—her obsession with Zhou Jianguo’s line exceeded the normal scope of work.
Why would a newly transferred newcomer care so much about a fifteen-year-old case?
I stood up, put away the report, and walked out of the office.
The archives room was on the third floor of the administrative building, devoid of anyone at this hour.
I unlocked the door with a key and stepped inside.
The old fluorescent light fixture hummed. I flicked the switch, and the light flickered a few times before fully turning on. Rows of archive cabinets stood tall, with year labels affixed to their iron doors, gleaming cold under the light.
I walked to the innermost row of cabinets and found the one labeled “2010.”
Pulling open the cabinet door revealed rows of neatly arranged case file boxes inside. I found the box labeled “Dingsheng Illegal Public Deposit Absorption Case” and pulled it out.
There was a thin layer of dust on the box.
I opened it and took out the files inside one by one.
The first was the prosecution recommendation letter stamped by the procuratorate. The second was the court verdict—the main culprit sentenced to twelve years, the accomplice to five. The third contained the defendants’ identity information and interrogation transcripts. The fourth was bank statements and audit reports. The fifth…
The fifth was in my master’s handwriting.
It was a handwritten case explanation tucked between the files, the handwriting somewhat scribbled, looking out of place among the neat printed documents surrounding it.
I pulled it out and read it carefully.
My master wrote in this explanation: “There is a major discrepancy between the capital flow confessed by the main culprit in this case and the actual bank records. Approximately 12 million yuan of the involved funds cannot be traced to their ultimate destination; further investigation is recommended. After the case is concluded, this lead is to be transferred to the relevant department for handling.”
“Relevant department.”
I had asked my master back then which department this “relevant department” was. He didn’t answer directly, only saying “someone higher up is handling it.” Later, he applied for a transfer out of economic investigation to a grassroots police station, and no one ever brought the matter up again.
I closed the case file, leaned against the cabinet, and closed my eyes.
Fifteen years ago, my master left this line in this case explanation. Fifteen years later, a newly transferred young girl dug it out from the archives room.
A coincidence?
I didn’t believe in coincidences.
I picked up that case explanation again and flipped to the last page.
Below my master’s signature was a line of small text: “This explanation has been copied to the primary leadership of the Economic Crime Investigation Detachment.”
Primary leadership.
Who was the captain of the Economic Crime Investigation Detachment fifteen years ago?
I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Old Zhao: “Who was the captain of the Economic Crime Investigation Detachment fifteen years ago?”
Old Zhao replied instantly: “Which year are you referring to? If it’s fifteen years ago, I think it was Captain Chen Guodong.”
Chen Guodong.
I had heard this name before. He transferred away before I joined the team, reportedly going to the Provincial Department. What happened to him afterward, I wasn’t sure.
Instead of asking Old Zhao further, I took a photo of that case explanation, put the original back into the file, and returned the file to the cabinet.
The door to the archives room closed behind me with a heavy thud.
The corridor was very dark, with only the emergency light at the far end still glowing, casting a faint thread of eerie green light.
I didn’t return to the office, heading up to the rooftop instead.
The wind was strong on the rooftop, blowing my hair into a mess. Leaning against the railing, I pulled out my phone and looked up Chen Guodong’s name.
There wasn’t much information to be found online. Chen Guodong, former Deputy Director of the Economic Investigation Corps at the Provincial Department, passed away due to illness in 2015 at the age of fifty-eight.
Passed away in 2015.
Ten years ago.
I stared at the screen for a moment, suddenly recalling something.
The date on my master’s case explanation was 2010. Chen Guodong passed away in 2015, with a five-year gap in between. Why did no one pursue this line during those five years?
I exited the search interface, opened the report Wen Ruzhou had given me, and read it again.
That sentence she wrote was still at the end: “If you’re willing, I would like to continue investigating this line.”
I didn’t reply to her.
But I did something else.
The next morning, I called her into my office.
“Close the door.”
She closed the door and stood before me, her expression looking a bit nervous.
I placed that case explanation in front of her: “This is the original material from the Dingsheng case fifteen years ago. There’s an unpursued lead inside. Take a look.”
She picked up the explanation and read through it carefully.
I noticed her fingers paused slightly when she read that line of small text.
“Captain Shen, which department is the ‘relevant department’ mentioned here?”
“The captain of the Economic Crime Investigation Detachment fifteen years ago,” I said. “But he passed away in 2015.”
She fell silent for a few seconds.
“You’re very interested in Zhou Jianguo’s line,” I stared into her eyes. “Honestly, what exactly are you trying to investigate?”
Her gaze flickered.
It lasted only a split second before returning to calm.
“I think there’s something wrong with this case,” she said. “Zhou Jianguo took twelve million yuan in commissions but was never prosecuted for it—that’s not normal. According to standard investigative logic, once the destination of funds is uncovered, it’s impossible to just leave it unpursued. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless someone suppressed it.”
I said nothing.
She continued: “Captain Shen, I don’t know what happened fifteen years ago. But my desire to investigate Zhou Jianguo’s line isn’t because it’s interesting; it’s because it might be connected to the Hongyun case. A portion of the capital flow in the Hongyun case went to an investment company in Shenzhen. The legal representative of this company is named Lin Meihua.”
Lin Meihua.
That name again.
“You found that out?”
“Looked into it last night.” She pulled her phone from her pocket, opened a page, and handed it to me. “This is what I organized last night. Lin Meihua has six companies under her name, one of which is Huasheng Property, a supporting service provider for Manhua Group. Another is Huacheng Trading, the very company that sent money to Zhou Jianguo.”
I took the phone and looked at the screen.
It was an equity relationship diagram, drawn quite intricately, yet with clear logic. Lin Meihua and Zhou Jianguo were connected through a layer of nominee agreements, while Lin Meihua and Manhua Group had business dealings with each other. If this line held true, it meant Zhou Jianguo, the Dingsheng case, the Hongyun case, and Manhua Group might all belong to the same network.
“How did you think to look into all this?” I asked.
She took her phone back and smiled faintly: “Intuition.”
“Intuition?”
“Captain Shen,” she looked at me, “there’s a saying at the Audit Office: ‘Numbers don’t lie.’ A person’s bank transactions don’t lie, who a company does business with doesn’t lie, and where a person’s money comes from and goes doesn’t lie either. I’m merely following the numbers, and tracing them to the end, I found they all point in the same direction.”
I didn’t speak.
She was right. Numbers don’t lie, but the people hiding the numbers do.
“Captain Shen,” she suddenly asked, “do you also feel there’s something wrong with this case?”
I remained silent for a few seconds.
Then I said: “From now on, you’ll investigate Zhou Jianguo’s line together with me.”
Her eyes lit up: “Alright.”
“But on one condition.”
“What condition?”
“You’re not allowed to go taking risks on your own again.” I stared into her eyes. “Next time you want to investigate something, tell me first. I’ll go with you.”
She froze for a moment, then smiled: “Alright.”
I stood up and walked over to her: “One more thing.”
“What is it?”
“That report of yours was well-written.” I paused. “But next time, don’t have Old Zhao hand it over. Just give it directly to me.”
She looked at me, her smile deepening: “Alright.”
After she left, I sat alone in the office, going over those few sets of materials once more.
Wen Ruzhou’s analytical report, my master’s case explanation, and that equity relationship diagram she updated last night.
The three lines ultimately converged on the same point—Lin Meihua.
Lin Meihua was the capital transfer hub for the Hongyun case, Zhou Jianguo’s employer, and a supporting service provider for Manhua Group. The role she played along this line was both lubricant and witness.
How much did she know?
Leaning back against the chair, I thought for a long time.
Then I opened my computer and began searching for other information regarding Lin Meihua.
This woman was far from simple.