Wine and Gun

...This sentence of comfort may not be able to comfort people at all, but this is the essence of Olga.

When Olga waved goodbye to him and was about to leave, Albarino couldn't help but stop her.

"What if you're right?" he asked, "what if the Sunday gardener was really with him?"

He guessed that the question would be taken as a normal concern by Olga, since he was apparently - again, briefly - in love, and his "friends" had witnessed him briefly jiāo with different girls and boys Go, deeper than one night stand, shallower than love.

He'll be a considerate lover for anywhere from a few weeks to a few months, less than three months, and then he'll break up and start over with someone else.

He knew that the girls in the Forensic Medicine Bureau liked him, or made him a sexual fantasy object in the dead of night, but they all saw him clearly enough to know not to have a real relationship with him, otherwise they would just die.

It's a little rude to do that, but it's necessary. Because a non-social guy who escapes the society is more likely to attract the attention of the police, and three months is the limit he can hold on. He knows his situation well, three months is not enough for his lover to find out that he lacks the ability to empathize with each other, but three months is enough to make him tired of perfecting his disguise in front of the same person, at this time he needs to start from scratch , just for the boring freshness.

So Albarino can generally understand the wrong idea of ​​the girl at the front desk of the Forensic Medicine Bureau when she saw Herstal looking for him. She would think: a poor man, the victim of another unsustainable relationship with Dr. Bacchus, this People can also be heartbroken.

He didn't know how much Olga's thoughts would overlap with other people's, Olga was a smart guy - but not smart enough, or she would have caught him long ago.

Now, the profiler laughed.

"We all know Sunday gardeners, Al," she said simply. "If that's the case, Herstal is dead."

"It's very simple: this is three hundred thousand dollars, and this is the address." Hardy said to Herstal in a weary manner. He pointed to the backpack with the money on the table and the note on the side. Countless police officers were busy busy with worry. "You drive yourself to deliver the things to his designated place, and he will use this mobile phone to contact you."

"I can't hear any part of the plan that could be called 'easy,'" Herstal gān said.

"Yes," assured Inspector Hardy, who didn't sound confident himself, "we'll send people to follow you, we'll send people to ambush where he's scheduled, and we'll put trackers on you—many, many, many more. Tracker, as soon as he shows up, we'll catch him right away."

He paused, then promised, "We'll keep you safe."

A certain look on Herstal's face tells Hardy that his safety may not be his greatest concern - in fact, Hardy has no idea how things got this way: Herstal Armalite, Notorious Yuan Yang's gang lawyer, whose daily job is to exonerate those who are really guilty, will not give a sympathetic look to the family members of the victims who are swearing at him outside the courtroom. Now, this guy is going to help them save the little daughter of his employee's house from a lunatic who would shoot around in an office building.

"Do you think she's still alive?" Herstal asked slowly.

"I expected her to be alive," Hardy couldn't hold back his last sigh, "but that guy...I don't know either. He ordered to see you, and we have no other choice."

Hardy swallowed the last thing he wanted to say, he wanted to say: It's also possible that the other person wanted to see you just to hurt you, as if he shot your employee.

And Herstal looked at him, the corners of his mouth tightening. The unsmiling man said nothing, just dragged the heavy backpack from the table.

Albarino certainly didn't "go home" as Olga put it.

He had followed Richard Norman for three months and had a clear idea of ​​the behavioral patterns of his and his closest subordinates, which was why he was standing in a downtown alley thirty minutes later.

This place is extremely unsafe - worse than the average person living in Westland who is at risk of shooting at any time can imagine, the narrow streets are overflowing with sewage, and the rats are running squeakly along the street corners; The air is full of the sour smell of rotten garbage, and aside from the occasional rookie stopping on the nearby streets, even rookie warblers won't linger here.

If the place had ever installed a camera, it would have been vandalized long ago, and any possible parts have even been dismantled and sold.

And that's exactly how Richard Norman's most trusted men must go home.

What's more reassuring is that Norman's gangs aren't the kind of . . . hierarchical, old-fashioned gangs that developed from the immigrant cháo centuries ago. The Norman Brothers' gang is said to have grown out of prison and gathered a group of vulgar people with previous convictions. Albarino likes this, at least it's often a no-brainer against this lineup.

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