Wine and Gun

Herstal said it calmly, as if it had been brewing many times.

"—this is a revenge."

Midaren spends the rest of his time looking around: thanks to the bartender who did help him fend off a few ill-intentioned pick-ups on the grounds that "it's the boss's kid" - and the other side watches The security guards who were wandering around the dance floor withdrew knowingly. Although Midalun didn't like being called a "child", he didn't care enough to refute it.

If a murderer had to pick a place with a high population density to kill, he might pick it here: the dance floor was packed with people, and from a distance it looked like a sea of ​​heads. Midaron couldn't figure out how the Sunday Gardener was going to get in here and kill Jason Friedman, you know, even if he could get Friedman under control in a crowd, he could hardly get him out the door go.

But it's even more impossible to do it elsewhere—look at how many alarms this Mr. Friedman has installed in his own home, and Midaron reasonably suspects that not a single fly can get through it.

He watched for a while before he saw their target passing through the crowd drunkenly, holding a whisky glass in his hand, the liquor soaked his girlfriend's chest, and the girl was still giggling and giggling . A few meters away, old Hunter was alone, limping and bumped by the swaying crowd, looking rather miserable.

... Midaren felt that their plan today was indeed unreliable.

He was muttering silently when he saw Natasha Mirkov walk in through the door through the entrance of the store, looking even more haggard than when she had testified in court a few months earlier. It was not the bar thug who participated in the kidnapping of minors and then died inexplicably.

Instead of crossing the lively dance floor, she walked along the base of the wall, opened a door in the dazzling siding, and slipped in silently, apparently to meet the mysterious "Gabrielle" Miss Er." For some reason—probably just out of a sense of danger—Midallen really cared about the red-haired lady, so he hesitated, jumped off the high stool, and looked towards the woman. Go in the direction of the secret door.

He tiptoed across half the dance floor to the door. Hunter told him not to run around, but now it doesn't matter, right? This is just a nightclub, not a Longtan Huxué like Sequoia Manor... Midalun comforted himself so much in his heart, while carefully pulling the door open a gap, a fish flashed in quickly.

Behind the inconspicuous door is a hallway, which is remarkably receptive compared to the flashy storefronts with radiant lights: the walls are covered with dark-grained brown wallpaper, the carpets under the feet Soft as cotton. What made Midalun particularly happy was that there were no security guards in this corridor.

He closed the door carefully with a click, the walls were soundproofed, and the noise outside disappeared. Midaren carefully leaned against the corner of the wall and walked slowly forward, poking his head like a rat who only steals food—then he soon heard voices coming from the crack of a hidden door at the end of the corridor. , it was the characteristic, slightly hoarse voice of the lady surnamed Morgenstern.

She is not speaking English. Midalen froze for a second or two, then realized she was speaking German. German was the second mother tongue of the former director of the orphanage before Midalen, so he also taught the children of the orphanage intermittently, and Midalun could barely understand what Ms. Morgenstern was saying.

"There are only two possibilities," she was speaking slowly, the speed of which was really friendly to Midalen's listening level, "One, you neglected your duty and never paid attention to the movements of your subordinates, so that You didn't know he went to work for a guy like Slade; two, you knew everything, but it didn't stop him from getting himself into trouble—"

Morgenstern paused, her voice seemed a little gloomy, like a soft and clammy snake letter, completely different from the voice she had spoken to Midalen on the edge of the bar: "You have to tell me the answer. Which one is it, Natalie?"

"This is a provocation by Chiluǒluǒ." John Garcia said angrily, and only before the dead body was placed on his own desk could he be so angry and sincerely, "Sir, the Sunday gardener is threatening you. "

Of course, the threats on the other side are about to come out. McCard snorted, making way for the CSI members coming and going; Hardy's office was still too cramped, with several cops, half-team tracers, and two forensic field investigators crammed into the room. Can't stretch. McCard watched them try in vain to find surveillance footage, fingerprints, or something else that would pin down the killer, knowing that the other party would find nothing.

Albarino Bacchus has been playing cat-and-mouse with WLPD for ten years, and there's no reason to get caught in Hardy's office once.

"According to the current evidence, it is not certain that it is the Sunday gardener. Although he is very particular about the placement of the victim's body tissue, it is still very different from the gardener's way of committing crimes." Pretty sure who the killer is.

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