Murphy got a drug dealer's name, "Orson Savage," and an address, then the punk ran off in a panic.
The man on the ground got up too. To Murphy's surprise, he was actually a rather tall, solidly built man—and in his arms, he was holding a kitten.
Had this guy been beaten up because he was trying to protect his cat?
He had Schwarzenegger's build, but inside he was a softhearted cat slave?
"Orson's just a small fry," the man suddenly said. "He's not the worst bastard in this district."
"Oh?"
Murphy had not expected to get any useful leads out of a punk right from the start anyway. He had only planned to work his way up step by step until he found the worst guy. But this man looked like he knew something?
"Then who's the worst guy?"
The cat-loving man did not answer. He only shook his head, left Murphy behind, and walked away.
One of his legs did not move very well when he walked. He seemed to be lame.
Murphy rolled his eyes. "Legilimency!"
A moment later, Murphy sucked in a breath of cold air.
Damn. This guy had led quite the life.
Boris Pishkov.
Born in the East End, his father was Russian mafia and his mother was a prostitute. Yet he had somehow not sunk into that environment. Through sheer intelligence and ability, he had gotten into Cambridge, and after graduating, he became a certified accountant.
However, this guy was far too dedicated to his work. While auditing a major company's financial report, he discovered serious fraud. Not only did he refuse to sign the audit report, he also submitted the evidence of fraud to the judicial authorities.
But what he did not know was that the company's investor was actually a drug