Found It

At 2:30 AM, the streetlights of Uptown Manhattan bathed the entirety of Broadway in a jaundiced yellow, as if the street were soaked in overnight tea.

Darnell pedaled his Roadster Bicycle, his legs pumping up and down like pistons, pushing the bike to the speed of a mountain motorcycle across the empty asphalt.

Lin An sat sideways on the back rack, one hand gripping Darnell's shoulder while the other flipped through the four feature phones in his pocket.

A Nokia, a Motorola, a Samsung, and a flip phone whose brand he didn't recognize.

They were all the cheapest prepaid models, the kind you could pick up at a corner bodega for twenty bucks—no ID required, disposable after use.

The information he needed was definitely inside one of these four phones, but their lock screens all displayed the same four-digit passcode prompt.

He had tried a few combinations, but all were wrong; two had already locked their SIM cards due to too many failed attempts, while the other two had only two tries left each.

"Bro, what are you doing?"

"Trying to unlock these phones."

"Toss 'em. They aren't worth anything, you can't sell them."

"The phones aren't worth much, but what's inside them is."

"What's inside?"

"Don't know yet."

Darnell glanced back, his speed not faltering in the slightest.

The bicycle cut across a manhole cover at a sharp angle, the frame jolting and causing Lin An's body to sway.

"You know what my mom says?"

Darnell launched into his signature rambling.

"She says God has a path laid out for everyone. You just walk your own path, don't go around trying to dig through other people's bags... Bro, what you're doing right now? That's digging through someone else's bag."

"I found this bag."

"Found or not, it's still someone else's bag."

"It's my bag now."

"OK, fine, your bag. So, can you open your bag?"

"No."

"So your bag is rejecting you... You know what that means? It means God is telling you... stop digging."

Lin An didn't respond.

The live chat stream flowed at the edge of his vision.

[Hahaha God: The lock is my arrangement]

[Darnell's theology class today: On the relationship between phone passcodes and God's will]

[Don't listen to his yapping, host, just toss them into the Live Stream Store, I'll crack them for you]

[Yeah, throw them in. 2026 cracking tools against 2009 feature phones is a total dimension-crushing strike]

[I have a Nokia 6300, forgot the password years ago, cracked it in ten minutes with open-source tools last year]

[Ten minutes? I just cracked a Motorola V3 last month, took three minutes, read the PIN and PUK both]

[You guys are just bullying a feature phone that can't fight back]

[Bullying the elderly, are we?]

Lin An watched the chat, the corners of his mouth curling upward.

He weighed the phones in his palm, then, with a sleight of hand, closed his fingers, and the four phones in his hand and pocket vanished simultaneously.

Soon, the Live Stream Store icon flickered in Lin An's vision; those four phones had been redeemed by someone.

The chat room began to scroll rapidly.

[Who was so fast?]

[Can't you give me a chance to show off?]

[Four phones connected to the PC, running the dictionary now. The password is four digits, right?]

[That flip phone is a UTStarcom. This brand made PHS phones back in the day; their password system is basically non-existent. Two minutes, tops.]

[Hurry up, I want to see what's inside.]

[Maybe it's just a contact list for some drug dealers.]

[Drug dealers wouldn't use phones this crappy.]

[Drug dealers in '09 used exactly these, what do you think? The iPhone 3G just came out and it's expensive as hell, nobody uses that for dirty work.]

"Bro."

Darnell spoke up suddenly.

"You killed someone again tonight."

Lin An shifted his gaze away from the live chat and pulled his attention back to reality.

"That's right."

Lin An's tone was as flat as if he were confirming today's date.

Darnell didn't change his pedaling rhythm in the slightest, but he remained silent for a long while.

"Bro, have you taken care of the bodies? Not just the current ones, but the ones from before, too. I know you're a wizard and can make corpses vanish, but that's only temporary, not a permanent disappearance. If you don't know how to handle them, we can head to the suburbs tomorrow, find an empty lot, and bury them."

[What's up with Darnell today? His IQ is suddenly online.]

[Actually, there's no need; these cadavers are in high demand.]

[But Darnell doesn't know that. This Ni Ge is actually pretty loyal.]

"Thanks for the suggestion, but I've already taken care of it."

"For real?"

"Really, there's no problem."

Darnell's goodwill made Lin An smile.

Just then, someone sent Lin An a donation.

It was a piece of paper.

[Host, take a look at this. This is the information I managed to crack.]

Lin An took the paper out.

The wind blew instantly, causing the paper to rustle in his hands. He pressed his thumb against the surface and began to read by the light of a streetlamp.

The information on the paper was divided into four sections, corresponding to four mobile phones. Each section was marked with a bold header indicating the phone model and IMEI code, followed by all the cracked content.

The first was a Nokia 1100. The contact list had only seven numbers, none of which were saved with names, only single letters: A, B, C, D, E, F, G.

The call logs showed that over the past three days, this phone had only been in contact with one number... the one labeled "G". The call durations were all very short, the shortest being nine seconds and the longest less than two minutes.

The text message history had been wiped; both the inbox and outbox were empty.

The cracker had added a note in red font at the bottom: [Attempted to recover deleted messages, but with no success. The storage chip capacity of the Nokia 1100 is too small; once overwritten, they cannot be recovered.]

The second was a Motorola V3.

The contact list was equally concise, with eight numbers labeled from "Person 1" to "Person 8". The number for "Person 1" was the same as "G" from the Nokia.

A few text messages were preserved:

"The goods have arrived, same old place."

"What time?"

"Eight o'clock."

"Received."

All the messages were sent to "Person 1".

The call logs showed that in the last week, besides frequent contact with "Person 1", this phone had also dialed three calls to different area codes.

The cracker had listed these numbers separately and marked their locations... Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx.

The third was a Samsung SGH-X480.

This phone had the most extensive content.

The contact list contained twenty-three numbers, with labels ranging from "Driver," "Big Guy," and "Little Guy" to "Accountant" and "Lawyer."

Clearly, the owner was a coordinator.

The text message history contained a large number of undeleted messages spanning about two weeks.

The cracker had extracted the key content.

"What time tomorrow?"

"Same old time, same old place."

"The last one wasn't honest, so I took care of him."

"Received."

"The new shipment this time isn't pure enough; the boss isn't satisfied."

"Tell him."

"I did. He said he'd make it up next time."

"There won't be a next time."

And the final few messages, timestamped for early this morning:

"The goods are here. Where are you?"

"Same old place."

"Has the person arrived?"

"Arrived."

"Move."

In the call logs, the most frequently contacted number also pointed to "G".

The fourth phone was a UTStarcom flip phone.

This phone was the cleanest.

There were only three contacts. All call logs pointed to the same number, the one labeled as "G" in the other three phones.

There were two text messages, both sent from the same number.

"Just drive."

"I'll contact you when I arrive."

Cracker's Note: [The owner of this phone should be responsible for driving and keeping watch. The phone is brand new, activated only ten days ago. Aside from that G number, there are no other contacts. It is presumed to be a burner phone specifically equipped for this operation.]

Dr. Lin An folded the paper back up and put it into his pocket.

The bicycle had already entered the territory of Queens. The streets became narrower, and the spacing between streetlights grew sparser. The buildings along the roadside changed from Manhattan's high-rise apartments to two or three-story detached houses; some front yards were piled with discarded furniture and rusted car parts.

Darnell looked back at Dr. Lin An.

"You started smiling after you finished reading that paper. It's giving me the creeps."

"I wasn't smiling."

"The corners of your mouth were practically touching your ears."

Dr. Lin An thought for a moment.

"Maybe a little."

"What was written on the paper?"

"Something useful. Perhaps it will allow us to find some fun."

The next morning, when Dr. Lin An appeared at the entrance of the 103rd Precinct, the sunlight was shining from the east, casting a long shadow from that fluorescent light that never seemed to get fixed.

He pushed the door open, and the door hinges let out a low groan, sounding just as half-dead as always.

The officer on duty at the front desk had changed. A Latina policewoman in her thirties sat behind it, her hair tied in a neat ponytail and her uniform pressed crisp. When she saw Dr. Lin An, her eyes lit up.

"Dr. Lin An? Morning."

"Good morning."

Dr. Lin An nodded, somewhat surprised that she knew him.

"Patrick notified us today, saying you'd be coming by these next few days to help everyone with their tax forms. The conference room is already prepared for you."

She paused, lowering her voice.

"I brought my mother's tax forms too. She doesn't live with me, but I always feel like she filed them wrong... Is that okay?"

"Of course."

Dr. Lin An smiled and walked up the stairs.

In the hallway, a Black officer in uniform was walking out of the breakroom carrying a cup of coffee. He froze when he saw Dr. Lin An, then grinned.

"Hey, you're that Chinese doctor? Sergeant Morales mentioned you."

"Dr. Lin An."

"I'm Carter."

The officer freed up a hand to shake his.

"I'm on the afternoon shift. Will you be in the conference room then? I have some numbers on my 1099 form that don't add up."

"You can go to the conference room now, or tomorrow works too. I need to head back to the university this afternoon; my advisor has something for me to do."

"That's great."

Carter patted him on the shoulder and hurried off with his coffee.

Dr. Lin An pushed open the door to the conference room.

Five people were already sitting inside.

Four men and one woman, all wearing plain clothes or uniforms, with folders and manila envelopes piled on the table in front of them. Seeing Dr. Lin An enter, they all stood up almost simultaneously.

"Dr. Lin An?"

"That's me."

"Great, I'm Jeffrey, I work in the evidence room. This is my tax form. I received a CP2000 last year saying I underreported an amount..."

"One at a time."

Dr. Lin An sat down at the head of the table and took that pen and the stack of handwritten blank note paper out of his backpack.

"Who's first?"

For the next hour, the conference room door opened and closed, opened and closed.

More people came than expected.

Some arrived with questions, some brought a whole year's worth of documents for a "check-up," and others, having simply heard from colleagues that "a doctor is at the 103rd Precinct helping out for free," shoved their wives', brothers', and even neighbors' tax forms into his hands.

Dr. Lin An remained unhurried, reviewing them one by one.

Data streams flowed rapidly at the edge of his vision, providing real-time support ranging from tax code articles to specific calculations; he only needed to read them out, write them down, and occasionally ask for a few key pieces of information.

"Did you sell any stocks last year? Do you have the 1099-B?"

"Did your wife change jobs in 2023? Is the withholding tax code on her W-2 an A or a B?"

"After your father passed away, did you report the rental income from that house on Schedule E?"

Every question was precise, and every piece of advice was actionable.

When the people left with the numbers and steps he had written down, the expressions on their faces shifted from anxiety to disbelief.

"It's really that simple?"

"It's really that simple."

"I don't really need to hire an accountant?"

"You really don't."

The last person to leave was Carter, the officer he had met in the hallway.

His problem was indeed simple: a dividend entry on a 1099-DIV had been reported twice. Dr. Lin An marked the error for him and told him to contact his brokerage to issue a corrected form.

After Carter left, the conference room fell silent.

The clock on the wall pointed to 10:40 AM.

Dr. Lin An gathered the documents on the table and took a sip of coffee that had gone completely cold.

[The streamer's move here has basically turned the 103rd Precinct into his own home.]

[No kidding. He knows the front desk, he knows the hallway, and there's a crowd waiting in the conference room—this is the treatment of one of their own.]

[The key is that he's doing it for free. Where else in the United States can you find free tax consulting? And at a doctoral level, no less.]

[Cops are people too; they have to make a living. A few hundred dollars in tax refunds might be a month's worth of living expenses or rent for these people. Without that money, they'd have to live a hard life for a long time.]

[That's how you build up social capital.]

Dr. Lin An stood up, picked up the stack of handwritten notes containing everyone's questions and solutions, categorized by name and phone number, and walked out of the conference room, heading down the hallway toward the office of Morales.

The lieutenant's office was at the end of the first floor, the door left slightly ajar.

Dr. Lin An knocked twice.

"Come in."

Morales sat behind his desk, looking at his computer screen with reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his fingers tapping slowly on the keyboard.

The pothos plant on the windowsill still looked half-dead, with more yellow leaves on the edges than there had been a while ago.

He looked up, saw Dr. Lin An, and took off his reading glasses.

"Dr. Lin An, are the tax forms all finished?"

"Finished. They've all been handled."

Dr. Lin An sat down in the guest chair.

"But I came here today for another matter I'd like to ask your help with."

Morales leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his stomach, his expression shifting from relaxed to focused.

"Speak."

Dr. Lin An pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, placed it on the desk, and pushed it forward.

The paper contained over a dozen phone numbers, grouped by phone model, with key information cracked and noted in pencil beside them—phrases like "G number," "Person 1," "Goods arrived at the old spot," and "Make a move."

Morales's gaze swept over the paper, his brows furrowing slightly.

"What is this?"

"Last night, my mentor was attacked on the way home from school in Upper Manhattan."

Dr. Lin An's tone was calm, as if he were stating something that had already happened and had nothing to do with him.

"The attacker left a phone behind when they ran. I decrypted the information inside, and these are the numbers I organized from it."

"Decrypted?"

Morales's gaze shifted from the paper to Dr. Lin An's face.

"You?"

"I just happen to be interested in this field, so I've studied it a bit."

Dr. Lin An said, his expression innocent and candid.

"Among these numbers, one appears most frequently and is marked with a 'G'. I want to know who is behind this number."

Morales's brow twitched, a hint of satisfaction crossing his face. He picked up the paper, turned around, and faced the computer on his desk.

"Oh, right, let me ask—did your professor call the police?"

"No. Because some unseemly things happened during the attack, he entrusted me to investigate it for him."

Morales nodded in understanding; he had seen this sort of thing plenty of times and wasn't surprised.

He turned, put on his reading glasses, and began typing on the keyboard.

At the login screen for the police database, he entered his badge number and password, then hit Enter.

A black search box popped up, labeled "NYPD Intelligence Database - Reverse Phone Lookup."

He slowly typed in the number marked "G" from the paper.

After typing the final digit, he hit Enter.

The screen loaded for about three seconds.

A record popped up.

Morales squinted at it for a moment, then pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose and leaned forward.

"Sergei Kuzmin."

He read the name off the screen.

"Male, born in 1968, Ukrainian national, entered the country under political asylum in 2001, obtained a green card in 2005."

He clicked the mouse a few times to flip to the next page.

"His address is in Brighton Beach, the specific unit number... it's on the second page. His registered occupation is 'Security Consultant,' but there's a note in the system..."

He paused.

"The note says: Suspected mercenary broker, linked to Eastern European organized crime syndicates. The FBI has a dedicated file on him, but he is not on the no-fly list."

Morales leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his head, and stared at the photo on the screen for a while.

The photo showed a white man in his fifties with a shaved head, a wide face, and a thick neck. He was wearing a dark turtleneck sweater, his expression stern, his eyes holding a professional coldness.

"This guy claims to be Russian to everyone."

Morales said.

"But the system is very clear: he's Ukrainian, born in Kharkiv... Many Eastern European immigrants like to say they're Russian because it sounds tougher."

He shifted his gaze from the screen to Dr. Lin An.

"Do you know what this means?"

"I don't."

Dr. Lin An said.

"It means the fact that your mentor was targeted isn't as simple as it seems."

Morales turned his chair to face Dr. Lin An, placing his hands on the desk and interlacing his fingers.

"Sergei Kuzmin, 'Security Consultant'—in reality, he's a mercenary broker and intelligence middleman. He isn't the type to randomly mug people on the street, and his clients aren't ordinary people."

He paused.

"The person who attacked your mentor had his number saved, which means the attacker works for him. But Sergei himself is likely not the mastermind; he's just the middleman."

"Someone paid money, and he found someone to do the job."

Dr. Lin An nodded, his expression thoughtful.

"So there is someone else behind the scenes."

"Correct."

Morales looked at Dr. Lin An with a cautious concern in his eyes.

"Dr. Lin An, do you need help?"

Dr. Lin An looked up, meeting his gaze.

"What kind of help?"

Morales didn't answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, picked up the desk phone receiver, held it in mid-air, thought for a moment, and made a decision.

"I know a lieutenant at the 60th Precinct named De Luca. We trained together at the Police Academy and went to different precincts afterward, but we've stayed in touch."

"The 60th Precinct is over in Coney Island; they cover the Brighton Beach area, which is the jurisdiction where Sergei Kuzmin lives."

He placed the receiver back on the cradle without dialing, explaining first.

"I can ask him to pick up Sergei Kuzmin, bring him in under the guise of an investigation, and find out exactly who paid him to hire those people."

[233, this is the benefit of having connections. The streamer doesn't even have to catch the guy himself; the police do the work for him.]

[Isn't this against the rules?]

[What rules? It's just reasonable, standard professional courtesy.]

[If the streamer were to investigate some tycoon, or a hospital, or the boss of a legitimate company, that would be risky. But investigating a Ukrainian who does dirty work? That's perfectly fine.]

Lin An did not answer immediately. He looked at Morales, his face showing just the right amount of hesitation.

"Will this cause trouble for you?"

"No problem at all. Sergei isn't a good person, so it's perfectly reasonable for De Luca to arrest him."

Morales said, his tone carrying the trust an old cop has for an old colleague.

"The 60th Precinct's jurisdiction includes Brighton Beach and the surrounding areas, where there's a large population of Eastern European immigrants. Sergei Kuzmin has been operating under their noses for years, so De Luca is no stranger to him.

If we bring him in on suspicion of 'involvement in organized crime,' it's entirely within the bounds of the law."

He paused.

"It won't be hard to ask who hired him during the interrogation. It's not the first time a guy like him has been caught; he knows what to say and what not to say. If it's just asking for a name, he'll cooperate."

Lin An was silent for a few seconds, then nodded slightly.

"Then... I'll leave it to you."

Morales picked up the phone receiver and began to dial.

The dial tone rang three times before the other end picked up.

"De Luca."

"Frank."

Morales's voice relaxed, carrying the casual air unique to old friends.

"Busy?"

"Not really. Just finished the morning meeting and eating a donut. What's up?"

"I have a favor to ask."

Morales leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the piece of paper on the desk.

"In your jurisdiction over in Brighton Beach, there's a Ukrainian named Sergei Kuzmin. He tells people he's Russian. Do you know him?"

There was a second of silence on the other end.

"Sergei?"

De Luca's voice rose slightly.

"What do you want with him?"

"A friend asked me to look into something."

Morales's tone was unhurried.

"Do you have any cases involving him lately?"

De Luca laughed.

"Frank, you're in luck. Something happened just a few days ago... Do you know Osiris Pharmaceutical?"

"Never heard of it."

"A pharmaceutical company called Traplex Bio, headquartered in New Jersey. They were recently running some kind of human experiments in an abandoned factory district in Brooklyn, and they hired Sergei's men to handle security and transport the test subjects.

I don't know exactly what happened, but a few days ago, our precinct and the FBI conducted a joint operation, raided Sergei's stronghold, arrested seven people, and seized over thirty guns, along with a batch of medical equipment of unknown use."

He paused, as if taking a sip of water.

"Sergei himself wasn't on the scene, but our chain of evidence points to him. The FBI has already applied for an arrest warrant, but it's a secondary one, not urgent. Sergei is currently spending money to pull strings.

If you want to grab him now, I can make a call to the patrol unit, and they'll have him brought in within ten minutes."

Morales glanced at Lin An.

"Any difficulties?"

"Difficulties?"

De Luca laughed again.

"Frank, do you know what Sergei is most afraid of right now? He's most afraid of the FBI grabbing him before the NYPD does.

Because if the FBI catches him, they'll send him to federal court, where the sentencing is much heavier than in state court. He's practically begging for the NYPD to move first so he can negotiate a plea deal."

He paused.

"So tell me, what charge do you want me to use to arrest him?"

"Suspicion of involvement in organized crime."

Morales said.

"After you bring him in, help me ask one question: who recently paid him to hire men to attack someone? The target was a professor at Columbia University."

The other end of the line went quiet for two seconds.

"Attacking a university professor?"

De Luca's voice became a bit more serious.

"When did it happen?"

"Last night, Upper Manhattan."

"Has the victim been identified?"

"Robert Jero, a professor in the Department of Mathematical Finance at Columbia University."

Morales glanced at Lin An.

"Dr. Lin An's mentor."

"Dr. Lin An?"

"The Chinese guy I mentioned to you before, the one who helps my men look over their tax forms."

"Oh... that genius."

There was a hint of understanding in De Luca's voice.

"Right, because this matter involves some of the professor's privacy, this is a private investigation."

"Understood. I'll arrange for people to go now. Sergei Kuzmin, Brighton Beach, the house number is... ha, it's actually a seafood restaurant, I have a record of it in my system."

The sound of keyboard clacking came from the other end of the line.

"Found it. I'll have the patrol team head over directly. Once they bring him in, I'll question him myself."

"Thanks, De Luca."

"Don't thank me, Frank. You owe me a steak."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"One more thing."

De Luca's voice lowered slightly.

"Once you get the name, what do you plan to do?"

Morales looked at Lin An.

"I'll get the name first, then decide."

"Fine. Wait for my call."

The call ended.

Morales placed the receiver back on the landline and turned to look at Lin An.

"Did you hear that?"

"I heard it."

Lin An said.

"De Luca will bring him in and find out who hired him."

Morales folded the piece of paper on the desk and pushed it back to Lin An.

"Go back and wait for news."

Lin An stood up and put the paper into his pocket.

"Thank you, Mr. Morales."

"Just call me Morales."

The inspector waved his hand.

"Your mentor's situation cannot be ignored. A professor from Columbia University being attacked in New York is not a small matter; our police department has a responsibility to investigate it thoroughly."

He paused, the corners of his mouth curving slightly.

"Besides, you've helped so many of us; helping you check a number and catch a guy is nothing."

Lin An walked to the door and turned back.

"Morales."

"Yeah?"

"You've been overwatering that pothos. Water it less and put it in a spot with indirect light; it should recover in two weeks."

Morales was stunned for a moment, looking down at the half-dead pothos on the windowsill, then back up at Lin An.

"You even know about plants?"

"I know a thing or two."

Lin An pushed the door open and walked out.

In the hallway, several officers who had just finished their shift nodded in greeting as he passed. He walked all the way to the lobby and pushed open the heavy doors; the March sunlight hit his face, feeling somewhat blinding.

Darnell was straddling his Roadster Bicycle, waiting by the side of the road.

"Bro, is everything taken care of?"

"It's taken care of."

"So, what do we do next?"

Lin An sat in the backseat, pulled the four feature phones that had been cracked and redeemed back from his pocket, and weighed them in his palm.

"We're going to Columbia University; my professor is still waiting for me... Oh, right, Darnell, there's some good news, do you want to hear it?"

"What good news?"

"I've found out who attacked you. They belong to a pharmaceutical company from New Jersey called Traplex Bio."

"what!!!"