Solving the Trouble

Morning, Columbia University.

The Mathematics Building is an old structure built at the beginning of the twentieth century, its gray stone walls radiating a steady, cold chill in the March light.

The fourth-floor corridor is long and quiet; occasionally a student walks by, their footsteps largely absorbed by the thick carpet.

On both sides of the corridor are dark wooden doors, with brass plates bearing the names and titles of the professors.

The door to office 412 is tightly shut.

Professor Robert Jero sits behind his desk with an unfinished doctoral thesis spread out before him, but he cannot take in a single word.

He is waiting for a phone call.

To be precise, he is waiting for a call from the police.

He has not forgotten what happened last night.

As he left the crime scene yesterday, Robert heard sirens; the police must have gone to the location.

That house, those four kidnappers, those cameras, that canvas bag containing fifty thousand dollars—these things will not just disappear on their own.

The police will take statements, check for fingerprints, pull surveillance footage, question neighbors, find that black car, trace the owner's name, and follow the trail.

Then they will find Robert Jero.

Because the kidnappers' target was him; those four bastards who deserve to go to hell were coming for him.

Robert picks up his cold coffee and takes a sip, the bitter taste spreading across the tip of his tongue.

He is not afraid of the police.

He is a professor at Columbia University, an authority in the field of financial mathematics, with a reputation in both industry and academia.

His lawyer is one of the best criminal defense attorneys in New York, and his friends are scattered throughout the Federal Reserve, the Treasury Department, and major investment banks.

The police cannot give him a hard time; they can only come to ask questions, not to make an arrest.

The university will also protect him; Columbia has its own legal team and a department dedicated to handling crisis public relations for faculty and staff.

If things blow up, the school will step in, issue statements, package him as a "victim of a violent crime," and call for strengthened security measures around campus.

All of this has a process and a precedent.

So, he is not afraid.

But he does not want Lin An to be dragged into this.

That young man saved him; although the beginning and the process were not very pleasant, the fact remains that he spared him from the fate of having his rear end torn open.

If the police find out about Lin An, if his killing of those men is exposed, then everything will be over; he will go to prison, perhaps never to come out again.

Robert does not want that.

At the same time, this matter is not just because Lin An saved him, but also because Lin An is a genius.

In his entire career, Robert has seen no more than ten people like this; two of them won Nobel Prizes, three became billionaires, and the rest reached the top of their respective fields.

Therefore, Robert believes that Lin An should not go to prison.

He should be standing on the podium of an academic conference, sitting in the trading room of some hedge fund, or publishing papers in top-tier journals.

He should not be locked in a prison cell because he saved him.

Robert leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and stares at the fire sprinkler on the ceiling, wondering what he should say if the police come.

He cannot say he does not know Lin An; that is too fake, as the police will sooner or later find the surveillance footage of them leaving the scene together.

But he also cannot say that Lin An killed those men; that is the truth, but saying it would be a betrayal.

He needs a middle path.

For example, he was taken into that house with his eyes covered and does not know the specific location.

Later, someone broke in, a conflict occurred with the kidnappers, and he ran out during the chaos.

He does not know who broke in, nor did he see their faces clearly; he only remembers someone pulling him up from the ground, pushing him to run out the back door, and then he took a taxi home alone.

There are many loopholes, but it is still better than telling the truth directly.

Robert runs this story through his mind three times and feels it is barely passable.

Then he starts to worry: what if the police ask for details? What if the police produce surveillance footage? What if the police find Darnell?

As he thinks, his temples begin to throb.

He stands up and walks to the window to push it open; the cold March wind rushes in, making his mind feel a bit clearer.

The campus outside the window is quiet.

In the small square in front of the Mathematics Building, a few students are sitting on benches soaking up the sun; some are reading, some are eating sandwiches, and some are chatting.

Everything is perfectly normal, as if nothing happened last night.

But Robert knows that it has already happened.

And it will not end just like this.

He returned to his desk, glanced at his cell phone, then at his landline; neither showed any signs of activity.

It was ten o'clock.

The police should have been on duty for a long time, and detectives should already be investigating the scene from last night.

According to the New York Police Department's case procedure, they should have contacted the victim this morning, traced the owner through the license plate, found the address of that house through the owner, identified the kidnappers through the house's rental records, and then found the last person contacted through the kidnappers' phone records.

None of this was difficult.

Therefore, Robert Jero was waiting—whether for a phone call or for school leadership to come asking questions—he was waiting for things to unfold so he could resolve them.

He waited all morning.

Then, when it reached twelve o'clock, there was still no call.

The landline rang once; it was the department secretary asking if his afternoon seminar was still on, and he told her to postpone it.

His cell phone vibrated twice: once for a spam text, and once from his daughter asking if he was coming home for dinner this weekend, to which he replied that he was.

No police.

Robert began to feel that something was wrong.

He thought for a moment, picked up his phone, and dialed a number.

"Columbia University Department of Public Safety, how can I help you?"

"This is Robert Jero from the Department of Mathematical Finance. I'd like to ask if any incidents occurred around campus last night?"

"Please hold, let me check."

The sound of keyboard typing came from the other end of the line. About twenty seconds later, the voice returned.

"Professor Jero, we didn't receive any reports of abnormal incidents around campus last night. What type of incident are you referring to?"

"It's nothing. Thank you."

Robert hung up the phone.

No reports.

He dialed a second number.

"NYPD 26th Precinct, how can I help you?"

"This is Professor Robert Jero from Columbia University. I'd like to ask if there were any homicides in Upper Manhattan last night?"

"Please hold."

Again, the sound of keyboard typing; this time the wait was longer, about forty seconds.

"Professor Jero, I've checked the incident reports from last night through early this morning. There was only one false fire alarm; I found no record of the homicide you mentioned. Can you provide a more specific location and situation?"

"No need, thank you."

Robert hung up the phone.

He tapped his fingers on the desk twice, then picked up his phone and scrolled to the contact information of an old friend with connections in the NYPD—the man was retired, but still had some influence.

He hesitated for a moment, then didn't dial.

Robert didn't want his name appearing in too many people's line of sight; what happened last night was truly too humiliating.

He put down the phone, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling.

No homicide records.

No police contact.

Four people had definitely died in that house, and the police must have received a fire alarm due to the smoke and gone to the scene, yet there was no homicide report.

How was that possible?

Unless someone had wiped away all those traces.

Robert recalled the words Lin An had said last night... "I'll handle the matters inside first, so that when the police arrive later, it won't implicate us."

At the time, he thought "handle" just meant something simple like wiping away fingerprints, but now it seemed that what Lin An meant by "handle" might be far more profound than he had imagined... at the very least, the bodies had certainly disappeared without being discovered by the police.

How could one person manage to do that?

Robert couldn't figure it out.

Unless Lin An had subordinates who rushed in before the police arrived to move the four bodies.

This wasn't something one person could do alone.

Robert slowly sat up straight.

He began to re-examine the events of last night, thinking of two sentences.

[That's right, I am the messenger sent by God to save you.]

[I originally intended to kidnap you to have you do me a small favor, but since I just happened to save you and helped you avoid the worst possible outcome, if you do me a favor now, we'll be even.]

So, this crazy genius, even though he had no memory, had subordinates who could help him dispose of bodies—especially that Ni Ge; although his behavior was a bit cowardly, one look at his face told you he wasn't a good person.

Perhaps this was a leader or a boss of a black gang.

Robert rubbed his temples.

Perhaps he was just overthinking things.

But one thing he was becoming increasingly certain of: Dr. Lin An was no ordinary person; he was a dangerous, capable, and insane genius with subordinates at his command.

Robert glanced at his phone.

Twelve forty-five.

Still no call.

He finally realized that the police were not coming.

He leaned back in his chair and let out a long, weary sigh.

Then he remembered the task Dr. Lin An had asked for help with. At the time, he had assumed it was just a casual question, but now he realized that Dr. Lin An was serious, and he had the means to investigate.

Three o'clock in the afternoon.

"Knock, knock, knock..."

Robert, who had been buried in paperwork, looked up at the door and then at the clock on the wall. Oh, it was about that time.

"Come in."

The door was pushed open.

Dr. Lin An walked in, wearing the same windbreaker from last night, carrying a backpack, his expression calm, with that familiar smile on his lips.

"Good afternoon, Professor."

Dr. Lin An sat down in the guest chair and placed his backpack by his feet.

Robert did not speak immediately.

He took off his reading glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, then put them back on and scrutinized Dr. Lin An's face.

The afternoon sun shone through the window, landing on the young man's profile. Robert noticed that there were no bloodshot veins in his eyes, nor were there the shadows of exhaustion under his eyes that he had seen last night... he had slept very well.

A man who had killed four people last night had slept very well; his psychological resilience was remarkable.

Robert suppressed the thought, took a fingerprint collection card and an ink pad from his drawer, and pushed them across the desk.

"Fingerprints. All ten fingers. Press them here."

Dr. Lin An did not ask why, nor did he hesitate.

He extended both hands, and one by one, he pressed his ten fingers onto the paper as the professor requested, leaving his prints behind.

"I will send your fingerprints to the database for comparison."

Robert placed the collection card into an envelope and sealed it.

"If you have a record, we will be able to identify you. If not..."

"Then I will have to trouble you, Professor. I am currently in the process of reapplying for my United States visa. Thank you."

Dr. Lin An took over the conversation, pulled out his police report card, and flipped it onto the desk.

"Yes, this is the report card for my lost identification."

Robert glanced at him, looked at the card, then took a photo of it with his camera. He then took the reading list from his drawer and pushed it over.

"This is the reading list I provide to first-year doctoral students. It contains seventeen books, and I have added two more specifically for you.

I require you to finish them within three months and understand every formula, every proof, and every model within them."

Dr. Lin An picked up the reading list, unfolded it for the barrage to see, then folded it back up and put it in his pocket.

[I've read half of these books. This one, this one, and...]

[I've read these few.]

[I've studied this one.]

[Adding it all up, not a single one is missing.]

Very good, Dr. Lin An felt reassured.

"That shouldn't be a problem."

The barrage knew everything anyway.

Robert nodded and was about to say something when the phone in Dr. Lin An's pocket began to vibrate.

Dr. Lin An took out his phone, glanced at the screen, pressed the answer button, tapped the speakerphone, and placed the phone on the desk.

"Inspector Morales."

Dr. Lin An said.

"Dr. Lin An."

Morales's voice came from the other end of the line. There were people talking in the background, but the noise quickly faded away.

"Is it convenient for you to talk right now?"

"It's convenient, I'm in my advisor's office."

"Oh, that's perfect."

The sound of rustling papers came from the other end of the line.

"There are results from De Luca's side. The interrogation of Sergei Kuzmin is complete, and he has confessed everything. The question you asked me to look into earlier, De Luca managed to get an answer."

Robert's gaze immediately locked onto Lin An's phone.

"Who is it?"

"A man named David Goldstein hired him."

Morales said.

"I looked up the name; he is a Jewish immigrant from the United Kingdom, but his current address is unknown."

There was a second of silence on the other end.

"Dr. Lin An, do you know this David Goldstein?"

Before Lin An could answer, Professor Robert Jero, who was sitting across from him, stood up abruptly, his face flushed red... and it clearly wasn't from shyness.

Lin An glanced at him, then spoke into the phone.

"Thank you, Inspector Morales, my advisor is very grateful for your help."

"You're welcome, Dr. Lin An, call me again if anything comes up."

"Goodbye."

Lin An hung up the phone and turned to look at Robert.

"Professor, you know this person."

"David Goldstein."

Robert paced back and forth in the office, his anger obvious and intense.

"That bastard!!!"

Lin An's expression remained unchanged; he simply listened quietly.

"That bastard was my former doctoral student."

Robert took a deep breath, reined in his emotions, and continued.

"He enrolled in 2004, studied for two years, failed his qualifying exams, and was dismissed by the department. Yet, he kept claiming to others that he was my student, saying he was 'conducting research in quantitative finance under the guidance of Professor Jero'."

He paused and took another deep breath.

"He opened a company on Wall Street called Goldstein Capital Management, pulled in a few investors from Eastern Europe, and at one point managed tens of millions of dollars.

His fundraising materials stated, 'Chief Investment Officer David Goldstein, a student of Professor Robert Jero at Columbia University'."

When Robert reached this point, he sat back down in his office chair, having regained his composure.

"When he started using my name, friends told me about it, but I didn't publicly expose him for using my reputation to make money.

It wasn't until last year, when a friend sent me their fundraising materials, that I realized something was wrong. I felt his company wasn't legitimate; its behavior was practically fraud.

I called the department immediately and then wrote a formal letter to the Securities and Exchange Commission, clarifying that this person had never earned a doctorate from Columbia University, nor had he ever completed any research under my guidance."

He opened his eyes and looked at Lin An.

"His company went bankrupt shortly after. Investors sued him for fraud, the Securities and Exchange Commission launched an investigation, he lost all the money, and he ended up drowning in debt.

I haven't heard his name since."

Robert adjusted his glasses, which had slid down his nose, and frowned.

"I thought he had left the United States and returned to his home in the UK. I didn't expect..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but Lin An understood.

[It must be this grandson wanting revenge on the old man.]

[Is the guy who said he was the old man's student earlier still here?]

[I'm here. This situation didn't happen in my world. I remember there was indeed a Jewish man on Wall Street who used the old man's reputation to commit fraud, but he was shot to death by an investor from Ukraine because he scammed too much money.]

[So, in this world, the old man actually saved his life?]

[A British Jew. If that's the case, then the sodomy video that wasn't captured last night must be his method of retaliation. This kid wants to ruin the old man's reputation.]

"Professor."

Lin An spoke up.

Robert looked up.

"The situation is clear. This man named David is retaliating against you. Do you need my help to strike back?"

"How much money do you need?"

Robert was very direct. Having spent his life in academia, he was an academic titan. While he hadn't done certain things himself, he had heard of them, and when it came time to be decisive, he wouldn't hesitate.

"You are my advisor, after all."

Lin An smiled.

"It is perfectly normal for a student to help their mentor solve a problem."

Robert laughed as well.

"If I hadn't looked up your identity information, I would have told you to go get a passport from any country after a while, and I would have helped you complete the enrollment procedures..."

"Here, Professor."

Lin An reached into his pocket and pulled out a dark red passport, holding it between his index and middle fingers like a magic trick, and handed it to Robert.

The movement was fluid, without a hint of hesitation, as if the passport had been waiting for him to take it out all along.

Robert was stunned.

He took the passport and opened it. The cover was embossed with a golden national emblem and the words "Passport of the People's Republic of China".

The first page featured a photo of Lin An—bareheaded, white background, serious expression—which looked seventy or eighty percent like the person sitting across from him, though younger, as if it had been taken several years ago.

Next to it were his name, date of birth, nationality, and other information.

The date of issue was September 15, 2008, and it was valid until September 14, 2018.

Robert flipped to the visa pages; they were completely clean, with no United States visa stickers or entry stamps.

He looked up at Lin An.

"Didn't you say you didn't have an identity?"

"I truly don't."

Lin An said, his expression unchanging.

"This is fake."

Robert's fingers rubbed against the cover of the passport, feeling the texture of the paper, the clarity of the printing, and the quality of the photo development.

Although he was not an expert in document verification, having taught at Columbia University for so many years and seen countless passports from international students, he could still roughly distinguish between real and fake.

This passport looked real.

Robert closed the passport and returned it to Lin An.

"Give me your phone number. Once there is a result, I will notify you... If you need anything on your end, you can call me too."

"Understood, Professor."

Lin An stood up with a smile.

"You should be careful during this time as well; I will be able to resolve the trouble very soon."

"Mm."