Financial Advice (Extra Update)

Nine o'clock in the morning.

Lin An stood outside the 103rd Precinct. After straightening his shirt collar, he pushed open the door and walked inside.

The female officer at the front desk was reading a copy of the New York Post. She heard footsteps and looked up. When she saw Lin An, a smile immediately spread across her face.

"Hey, Dr. Lin, here to help us with our taxes again?"

"Good morning, Martha."

Lin An smiled and nodded.

"You look great today."

"Oh, you say that every time."

Martha laughed and waved a hand.

"The conference room's free. You can head right in. It's not busy today; there are only three people waiting for you."

"Thanks."

Lin An crossed the lobby and headed for the second-floor conference room.

In the offices lining the second-floor hallway, several officers spotted him and raised their hands in greeting.

A bald detective leaned halfway out of a doorway, a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Dr. Lin, my wife told me to thank you. The tax return you did for her got her more than four hundred dollars back!"

"You're welcome, Detective Ramirez."

"Just call me Jose. Come over for dinner sometime. My wife's tacos are the best in all of Queens!"

"I'd love to."

Lin An smiled as he agreed, without breaking stride.

[Lin An's treatment at the 103rd Precinct is getting more and more ridiculous]

[From "that Chinese guy" to "Dr. Lin," and now "Jose invited you to his house for dinner"]

[That's the magic of doing people's taxes]

[In America, someone who can get your money back from the IRS is more popular than a priest]

[Lin An's the god of wealth at the 103rd Precinct now]

"God of wealth" is exactly right.

The conference room door stood open. Three people sat inside, two in uniform and one in plain clothes.

When Lin An walked in, all three stood up at once.

"Dr. Lin."

"Doctor."

"Good morning, Doctor."

Lin An greeted each of them in turn, sat down beside the conference table, and took the folder the first person handed him.

"Let's have a look..."

He opened the folder, his gaze sweeping over the figures on the tax forms. Bullet Screen comments began streaming along the edge of his vision, dense analyses of numbers and tax advice rushing by like a river of data.

[The income on his W-2 was overstated. Have him get a corrected one]

[He can claim an education credit. He took a vocational training course last year]

[The third guy filled out his Form 1040 wrong. He chose itemized deductions instead of the standard deduction, but he doesn't have anything to itemize]

[The second guy's problem is the easiest. He forgot to report the state taxes he paid last year. Just amend it]

Lin An tapped the tax forms with his finger and explained the suggested corrections one by one.

The three men pulled out notebooks and scribbled furiously.

In less than twenty minutes, all three problems were solved.

They thanked him profusely and left the conference room. The plainclothes detective who was last out even doubled back and pressed a business card into Lin An's hand.

"My brother-in-law owns an auto shop. If you ever need repairs, tell them I sent you, and you'll get—uh, no, fifty percent off."

"Thanks."

Lin An put the card in his pocket and watched him leave.

The conference room fell quiet.

Lin An leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if resting.

[The streamer's so efficient today]

"Three people in twenty minutes. Less than seven minutes per person on average"

[Mainly because their problems were all simple. We handled the truly troublesome ones last week]

[The 103rd Precinct has over two hundred officers. How many people has Lin An done taxes for now?]

[I counted. Since the first time he helped O'Brien, it's been at least a hundred by now]

[Over a hundred cops owe him a favor. That's quite a network he's built]

[In the Jamaica Community, having a hundred cops know your name is a kind of protection in itself]

Lin An didn't open his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lifted slightly, smug with satisfaction.

Just then, hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Lin An opened his eyes, and the conference room door swung open right on cue... It was Patrick.

He wasn't wearing his uniform jacket, just a short-sleeved dark blue police shirt that showed off his thick forearms.

"Dr. Lin."

"Officer Patrick."

Patrick walked in and casually shut the conference room door behind him. The lock clicked into place, shutting out the noise from the hallway.

He sat down across from Lin An and folded his hands on the table, rubbing his thumbs together.

He didn't say a word.

Lin An didn't press him either. He simply waited in silence.

The Bullet Screen started filling up.

[Something's off with Patrick today]

[He's usually pretty talkative. Why's he so quiet today?]

[His thumbs are moving. That's a sign he's nervous]

[Would a man who pointed a handgun at a gang and opened fire get nervous?]

[So whatever he wants to talk about might make him even more nervous than a gunfight]

[Is it about money?]

[Probably]

Patrick cleared his throat.

"Doctor."

"Yes?"

"I have a question I'd like to ask you."

"Go ahead."

"It's not my problem."

Patrick corrected himself.

"It's a problem a friend of mine has."

[Classic opening: "I have a friend"]

[It's one hundred percent his own problem]

[No, Patrick isn't the type to beat around the bush. It might really be a friend's problem]

[Could be his own, but he's embarrassed to say so]

[Wait, a cop with financial trouble? Don't tell me it's the IRS again]

Lin An didn't call him out. He just nodded.

"What kind of trouble is your friend having?"

Patrick took a deep breath.

"He has some money."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand dollars."

He paused, as if weighing his words.

"The money... didn't come from a very clean source."

Lin An raised an eyebrow.

"How unclean?"

"It's nothing awful."

Patrick quickly added,

"It's not money from murder or arson. It's just... you know, work on the side, off the books, not reported on his taxes."

[Probably money he got off a gang member after shooting him]

[Isn't that illegal?]

[In 2009, American cops weren't equipped with body cameras. Things like this were common, and to some extent, they were even one of the New York cops' sources of income. They jokingly called it "Police Tip"]

[Don't worry about it. The IRS wouldn't bother looking into such a small amount as ten thousand dollars]

"Cash?"

"Cash."

Lin An nodded to show he understood.

"So your friend wants to know how to spend the money legally?"

"That's right."

Patrick's eyes brightened a little.

"He wants to put it in the bank, but he's afraid it'll raise questions. He wants to spend it, but he's afraid of leaving a paper trail if he buys anything big. So..."

"So it's just sitting in his hands."

"Exactly."

Lin An leaned back in his chair and tapped the tabletop lightly twice with his fingers.

Ten thousand dollars.

Honestly, that amount didn't call for any complicated money-laundering scheme.

He could just spend it gradually on everyday expenses—groceries, gas, rent, meals out—and it'd be gone in a few months.

The IRS computer system wouldn't even notice ten thousand dollars in cash moving around, unless he was foolish enough to deposit it all in the bank at once... That would trigger a Currency Transaction Report. Banks had to report cash deposits over ten thousand dollars.

So the simplest answer was: don't put it in the bank. Spend it on everyday expenses.

Lin An opened his mouth, about to say just that.

Then he stopped.

Lin An shifted his gaze from Patrick's face to the precinct map hanging on the conference room wall.

The Jamaica Community, South Jamaica, Hollis, Queens Village—one colored area after another, marked with different patrol zones and crime-rate data.

Patrick didn't need to launder ten thousand dollars.

He'd just said it was his "friend's" problem.

And even if it really was his own money, ten thousand dollars didn't call for anything complicated.

So was this friend Patrick's immediate superior?

Lieutenant Morales.

Or someone above Morales?

The director of the 103rd Precinct.

Or the more than two hundred officers at the precinct.

[Could the streamer be missing the point? Maybe the ten thousand dollars is just a test, and Patrick's here to sound him out]

[Maybe Patrick isn't the one testing him. Maybe someone behind him is]

[How many of the more than two hundred cops at the 103rd Precinct have dirty money?]

[Cops don't make that much, but they have power and plenty of opportunities for under-the-table income. Everyone knows that]

[An ordinary NYPD officer makes forty or fifty thousand a year. A lieutenant makes seventy or eighty thousand. In New York, that's just enough to get by with dignity]

[But dirty money's a problem. A little isn't an issue, but too much can bring an investigation from the cops who handle money laundering or from the tax authorities]

[So they need someone to help solve that problem]

[If Lin An can pull this off, his status at the 103rd Precinct will be more than just "the friend who does our taxes"]

[He'll become the whole precinct's financial adviser. No, their financial protector]

Lin An looked back at Patrick.

His expression grew more intent.

"Officer Patrick."

"Yes?"

"Honestly, ten thousand dollars doesn't require anything special."

Patrick's shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Just spend it on everyday expenses. Groceries, gas, meals, clothes. Don't deposit it all in the bank at once, and don't buy anything big all at once. It'll be gone in a few months.

"The IRS won't notice cash moving around in amounts this small."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Patrick let out a breath, his face showing his relief.

"That's what I thought..."

He stood up, ready to leave.

"But..."

Lin An's voice made him stop.

"But what?"

Lin An didn't answer right away. His fingers tapped twice more on the tabletop, then stopped.

"If your friend... or his coworkers have larger amounts of cash to deal with, everyday spending won't be enough."

Patrick turned around and slowly sat back down.

"Doctor, what do you mean?"

"I don't mean anything else."

Lin An's tone was steady.

"I'm just saying, ten thousand can be absorbed through everyday spending, but what about a hundred thousand, or two hundred thousand? That would take other methods."

Patrick was silent for a few seconds.

"Such as?"

[Here we go, brothers, help out! What are some ways to launder money?]

[Art auctions. Buy a painting, claim you painted it, then sell it at a high price.]

[Open a laundromat. It's a cash business, so you can report extra income when you file your taxes.]

[Casinos. Buy chips, play a few hands, then cash out with a check.]

[Real estate. Buy a run-down house, renovate it, then sell it. Pay the difference in cash.]

[Those are all methods for large amounts. They're too complicated for the police.]

[What advantage do cops have? They don't need to clean their dirty money. They just need to spend it without attracting attention.]

[So the question should be "how to spend cash," not "how to make the money legal."]

At the edge of Lin An's vision, the Bullet Screen poured down like a waterfall.

All kinds of suggestions, analyses, case studies, and legal citations crowded the screen, coming so fast they formed a torrent of data.

"There are a few ways."

After watching for a while, Lin An had a clear idea of what to say.

"First, split up the deposits.

"Don't deposit more than ten thousand at a time. Deposit eight or nine thousand every few weeks, spreading it across different banks and different accounts. Don't follow a pattern, and don't deposit on a fixed schedule.

"This method is called 'structuring.' Technically speaking... it's illegal."

Patrick looked a little disappointed.

"But..."

Lin An raised one finger.

"For the IRS to catch structured deposits, the bank has to report them, then someone has to review the report, and then an investigation has to be launched.

"For amounts in the hundred- or two-hundred-thousand range, the IRS's manpower costs aren't worth it. So as long as you're not too stupid or too blatant, you probably won't get caught."

Patrick nodded slowly.

"What's the second way?"

"Second, spend cash on portable valuables."

Lin An counted them off on his fingers.

"Buy gold, silver coins, luxury watches, jewelry, things like that, and keep them at home. When you need money, sell them.

"Remember to sell in batches. Don't get rid of everything at once.

"The downside is that it takes time to turn them back into cash, and the prices can fluctuate. But the upside is that there's almost no paper trail, because you're the buyer, not the seller."

[This one's good. I recommend it.]

[Buy gold bars and stick them under your bed. Safer than putting them in the bank.]

[Gold really is the best store of value. How much was gold per ounce in 2009? Nine hundred-something?]

[Yeah. Buy now, and when the price climbs to eighteen hundred in a few years, you'll even make money.]

[Wait, this isn't money laundering. It's investing.]

[Lin An's teaching cops how to invest.]

[Laughing so hard. The God of Wealth has been promoted to financial adviser.]

"Third..."

Lin An raised a third finger.

"Open a small business."

Patrick furrowed his brow.

"What kind of business?"

"Any cash business: a laundromat, a pizzeria, a car wash, a convenience store. You don't actually have to run it. You just need the business on the books.

"Deposit some cash into its account every week, then report it as business revenue when you file your taxes. The IRS will take about twenty to thirty percent in taxes, and the rest of the money will be clean."

"You have to file taxes?"

"Of course you have to file taxes."

Lin An spoke as if he were teaching a grade-schooler that one plus one equaled two.

"If you want to clean the money, you have to pay a price. Taxes are what you pay for legitimacy. If you don't want to file taxes, forget about laundering the money. Just spend it in cash."

Patrick was silent for a long time.

His thumbs had stopped rubbing together. Both hands rested flat on the table, and he seemed much calmer than when he'd first come in.

"Doctor."

"Mm?"

"How do you know all this?"

Lin An tilted his head, then smiled.

"I read a lot."

[Hahahahahaha!]

[Lin An: I'm a scholar. This is all academic research.]

[He's a PhD in mathematical finance. What's wrong with researching money laundering? Makes perfect sense.]

[Look at Patrick's face. He's seriously thinking about whether he should keep asking.]

[He won't ask. He knows he won't get an answer.]

[Besides, he doesn't care about the answer. He only cares whether the methods work.]

Patrick really didn't ask anything else.

He stood up.

"Doctor."

"Mm?"

"Those methods you mentioned... the laundromat, if someone really wanted to do that, how much would it cost?"

"Depends on the size. For a small shop, thirty to fifty thousand in startup costs would be enough. Rent, equipment, renovations, and the operating costs for the first few months."

Patrick nodded.

"What if..."

"Officer Patrick."

Lin An cut him off.

"Some of the methods I mentioned are legally questionable. Structuring is technically illegal, and using a fake business to launder money is illegal too.

"I was only answering your friend's question. I'm not recommending that anyone do any of these things."

His face was calm as he spoke, his tone even.

He sounded like a university professor discussing a criminal law case in class.

"I understand," Patrick said.

"You're just providing information."

"Right."

"What I do with it is my friend's business."

"Right."

"You don't know anything."

"I don't know anything."

Patrick gave a smile like Lin An's, then opened the door and walked out.

His footsteps faded down the hall, and the conference room fell quiet again.

Lin An leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

The Bullet Screen erupted in celebration.

[Lin An's a master at this.]

["I don't know anything."]

[A perfectly reasonable disclaimer.]

[He told Patrick the methods, and Patrick told his "friend." What the friend does has nothing to do with Lin An.]

[But everyone knows that if they actually want to put it into practice, they'll have to go to Lin An for help.]

[Because Lin An's the only one who can make the books balance.]

[Opening a laundromat means filing taxes. Filing taxes means bookkeeping. Bookkeeping means Lin An.]

[That's a perfect business cycle.]

[Lin An's turned himself into the 103rd Precinct's underground financial officer.]

[More than an officer. He's managing their money.]

[There are over two hundred cops, each with tens or hundreds of thousands in gray income. How much does that add up to?]

[If Lin An can help them legitimize that money and charge a ten percent service fee, he'll be set for life.]

[And the cops will gladly pay, because unlaundered money is just a pile of useless paper.]

[More importantly, Lin An knows the whole precinct's financial secrets.]

[This isn't a favor. It's leverage.]

[But the cops won't feel threatened, because Lin An's never asked for anything.]

[He just offers help and accepts their thanks. He never makes demands.]

[The highest form of control is making someone willingly let themselves be controlled.]

Lin An opened his eyes and looked at the precinct map on the wall.

Different colored sections and numbers marked the map, like pieces already played on a chessboard.

He lightly tapped a finger against it.

108th Street.

Then he stood, straightened his shirt cuffs, opened the conference room door, and walked out.

Martha was still flipping through the newspaper in the lobby. When she saw Lin An, she looked up.

"Heading out, Doctor Lin?"

"Yeah."

"Coming back tomorrow?"

"Maybe. If anything comes up, call me."

"Will do."

Lin An pushed open the glass door and stepped into the morning light of New York.

A police car was parked by the street. Patrick leaned against its door, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. When he saw Lin An come out, he stood up straight.

"Doctor, I'll drive you back."

"No need. I can walk."

"It's not safe to walk around Jamaica alone right now."

Lin An thought about it, then nodded.

"Sorry for the trouble."

He opened the back door of the patrol car and got in.

Patrick started the engine. The car pulled away from the 103rd Precinct and headed toward the Jamaica Community.

It was quiet inside the car. Patrick drove with his eyes on the road, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. The unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear swayed with every bump.

"Doctor."

He suddenly spoke.

"Mm?"

"Lieutenant Morales asked me to find out which of those methods would be best for us."

Lin An leaned back in the rear seat and watched the streets drift past the window.

Run-down apartment buildings, graffiti-covered roll-down gates, teenagers crouched at the roadside smoking, a homeless man pushing a shopping cart.

Morning in New York was like morning in any city in the world, full of life and decay.

"The second one," he said.

"Buying gold?"

"Mm."

"Why?"

"It's the simplest. No need to run a business, file taxes, or leave any paperwork. Buy it, hide it, and sell it when you need the money.

"The only risk is getting robbed at home. But you're cops. Your homes are much safer than an ordinary person's."

Patrick was silent for a few seconds, then nodded.

"That made sense."

"Most importantly, given the current state of the world and the direction the economy is headed, gold..."

Lin An leaned back in the rear seat, his gaze passing through the car window to the Manhattan skyline in the distance.

In the morning light, the glass facades reflected a golden glow, like countless enormous gold bars standing along the Hudson River.

"Gold is going to rise."

He said it.

"How much?" Patrick glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"A lot."

Lin An sounded certain.

"First, it's 2009. You know what happened last year."

Patrick fell silent for a second.

"The financial crisis."

"Right. Lehman Brothers went under, Bear Stearns was acquired, Merrill Lynch was sold, AIG was bailed out by the government. The global financial system nearly collapsed, and it still hasn't recovered."

Lin An raised a second finger.

"Second, what is the Federal Reserve doing because of the financial crisis?"

"Printing money."

This time, Patrick answered quickly.

"Bailing out the markets, zero interest rates, quantitative easing—in other words, constantly pumping money into the market."

[Patrick actually knows about quantitative easing.]

[He's a cop, not an economist, but this stuff is on the news every day. You hear it enough, you learn.]

[How many times over did the Federal Reserve's balance sheet expand from 2008 to 2009?]

[From 900 billion to 2 trillion, and they're still printing.]

[Central banks all over the world are printing too—Europe, Japan, China.]

"Exactly."

Lin An nodded.

"What happens when you print money? There's more money, but the amount of stuff in the world hasn't changed, so..."

"Money loses value."

Patrick finished the sentence for him.

"Right. The dollar will lose value, but gold won't."

Lin An raised a third finger.

"There's only so much gold. There's only so much gold on Earth. You can only dig up what's there. The Federal Reserve can print a trillion dollars, but it can't print an ounce of gold."

He paused.

"So when paper currency loses value, gold goes up in price... That's the first point."

[The streamer's giving a cop an economics lesson.]

[And explaining it more clearly than a college professor.]

[Because we actually understand it. We're not just parroting a textbook.]

[2009 really was the best time to buy gold. After the financial crisis, gold was only a little over $900. A few years later, it doubled.]

[More than doubled. It hit $1,900 in 2011.]

[So Lin An isn't helping them launder money. He's helping them grow their wealth.]

[Money laundering can lose you money, but buying gold at this point in time is a sure bet.]

Patrick tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.

"What's the second point?"

"There is one."

Lin An raised a fourth finger.

"Second, gold doesn't require any paperwork. There's no record. The only person who knows you have gold is the person who sold it to you."

"The gold seller won't tell anyone?"

"No. They deal in cash too."

Lin An's tone was as casual as if he were commenting on the nice weather.

"How many jewelry stores are there in New York? How many pawnshops? How many private dealers? They take cash and sell gold every day.

"The IRS can't keep track of them all, and doesn't want to. Jewelry stores and pawnshops have their own licenses. They only need to report large transactions... Cash transactions over ten thousand dollars per purchase have to be reported."

"So..."

"So if you buy eight or nine thousand dollars' worth each time, sending different people to different stores, no one will know."

Patrick nodded slowly.

[That's the advantage of being a cop.]

[They have a lot of people. They can buy in batches.]

[More than two hundred people, each buying a little—it adds up to an astronomical amount.]

[And they're spread across different neighborhoods, so they won't draw attention.]

[This is a lot smarter than opening a laundromat.]

[With a laundromat, you still have to keep books. With gold, you don't even have to keep records.]

"Third point."

Lin An raised a fifth finger.

"Gold doesn't expire."

Patrick paused.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly that."

Lin An traced a circle in the air with his finger.

"You buy a gold bar, and no matter how long you keep it, it won't rust or rot. Rats won't chew on it. It won't go bad or expire."

He paused.

"You buy ten thousand dollars' worth of beef, and it'll stink after a year. You buy a ten-thousand-dollar car, and it'll be ready for the scrap heap in ten years. You buy ten thousand dollars' worth of stocks... The people who bought Lehman Brothers stock last year have nothing now."

[True. Gold is the ultimate store of value.]

[From ancient Egypt to today, five thousand years—and gold has always been hard currency.]

[Civilizations fall, currencies collapse, but people will always recognize gold.]

[Roman gold coins and today's gold bars are essentially the same thing.]

[That's the magic of gold.]

"Fourth point... Never mind. Those first three points are more than enough."

"True."

Patrick was silent for a long time.

The police car drove along Jamaica Avenue, passing a pawnshop. A sign in the window read "WE BUY GOLD," its yellow letters on a red background especially vivid in the morning light.

Patrick's eyes swept over the sign.

"Doctor."

"Yeah?"

"How do you know all this?"

Lin An tilted his head, then smiled.

"I read a lot."

[Hahahahahaha, there he goes again.]

["I read a lot" has become Lin An's all-purpose answer.]

[Patrick: Can't you come up with a different excuse?]

[Lin An: No, because I really do read a lot.]

[He has a PhD in mathematical finance. It makes sense he'd study the gold market, right?]

[Not just the gold market. He studies the Federal Reserve's monetary policy and the global macroeconomy too.]

[Lin An: It's all academic research. It has nothing to do with money laundering.]

[And Lin An is really shrewd. Buying gold counts as investing, not spending. The more dirty money the cops have, the more they'll rely on him.]

The police car turned onto 108th Street and stopped in front of an apartment building.

Lin An pushed open the car door and got out.

"Doctor."

Patrick leaned out of the car window.

"What you said just now—that gold's going to rise. How much do you think it'll go up?"

"If you buy now, it's nine hundred dollars an ounce."

Lin An said.

"Within five years, at least eighteen hundred."

Patrick was startled.

"Double?"

"Right. Double."