Turmoil in the Police Force (Part Two)
The moment the heavy wooden door to the deputy superintendent's office closed behind him, it was like a gate, instantly shutting off and erasing the furious expression on Thomas Harris's face, an expression that seemed ready to pull out his service weapon at any moment to clean house.
The soft, but cold light in the corridor fell on his face, and the flush that had just appeared from excitement quickly faded, leaving only a deep, still calmness befitting a seasoned politician and veteran policeman, even tinged with a hint of weariness.
He continued walking with steady, powerful strides, his leather shoes making a rhythmic thud on the sound-absorbing carpet, towards the larger, better-viewed police superintendent's office at the end of the corridor.
He clutched the case file he had thrown and then picked up, his knuckles no longer white, but simply held it naturally.
That outburst of rage just now was 70% for Jonathan's benefit, and 30% for the eyes of any other possible factions.
He wanted everyone, especially the senator behind Jonathan, to know that he, Thomas Harris, was not indifferent to the bloodshed right under his nose; he had fought back, he was angry, and he had fulfilled the "duties" of a police inspector.
But the opponent remains stubborn and headstrong under pressure from higher levels. That's enough. They've made the right stance and left themselves an out. The real contest is never about the volume of table-pounding.
He pushed open the door to his office and closed it behind him. The thick carpet, the large mahogany desk, the city map hanging on the wall, and the portraits of past police superintendents created a familiar layout that gave him a sense of control.
He casually tossed the stack of files onto the mountain of other unprocessed documents piled up on the corner of the table, as if it were just an insignificant, ordinary report.
He walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window, where the Seattle skyline was shrouded in dark clouds and the cars below moved like ants. He loosened the collar of his uniform and let out a long, silent sigh.
Jonathan's resolute stance this time, resorting to the clumsy excuse of "gang warfare" to suppress the case, indicates that the young man from the East named Lin Feng has far exceeded his expectations in terms of influence at the state legislature level, or... the price he paid is so high that even the senators cannot refuse. This is a power struggle that he cannot confront head-on for the time being.
However, this may not be a bad thing for Thomas Harris. The Walton Family is certainly a local power and has given a lot of "political donations" every year, but they are ultimately businessmen, and in recent years they have become increasingly greedy and have overstepped their bounds.
That Lin Feng... though mysterious, his methods, financial resources, and especially his ruthless style of eliminating all threats without regard for consequences, might make him... a more valuable "cooperation" partner? The prerequisite is that the other party understands the rules and knows the value of a "friend."
He walked behind his desk, about to sit down, when his gaze inadvertently swept across the gleaming surface, and he paused slightly.
On the table, next to where he usually kept his coffee cup and pen, there was something new.
A plain, off-white standard business document bag. No signature, no label, sealed with a simple press-lock thread. It looks like a regular document that a subordinate or visitor temporarily left here for their review.
But Thomas knew perfectly well that before he left his office this morning to "question" him, there was nothing on his desk except for a police regulations book he hadn't closed the night before. His secretary knew his habits and would never place an unknown document in the center of his desk without permission.
His eyes sharpened instantly, and his muscles tensed almost imperceptibly for a moment, but he immediately relaxed. This was police headquarters, his office, with a secretary at the door and surveillance cameras in the corridor. The fact that something could be brought in silently was a signal in itself.
He didn't touch the file folder immediately. Instead, he walked to the door and casually instructed his secretary in the outer room, "Jenny, I won't see anyone for the next half hour, and I won't answer the phone." After receiving a positive reply, he closed the door, returned to his desk, and sat down.
He didn't call security, nor did he check the document bag for any danger. At his position, facing some threat, he wouldn't resort to such low-level methods.
He reached out and picked up the light, flimsy document bag. It felt ordinary. He gently cut open the seal with a paper cutter and pulled out a neatly bound stack of A4 papers.
At the top is a simple yet stylish image of someone looking up. The background is dark blue, with an abstract silver emblem above that combines a dragon and a shield pattern, and below it in elegant English lettering: Lin Foundation Security Consulting Agreement.
Thomas's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. The Lin Foundation... just as he expected.
He quickly flipped to the key page. Employer: Lin Foundation (registered in the Cayman Islands). Employee: Thomas Harris. Position: Senior Security Consultant (non-executive, no office hours). Responsibilities: To provide professional advice on the foundation's asset security, risk assessment, and communication and coordination with local law enforcement agencies in North America (no more than four formal meetings or written reports per year). Term: Three years, renewable.
His gaze immediately jumped to the salary terms at the very end.
Annual consulting fee: $3,000,000.00 (Three Million US Dollars).
The figures were written very clearly. Fifty percent was to be paid in advance, to be transferred to the designated account within seven business days of signing the contract (an overseas bank account was attached). The remaining amount would be paid quarterly. Taxes would be handled by the foundation.
Three million US dollars. Annual salary after tax.
Thomas's breath caught almost imperceptibly for half a second the moment he saw the number. Although his annual salary, including various allowances and benefits, was nearly two hundred thousand dollars—considered a high income in this city—three million... and for consulting fees where he did almost nothing but "provide advice"...
His fingers, holding the document, tightened slightly as thoughts of how the money could change his life (the vacation villa in the San Juan Islands that he had always coveted but thought was too ostentatious, the staggering tuition fees for his son's private medical school in New York, the Europe antique jewelry his wife had been talking about for years...) flooded his mind, causing tiny creases to appear at the edges of the paper.
But he controlled his facial expressions perfectly. Only in the deepest recesses of his eyes did a fleeting, almost imperceptible glint of surprise, understanding, and a near-absurd satisfaction flash through his eyes. It was as quick as an illusion.
He let out a soft breath, placed the contract back on the table, and his movements returned to composure, as if the surge of emotion he had just felt had never happened.
He didn't sign immediately. He needed a lawyer to review it, although he knew the terms wouldn't be problematic. Since the other party had delivered the goods here, they wouldn't try to tamper with the contract. It was a gesture, a quote, and also a pledge of allegiance.
He picked up the secure internal phone on the table. This line was separate and encrypted, and was usually used only for a few specific contacts. He dialed a number stored in his memory that had never appeared in any notebook.
The phone rang a few times before being answered. Old Walton's characteristic voice, weary, anxious, and simmering with suppressed anger, came through the line. The background was quiet, as if in a closed space. "Thomas? How's it going? Did that bastard Jonathan give in?"
Thomas leaned back in his high-backed chair, his gaze fixed on the gloomy sky outside the window. His tone had become calm, even carrying a perfectly measured, helpless heaviness:
"Richard," he called Old Walton by name, skipping the formalities, "I just came from Jonathan's office. I did my best."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, then Old Walton's voice deepened. "What do you mean? He refuses to revise the report? Or do you want more?"
"It's not about the money, Richard." Thomas's voice carried an honest "that's the truth, and I'm sorry to say it too" tone.
"Someone was determined to protect him, to protect Lin Feng. Jonathan's attitude was very firm, and he didn't hesitate to use the most absurd reasons to characterize the case. I exerted all the pressure I could, but he wouldn't budge an inch."
We both know who's behind him. This matter ends here with the police. Anything I do will only make things more awkward for us, and... it probably won't change the outcome.
He paused, as if giving Old Walton time to process the bad news, then added in a tone of "an old friend thinking of you":
"The other side has come with great force this time, and they are very well prepared. It's not just that their thugs are skilled; they have arrangements on many levels. I suggest you temporarily avoid direct confrontation and think of other solutions. Or, see if you can... try to talk to them?"
"Talk? Talk to that yellow-skinned Monkey?!" Old Walton's voice suddenly rose, filled with humiliated rage and disbelief. "He killed my men! He blew up my estate! And now you want me to talk to him?! Thomas, I pay him every year..."
"Richard!" Thomas interrupted him, his voice rising slightly, carrying an undeniable determination. "I understand how you feel. But as I said, there's nothing I can do with the police. Rules are rules, and power is power. Right now, within the scope of this matter, the other side's power has temporarily overridden the rules, and it has overridden me. I'm sorry, but that's the reality."
His tone softened again, but with a clear sense of separation:
"I can't help you with this anymore. At least not at the police station level. You'll have to think of something else. Take care."
After saying that, before Old Walton could roar or plead again, Thomas hung up the phone decisively. The receiver snapped back into its base with a soft "click," which was particularly clear in the quiet office.
He sat motionless in his chair, his gaze returning to the off-white contract on the table. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting shifting shadows on his face.
A few seconds later, he reached out, picked up the Montblanc pen on the corner of the table, and unscrewed the cap. The nib was brand new, gleaming with a cold, hard metallic sheen.
He didn't look at the specific terms of the contract again, but turned directly to the last page, where the employee would sign.
The pen tip hovered above the paper, then paused.
Then, it fell.
Thomas Harris
His signature is fluent and powerful, bearing the unique strokes honed by years of signing orders and documents. The last "s" is drawn out long, conveying decisiveness and confidence.
After signing his name, he put down his pen and recaped it. Then, he picked up the contract and quickly and carefully reviewed it from beginning to end, making sure there were no omissions or notes that needed modification.
Finally, he put the contract back into the off-white file bag and sealed it. He didn't call his secretary, but stood up himself, walked to a personal filing cabinet with a combination lock in the corner of the office, entered the password, opened it, put the file bag inside, and locked it.
After doing all this, he sat back in his large office chair, leaned back, and looked out the window again.
This time, there was no anger, helplessness, or heaviness on his face. Only a deep calm, and a very faint, almost imperceptible, relaxed smile, flashed briefly in the depths of his experienced light blue eyes.
His sharply defined face and the gold badge on his shoulder, symbolizing the highest law enforcement authority in Seattle, were vaguely reflected in the windowpane.
Under the overcast light, the emblem appeared exceptionally somber, and also exceptionally... cold.