Chapter 2: Because He Is Handsome

Roanne wholeheartedly agreed with the old assassin’s words. He had originally thought that if he couldn’t make it in the FBI, he’d just go freelance to earn some cash. Who would have thought that solving cases in the FBI actually came with legal rewards?

Recalling the mountain of unsolved cases in the FBI New York Division’s archives, the strings of numbers following each case, and then thinking of the famous IRS, Roanne’s spirits immediately lifted. He grabbed Mona, who was still briefing him on the case, and whispered:

“If the two of us work this case together and split the bounty fifty-fifty afterward, how about it?”

Normally, rookie agents investigated such cases in teams of three to five—both for fair distribution of credit and for safety. After all, in peaceful America, there were shootouts every day.

Mona fell silent at Roanne’s words. After a few seconds, she smiled and replied, “That’s not much of a joke, Roanne. Since you joined the FBI New York Division, you haven’t solved a single case on your own.”

That was the old me, not the current me. Roanne was quite confident in his ability to solve cases—he might not know how to solve them, but he certainly knew how to commit them! Cases were cases, after all—how different could they be?

Noticing Roanne’s strikingly handsome face fixed upon her, Mona’s heart skipped a beat. She cleared her throat and turned her attention to the photos on the table. “Let’s talk about this later. For now, take a look at the case files.”

“OK,” Roanne agreed, not pushing her further. He did, after all, need to see the crime scene photos.

...

Elsewhere, in a bright and spacious office, five middle-aged men in shirts were sipping coffee while watching a large screen mounted on the wall. The screen displayed a live feed of twenty rookie agents analyzing the case in the meeting room.

The balding man entered the office, handing out folders to each of the five investigation team leaders with a smile. “Gentlemen, these are the personal files and probation evaluations for the new rookie agents in the meeting room.”

“OK,” came the replies. As the balding man left, the five team leaders began flipping through the files. It didn’t take long for them to pick out a few agents they might want to bring into their teams in the future.

Team Leader Bronson of Investigation Team One took a sip of coffee, glanced at the agent picked by Augustus, leader of Team Five, and frowned in puzzlement. “Augustus, why did you pick Roanne Greenwood?”

“Oh?” “Picked Roanne Greenwood?” The other three team leaders perked up at Bronson’s words. They had all reviewed Roanne Greenwood’s recent performance reports but had decided to pass him over.

The reason was simple: someone who gets pushed around and doesn’t fight back won’t last in the FBI. Even if Roanne had later found a chance to punch Fisher, their opinion of him would have risen by a notch.

Augustus, leader of Team Five, was a middle-aged Black man with a prominent belly. Seeing his colleagues’ confusion, Augustus crossed his legs and chuckled, “No particular reason—just because Roanne Greenwood is good-looking.”

The other team leaders turned to look at the screen. Roanne’s brown hair was cropped short, his features rugged and handsome, his tall, well-built frame neither bulky nor soft. Even through his suit, the outline of muscle was clear.

“He really is a good-looking guy,” said Team Leader Two, tilting his head with a grin. “But what good is a pretty face on a softie? He probably wouldn’t even dare fire his weapon at a criminal. Besides, our FBI agents shouldn’t be too good-looking—it makes them too memorable.”

Augustus wasn’t bothered by the teasing. He drained his coffee and replied with a laugh, “Even a softie has his uses. With Roanne’s face, a few months of simple training and he’ll be a secret weapon against female offenders.”

...

Back in the meeting room, Roanne calmly studied the corpse in the photos. In his mind, aside from crimes of passion, there were only three reasons for murder: money, love, or revenge.

The victim’s chest wound was massive—based on experience, the shooter couldn’t have been more than two meters away. The murder took place at night, and the victim had been shot from the front. That meant...

“The killer most likely followed Mike Roberts for a long time, then called out to him at the scene of the crime.”

With Mona looking bewildered, Roanne continued his analysis, utterly serious. “But that was just to test him—the killer had already decided the person he wanted dead was right there. So, the moment Mike Roberts turned around—bang! One shot, dead.”

“Hold on.”

Mona crossed her arms and interrupted Roanne. “How do you know the killer followed Mike and didn’t just wait for him there? And how do you know he called out to him?”

“That’s not important,” Roanne waved her off. He didn’t answer—the truth was, this was the kind of insight that only came from being a killer himself, not something he could share. He continued, “From the crime scene photos, I’m sure the killer took something—maybe several things—from Mike. That was the real target. So we should...”

“STOP!” Mona cut him off sternly. “Roanne, everything you’re saying is just speculation. There’s nothing in the crime scene report about the victim missing anything. Why are you so sure this was premeditated and not a crime of passion? Crimes of hatred can be impulsive, too.”

Roanne smiled faintly and didn’t answer, instead asking, “Do you want to join me in solving this case? We’ll split the reward.”

“She’s not going to play cops and robbers with a rookie who’s never solved a real case before,” came Fisher’s voice, notebook in hand as he approached after discussing clues with other agents.

“Listen, Roanne. If you ask nicely, I’ll still save you a spot on my team—just helping organize files. You’ve always been quick and neat with paperwork, and I think you have potential there.”

A few rookie agents who got along with Fisher burst into laughter at his words. Mackey, who had once set Roanne up, walked over and threw an arm around his shoulders.

“This is really for your own good, Roanne. Think about it—organizing files gets you points, it’s easy, it’s safe, you don’t have to run around, and you never have to come face-to-face with criminals!”

A cold smirk played at Roanne’s lips. His gaze turned icy as he laughed, putting his arms around Fisher and Mackey. He said in a low voice, “How about this—you join my team. I’ll go investigate the killer, and you help me with the paperwork. It’s for your own good, really. Think about it—organizing files gets you points, it’s easy, it’s safe, and you don’t have to come face-to-face with criminals!”

His words stung. Fisher and Mackey’s faces flushed red with anger. Instinctively, they reached out to shove Roanne away.

“You’re resorting to violence because you can’t win an argument?” Roanne suddenly shouted before either of them could react. Without warning, his right fist smashed into Fisher’s left ear. He ducked under Mackey’s arm, kicked his ankle with a crack, and Mackey screamed in pain. Before Mackey could pull his leg back, Roanne grabbed it and yanked him forward.

Right into Fisher’s groin.

A howl of agony followed.