Chapter 95: Arresting the Suspect

Upon hearing this, Rowan hurried over to Mona’s side.

On Mona’s computer screen was the personal information of a client manager named Namit, who worked at the bank involved in the third robbery. The so-called client manager was simply another term for a salesperson recommending loans, deposits, and other financial services.

During the third robbery, Namit happened to be in the office just off the main hall, pitching a financial product to an elderly customer.

After skimming through Namit’s profile, Rowan tilted his head and asked, “What’s wrong with this guy?”

“Namit’s wife has a younger brother,” Mona replied, her fingers flying swiftly over the keyboard as she pulled up Namit's network of relationships.

Among them, Namit’s brother-in-law caught their attention. Mona pointed to his information and explained, “Namit’s wife’s brother is named Brandon. He studied music, arts, and performance at university. Later, he was first warned for selling ‘leaves and powder’ on campus. Then, for fighting and discharging a firearm at other students, he was expelled just before graduation.”

Reading this, Rowan couldn’t help but curve his lips in amusement. This guy was simply born in the wrong era. If he’d been born a decade or so later, selling ‘leaves and powder’ in college wouldn’t have been such a big deal. As for firing a gun on campus—if Brandon had claimed to suffer from certain conditions that only flared up at specific times and belonged to a minority gender, with the right specialists handling the case, he might not have been expelled at all. He might even have landed a scholarship.

“This guy has the performance background you mentioned earlier, so I decided to look into his connections,” Mona went on. “During the fifth and sixth robberies, Namit himself was at work in the bank, so he can’t be one of the robbers. That’s when I started investigating Brandon and his circle. I found this man, Dilanor, who grew up with Brandon. Dilanor didn’t go to college; after graduating high school, he joined the army. For reasons unknown, he later left and returned home. Since then, he’s been jailed six times for assault while intoxicated and twice for drunk driving. He was only recently released.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes at this information. “After the incident, the FBI only copied the hidden surveillance footage. The bank itself still has the original tapes. For someone like Namit, sneaking a copy of the footage after the FBI and NYPD left wouldn’t be hard. Brandon and Dilanor could easily get the footage through Namit.”

“Exactly,” Lacey and Mona nodded in unison.

Rowan studied the files for a moment, stroking his chin. “Is there anything else? We can’t nail them with just this—these are all indirect connections.”

“There is!” Mona replied before Rowan finished, tapping swiftly at her keyboard and pointing to new information that appeared.

“Dilanor’s family owns an ice cream shop that was on the verge of closing not long ago. But recently, these several shops, without any new bank loans, no sales, and no outside investments, have suddenly closed for renovations. And Brandon recently paid cash for a new car that he couldn’t possibly afford on his current income.”

“Ice cream shops make for easy money laundering,” Rowan observed, nodding as he glanced at photos of Brandon with his new car and Dilanor grinning in his ID photo. Without hesitation, he stood and headed for the equipment room, saying to Lacey, “Call SWAT. It’s time we had a little chat with these two.”

—

The operation was split three ways: Mona was to arrest Namit, Lacey was to take down Brandon, and Rowan targeted Dilanor. Each had SWAT backup.

Credit card records indicated Dilanor was hosting a party at home that day, with Brandon in attendance, so Lacey and Rowan teamed up to head to Dilanor’s house.

The black SUV sped down the road. In the passenger seat, Lacey adjusted her seatbelt, glanced at Rowan—still clad in tactical vest, stun grenades, and extended magazines—took a deep breath, and said, “Rowan, could you slow down a bit? Bulletproof vests won’t help in a car crash.”

“Trust my driving, Lacey,” Rowan replied, turning the wheel into the next intersection and flashing a grin. “We’ve only got a few hours left on shift. The sooner we bag the robbers, the sooner we’re off. Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today—that’s the right way to live.”

Lacey’s lips twitched at that. She was about to retort when Rowan pulled over, shot her a quick smile, and said, “OK, we’re here.”

Lacey: “…”

Dilanor’s current residence was an elegant two-story apartment in uptown Brooklyn. Inside, a group of scantily clad young men and women danced to thumping music. If conversation grew lively, they would occasionally slip upstairs to the bedrooms for some more intimate discussions on anatomy.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Over the blaring music, Brandon, his arm around a voluptuous blonde, raised a bottle and shouted for attention, then gestured at Dilanor. “Let’s thank our host! My good friend Dilanor—what a perfect party!”

“To Dilanor!” The house rang with cheers as everyone raised their drinks toward Dilanor, who stood by the staircase, then threw back their drinks in unison.

At that moment—

Boom!

“FBI!!!”

The crash of the door and the agents’ bellow startled everyone.

As all eyes swung toward the commotion, SWAT officers in full gear burst into the villa, weapons ready, quickly corralling everyone into the center of the room.

Screams erupted as the young women reached new heights of vocal prowess.

Rowan strode into the living room, grabbed a flowerpot from the wall, and smashed it to the floor.

Bang!

The shattering pot drew all eyes. Rowan, his face cold and lips curled downward, shouted in a commanding voice, “This operation doesn’t concern most of you, so don’t get hurt by doing something stupid! All men to the left! Women to the right! All other genders in the middle!”

As the crowd turned his way, the shrieking girls hastily quieted down. Those who kept going were tugged by their friends, and, after a glance at Rowan’s face, fell silent as well.

At his words, the girls scrambled eagerly to the right side of the living room, closer to Rowan, much more actively than the men.

Lacey, watching from behind, snorted in annoyance, shoved Rowan aside, and asked the men, “Where’s Brandon?”

The guests, bewildered by the FBI’s sudden raid, froze for a moment, then all eyes landed on Brandon, who was trying to blend into the crowd, head down.

“Good,” Lacey praised the group, yanked Brandon out, and cuffed him. Surrounded by so many guns, Brandon, though tipsy, didn’t dare resist, but started loudly protesting that the FBI was arresting the wrong man, that he’d done nothing wrong.

Rowan ignored the noise and asked coldly, “Where’s Dilanor?”

At that, a flash of panic crossed Brandon’s eyes, but he feigned calm and shook his head. “I don’t know!”

The others looked around, but Dilanor was nowhere to be seen.

Just then, several SWAT officers escorted a few men and women, hastily dressed in only jackets and shorts, down from upstairs. “No sign of him up there,” they reported to Rowan.

Other SWAT members came up from the basement, shaking their heads as well. “Not in the basement either.”

Lacey frowned. They had clearly heard the crowd’s voices while outside the house just moments ago.

(End of chapter)