American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 28 Conversation
"New York City is expected to receive 20 to 30 millimeters of rain today, and the city has stated that it has conducted a full overhaul of the drainage system."

The Kerrard's radio continued to broadcast the weather forecast.

Beta looked out through the rain-streaked car window and saw the crowd of people holding black umbrellas standing silently in the cemetery, like dark plants growing silently in the rain-soaked soil.

John, Matilda, and Leon's figures had already sunk into that solidified darkness.

Beta's Adam's apple bobbed, his jaw tightened. He pushed open the car door—a black umbrella ripped through the rain with a "bang," his footsteps echoing on the waterlogged gravel road, eventually disappearing into the low-hanging shadows.

The Escalade, still running, spewed white smoke in the torrential rain, the muffled sound of the doors closing being crushed by the waterfall-like sound of the rain.

The female radio voice continued to deliver the precise numbers, and all the umbrella edges pressed heavily against Helen's grave, like black petals suddenly closing in on the earth.
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The umbrellas, resembling clusters of black fungi, swayed gently in the wind.

Medvedeva stood before a charred Ford sedan, cold rain dripping from her umbrella. Since the Downing Street case, her outlandish "mosquito-catching plan" had made no progress, leaving her with no choice but to continue pursuing this lead.

The Ford, engulfed in flames, is reduced to a twisted metal frame. The killer used it to steal the hard drives and lure Elliott out. Now, the stolen hard drives have long since melted in the intense heat, turning into clumps of solidified polymer inside the car frame.

Medvedeva felt like she was playing an elaborate puzzle game, and the killer codenamed β was the one hiding behind the scenes setting the questions.

From the initial murder of the American businessman to the assassination of the Downing Street journalist, β, who should have left Britain, unexpectedly struck again, stealing the hard drive to lure Elliott out, and then delivering a fatal blow to this privileged son of a high-ranking official at the Forest Club.

Medvedeva couldn't understand why this mysterious β was so relentlessly pursuing a female journalist and a son of a high-ranking official. What was the motive behind this almost obsessive targeting?
The deputy handed the on-site investigation report to Medva and shook his head: "Nothing found. The car was stolen, and the license plate was fake. The entire car was burned to a crisp; there were no fingerprints, no DNA, not even a single useful trace."

Medvedeva took the report and asked thoughtfully, "There's something I've been wondering about. Could you help me analyze it?"

“You said.” The deputy immediately responded seriously.

Medvedeva frowned: "I don't understand why Beta insisted on assassinating that female reporter in Downing Street. Even more incomprehensible is why he was willing to risk exposure to return to England just to get rid of Elliott?"

She looked up: "One is a socialite who uses her beauty to navigate the world of the powerful, the other is a seemingly shrewd second-generation official. These two are from completely different worlds."

The deputy pondered for a moment: "Sir, I have a theory."

Medvedeva gestured for him to continue.

"Journalist Jasmine is known for currying favor with the powerful to obtain inside information, and even has a column dedicated to exposing the private lives of political and business figures," the deputy analyzed. "And Elliott, as the son of a high-ranking official, is likely someone she has some fatal leverage over. To silence him, he hired an assassin to eliminate Jasmine."

Medvedeva raised an eyebrow: "Then how come Elliot was killed by the assassin he hired?"

The second-in-command stroked his chin: "Could it be... Elliott is trying to renege on his payment? The assassin isn't getting paid, so he's just killing the employer too?"

Medvedeva couldn't help but chuckle softly: "Elliott is a shrewd son of a high-ranking official; he wouldn't make such a basic mistake."

The deputy added, "Perhaps Elliott not only wanted to renege on his debts, but also tried to use the police to eliminate Beta, this dangerous insider? And ended up playing with fire and getting burned?"

Medvedeva's smile gradually froze, and her expression became serious again.

She turned to her deputy: "Given Elliott's background, would he really do something like defaulting on a debt?" The deputy pondered for a moment, then replied, "It's hard to say. We need to investigate his fund flows, especially whether there have been any recent large deposits that haven't been transferred out."

“Investigate immediately.” Meva straightened her collar. “I’ll personally meet with this Chief Superintendent.”
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As the head of MI6's operations team, Medvedeva's meeting process was swift and efficient. After showing her identification and stating her identity, Doyle's secretary immediately led her to the Superintendent's office.

Fifty-five-year-old Doyle sat upright behind his desk. Decades of experience at Scotland Yard had etched an imposing, dignified air about him, and his sharp, hawk-like eyes still held the alertness characteristic of a professional police officer. Even though he had just experienced the pain of losing his son, the chief superintendent showed no trace of grief when facing Medvedeva.

Doyle's sharp gaze scrutinized Medva: "Is there any progress in Elliott's case?"

Medvedeva met his gaze: "It's still in the speculative stage. But before we begin, I need to state my position."

She leaned forward slightly: "I'm not from the disciplinary department; my sole purpose here is to close this case as quickly as possible. I can assure you, I don't have any recording devices on me. We don't have to admit to anything we discussed today after we leave this office."

Doyle leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "This office is shielded. So, I agree to your proposal."

Medvedeva looked Doyle directly in the eye: "Is there any connection between Elliott and the murdered journalist Molly that you are aware of but cannot disclose?"

Doyle picked up the pen from the table and slowly rubbed it between his fingers: "You mean, my son was having an affair with that socialite, and she caught him red-handed, so she hired someone to silence him?"

He raised his eyes: "Why would the assassin kill even his employer?"

“It seems you’ve already made a guess.” Medvedeva keenly caught his unspoken meaning.

“I’m a police officer.” Doyle slammed his pen down on the table. “Naturally, I know how to deduce from clues.”

Medvedeva leaned forward slightly: "Could you please provide some clues?"

Doyle pondered for a moment: "The crux of the problem lies with Elliott's financial company. That female reporter approached my son, most likely for company secrets. They'd naturally try their best to conceal such a shady relationship. I suspect it was some company data that piqued her interest."

Medvedeva pressed further, "What does this data involve?"

Doyle did not answer immediately. He lowered his head slightly, looking directly at Medvedeva.

Medvedeva immediately understood: "I'm sorry, I overstepped my bounds."

She changed the subject: "Do you have any other clues you can provide?"

“No.” Doyle’s answer was crisp and decisive.

Medvedeva rose to acknowledge the disturbance: "Excuse me."

Doyle simply nodded slightly.

Medvedeva disappeared outside the door. With a "click" as the latch closed, Doyle's stern expression vanished, replaced by a sinister glint in his eyes.

(End of this chapter)