Library

A stolen oil painting "Is this it?" Zhou Fan turned around and asked. As the client of this incident, Wang Anyi, the most famous art dealer in Xicheng, could only nod helplessly: "This is the video you asked to see last night." There was certainty in his tone, without the slightest hint of a victim. Wang Anyi is fifty-three years old this year. In China, he is considered an elderly person at this age. But if you didn't look at his gray hair, anyone would only think that he is only about forty years old. Wang Anyi is recognized as one of the most successful businessmen in Xicheng. The Xiyan Pavilion under his name has branches all over the world. The annual turnover is enough to make people respect the old man in front of them.

It's almost New Year, and the shops on both sides of the street have begun to be decorated with lights. We walked along, occasionally stopping to look at the cheap New Year goods sold by street vendors. Zhou Fan stood behind me in deep thought. I picked out a few blessing characters, paid the money and turned around. I found that Zhou Fan was a little distracted, so I asked: "Still thinking about that case?" Zhou Fan then realized that I had finished buying, stretched out his hand to tighten the scarf, smiled and said, "Well, I have been investigating for a week, but Mr. Xinlan Everything about Si's behavior is normal. I'm a little bit at a loss what to do." I sighed helplessly. Zhou Fan was always used to confuse cases with life. He patted my lovely tenant on the shoulder and said, "Let's go find Chen Yin first. We'll talk about the case in the afternoon."

He moved his fingers, and his knuckles became increasingly pale under the moonlight. After this action that was like an illusion, he was still lying there, lifeless. There was a knife stuck in his back. The style of the knife could be seen everywhere in the market. The sharp blade, unimpeded by the leather coat, thrust into his back abruptly and coldly. The blood soaked through the clothes and condensed into thin and fragile ice. The scene is quiet. Maybe only a second passed, or maybe an hour. His head began to rotate against the ground, moving slowly, like the minute hand of a wall clock. But he still spared no effort, and it seemed that he also understood that these might be the last few actions in his life.