11: Chapter 11: You can investigate; I'll cooperate.

Ford arrived sooner than Chen Feng had anticipated.

Friday, 9:45 AM. The door to Sarah's office was pushed open. The man who entered was in his early forties, about 1.85 meters tall, wearing a well-tailored dark gray suit with a Windsor knot in his tie. His leather shoes were polished to a mirror shine. He walked in a peculiar way—even strides, eyes scanning the corners before looking at people; professional habits etched into his bones.

“Sergeant Mitchell.” Ford handed over his ID along with a joint investigation warrant. “James Ford, FBI Los Angeles Field Office, Biochemical Crimes Investigation Unit.”

Sarah took the warrant and opened it, her gaze stopping at the signature line.

It was the personal signature of Martin Craig, Assistant Director of the FBI Los Angeles Field Office, with a copy stamp from the Federal Prosecutor's Office in the bottom right corner.

She closed the document, her heart skipping a beat.

Copying the Federal Prosecutor meant that as long as illegal facts were verified, the public prosecution process could be started directly without going through the local courts. This wasn't a reconnaissance mission; they were here to close the net.

“Sit.” Sarah pointed to the chair opposite her.

Ford didn't sit. He placed a case briefing on the desk, flipped to the third page, and tapped a paragraph in the middle with his index finger.

“Sergeant Mitchell, our lab also reviewed the substances in those fourteen test tubes you sent for testing. The conclusion matches your analyst's—zero matches in the global drug database. The molecular structure contains at least four undescribed chiral centers and targets four signaling pathways simultaneously, one of which is an unknown pathway.”

Sarah didn't respond. She already knew this.

Ford continued, “According to Section 3, Chapter 7 of the Federal Biosafety Act, any individual or institution that develops, manufactures, stores, or distributes substances with unknown biological activity without federal approval is committing a first-degree federal felony. The maximum sentence is twenty years and a five-million-dollar fine.”

Twenty years. That was double the ten years she had previously understood.

“This is no longer just a matter of manufacturing and selling fake drugs,” Ford said, picking up the briefing. “This is unauthorized advanced biotechnology research and development. At best, it's a violation; at worst—”

“At worst, what?”

Ford looked at her and didn't answer immediately. It was two seconds before he spoke. “At worst, it involves the illegal development of biological weapon precursors.”

Sarah's fingers clenched under the desk.

Biological weapons. Once that label was applied, it wasn't just a matter of whether someone would go to prison or not.

“Agent Ford, I’ve worked in the South District for four years. I’ve been to Old Tom’s clinic no less than fifty times. It’s a place that treats the poor; it has nothing to do with biological weapons.”

“I didn't say the clinic was involved.” Ford finally sat down, hands crossed over his knees. “What I care about is the source. Who made the things in those test tubes, where were they made, and what were they made with?”

Sarah remained silent.

“Your report mentions a name—Chen Feng. Maple Leaf Biopharmaceutical Company. The registered address is 721 Third Avenue in the South District.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the situation with the company?”

“On the verge of bankruptcy. Bank loans of eight hundred and seventy thousand, not much money in the accounts, and three employees.”

Ford tilted his head slightly. “A small three-person company on the verge of bankruptcy created something that doesn't exist in the global drug database. Don't you find that contradictory?”

Sarah certainly found it contradictory. But she had no intention of handing over her own judgment.

“So you want to search it?”

“I’ve already applied for a search warrant.” Ford pulled a second document from his briefcase. “A federal judge signed it two hours ago.”

Prepared in advance again. This man had paved the entire way before even arriving.

Sarah glanced at the scope of the search warrant—all business premises and associated storage facilities of Maple Leaf Biopharmaceutical Company.

“Fine. I’ll take you there.”

“One more thing.” Ford stood up and pushed the chair back to its original position. “Sergeant Mitchell, all information regarding this search and subsequent questioning must not be disclosed to any relevant personnel in advance. Including the suspect himself.”

His gaze lingered on Sarah for half a beat.

Sarah nodded expressionlessly. “I know the rules.”

—

At 2:08 PM, two cars pulled up in front of 721 Third Avenue.

One was a South District Precinct patrol car, the other a black Chevrolet SUV.

Ford got out of the passenger seat and looked up at the three-story building. At least a third of the paint on the exterior walls had peeled off, newspapers were taped over the second-floor windows, and the fire escape was so rusted it looked like it could snap at any moment. There were two trash cans by the door; one had a crooked lid, and the other had no lid at all.

“This is the place?”

He didn't speak loudly when he said this, but Sarah heard him.

Sarah stepped forward and knocked on the door.

A dozen seconds later, the door opened a crack from the inside. Tony's face appeared. He saw Sarah first, then the four people behind her wearing jackets with FBI markings, and the color visibly drained from his face.

“Ser... Sergeant Sarah?”

Sarah showed the search warrant. “Federal search warrant. Please cooperate.”

Tony's Adam's apple bobbed twice before he pulled the door open.

Ford was the first to walk in.

The first-floor lab. He stood at the door and scanned the room—an old-fashioned centrifuge against the wall, a glassware rack next to it, a humming refrigerator in the corner, and a Class II biosafety cabinet in the middle. On the bench were several petri dishes, a stack of lab notebooks, two copies of 'Introduction to Microbiology,' and one copy of 'Alkaloid Extraction Methods.'

Clean. Too clean.

Ford put on gloves and flipped open a lab notebook.

The first page was a log of dates and temperatures. The second page was a standard strain culture process—inoculation, constant temperature, observation, recording. The handwriting was neat, and the content was unremarkable; any undergraduate biology lab student could have written it.

He flipped through a dozen pages; they were all the same.

In the refrigerator, there were only six test tubes labeled 'Culture Medium-001' to 'Culture Medium-006.' The liquid was transparent with a yellowish tint, completely different from the pale green of ruisu.

Ford crouched down to look at the floor. Concrete, with several scratches as if heavy objects had been moved. He touched the floor joints with his finger; they weren't loose.

Two FBI technicians were taking samples from various surfaces with portable detectors, while another person numbered and photographed every test tube one by one.

The search moved to the second floor.

The office area had only two desks and one computer. There was nothing on the desks except a package of opened cookies and a few paper cups. The computer was an old Dell desktop model, the screen still lit, showing a recruitment website.

Ford had a technician copy the hard drive.

Just then, a sound came from the stairs.

It wasn't human footsteps.

Da Hei walked down from the third floor, step by step, his claws making almost no sound on the wooden stairs. He stopped at the top of the stairs, his short black fur glistening under the hallway lights. His eyes scanned everyone present before finally settling on Ford.

His shoulder height was nearly at an adult man's thigh. His canines protruded slightly from beneath his lips—not like buckteeth, but because his lips simply couldn't contain them.

One of the accompanying FBI agents reflexively reached for the holster at his waist.

“Don't move.” Sarah raised her hand to stop him. “It’s his dog. He doesn't bite.”

Da Hei didn't bark or move; he just stood there watching.

Ford's gaze lingered on Da Hei for an extra two seconds. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

Third floor. A cot, several boxes of instant noodles, and a travel bag. It was much like camping. A technician rummaged through the travel bag; it contained a change of clothes and toiletries.

The search of the entire building took forty-seven minutes.

No ruisu. No illegal drugs. No illicit lab records. Nothing that could be directly linked to a crime.

Ford took off his gloves, folded them, and stuffed them into his pocket.

“Where is Mr. Chen?”

Tony opened his mouth and pointed to the second floor. “He’s... upstairs.”

—

Chen Feng was sitting behind that old desk on the second floor.

The chair was a bit crooked, so he propped it up with his foot. On the desk were half a bag of cookies and a cup of cold instant coffee.

When Ford walked in, Chen Feng was breaking off a piece of cookie and tossing it into his mouth.

“Mr. Ford?”

Ford sat down opposite him. A desk separated the two of them; it was empty except for the cookies and coffee.

Sarah stood at the door, not entering.

“Mr. Chen, I need to conduct a formal interview with you. You have the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney—”

“No need to recite that.” Chen Feng brushed away the cookie crumbs. “I’ll cooperate. Ask away.”

Ford looked at him for two seconds.

Young, twenty-four years old, Chinese descent, wearing a faded gray T-shirt. His hair was a bit long and unkempt. He sat in that broken chair, body relaxed, hands resting casually on the desk, his right index finger occasionally tapping the surface lightly.

He wasn't nervous.

Ford had seen many types of suspects. Those shaking with nerves, those who acted tough until they finally broke down, those who acted from beginning to end. But this kind of looseness was different; it didn't seem staged.

“Mr. Chen, are you familiar with the name ruisu?”

“Of course I am.”