Wine and Gun

"It's true, but apart from this seeming, is there any other way for us to get the list that might exist?" Albarino shrugged his shoulders, "I don't mean to accuse, but, you work at Sequoia Manor. For a few days, the cleaners didn't even touch any secret corners."

"Please take care of how my leg feels before you say this," Hunter retorted sharply, "this leg prevents me from escaping after sneaking into any room, let alone I'm not like you. , I'm relatively reluctant to have my head opened. Aren't you a doctor? Be reasonable."

Albarino smiled leniently as he opened the car door while holding the ugly ski mask in one hand.

Hunter still couldn't help but stop him: "Wait a minute."

At this time, Albarino was already standing outside the car. He stopped closing the door and looked down at Hunter, his eyes as cold as láng swimming in the wilderness. Every time he saw such a look, Hunter felt the hair on his back, and a sense of discomfort rushed down his spine. He trusted the hunter's intuition.

"Why on earth are you investigating this case? Are those lives important to you?" Hunt couldn't help but ask the question in his mind, although it might not be a good idea for any reasonable person to ask; but There are many more who are firmly convinced that Orion Hunt is indeed insane.

And he didn't believe that Albarino really cared about those lives, the lighthearted tone he used when he mentioned everyone who died, the cold and focused gaze when he looked at the pictures of the corpses, and Henry The fleeting and strange look in Albarino's eyes that morning when Te stabbed the butcher in the back all showed that he shouldn't care about human life.

"Why do you always have such doubts about me?" Albarino asked in a completely innocent tone, "For most people, human life is very important, let alone the life of a child. , they have always held a kind of pity for their weak lives. Besides, you said just now: I am a doctor; although I am a forensic doctor now, I also took the Hippocratic oath at the beginning."

The Hippocratic oath — that I would not use my medical knowledge to harm human rights and justice, even under threat — Hunter nearly rolled his eyes at Albarino.

He asked directly: "Did you kill Sarah Aardman?"

Albarino froze for a moment, as if genuinely surprised by his question. Then he laughed: "Of course not, it's true that the experience with her was not pleasant, but it wasn't so unpleasant that I wanted to kill her."

He paused, maintaining that smile firmly.

"Then, if you have no other questions, Mr. Hunter," continued Albarino, "I will go."

Herstal really didn't want to come back to Sequoia Manor again. It felt like doing something you knew would have bad consequences. Anyone who painted your mother's passport photo with a beard as a child should have it. There was this awareness—now he felt like there was an alarm in his head, ticking as soon as he got close to Slade, more acutely than a person with a nut allergy would react to peanuts.

And when he knocked on the door, neither Slade nor the doorman answered, which made him somewhat relieved.

The other party was a man with dry, pale hair, looking in his thirties, with a face with sharp edges and a sharp chin. He looked suspiciously at Herstal from behind his heavy spectacles, until at last he somehow passed the other person's test and the man looked away.

He introduced himself as Slade's secretary, Rowan. Herstal said as quietly as possible: "I thought Mr. Slade would be here tonight. After all, according to Miss Delphine, tonight's party is very important."

"It's very important," Rowan said slowly, his voice flattened, reminiscent of a frog being tanned on the asphalt, "that's why Mr. Slade didn't attend. Tonight's event."

Of course, Herstal easily understood what he meant: Suppose that the Sequoia Manor gān's activities came to light, and Slade might also escape the law because he never appeared at the scene of similar illegal activities. On the other hand, Rowan, who single-handedly organized such a party, has a high possibility of being imprisoned, and he does not know how much Slade paid Rowan to allow him to work for himself like this.

Rowan led Herstal into a parlour, next door to the one where the last banquet had been held. The taste of this parlor is not much better than that of the previous banquet hall, with soft, blood-red velvet curtains hanging in the room, and a huge golden picture frame inlaid on the wallpaper with golden dark flowers. An oil painting: some sort of parody of Bosch, a mass of kinked, lust-riddled flesh.

"I thought I wasn't alone tonight." Herstal's eyes darted across the painting—the room's impressive décor gave him a brain-deprived feeling—and he pretended to be curious asked.

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