Chapter 3 Making His Move

Anthony arrived at FairNJust the first thing in the morning. FairNJust was located in an old building hidden behind Bresenia Mercy Hospital.

There was a row of motorcycles before the entrance, and two middle-aged men crouched on the steps of the stairs. They were smoking so heavily that the air around them was hazy and filled with nicotine.

Anthony parked his car by the road and strode into the agency.

The receptionist was a woman in her 40s. She was scrolling through some short videos, and she even had those videos on blast. She didn't bother looking up when the door opened, drawling, "What do you want?"

"DNA test."

The woman finally looked up at Anthony, sizing him up. Her eyes fell upon his bleached jacket, untrimmed beard, and sunken eyes.

'Another guy who wants proof that he's cheated on,' she thought disparagingly. She'd seen plenty of men like him, betrayed husbands looking for confirmation.

In her mind, the result was already a foregone conclusion.

"Personal or legally mandated?"

"Personal."

"The results can be out in six hours if it's urgent, but it'll cost you double." She slid a form across the counter.

Anthony filled the form, paid the bill, took the receipt, and turned to leave. His phone buzzed. Linda.

"Ms. Leander just called. Timothy's not feeling so good. Pick him up at noon."

Anthony stared at the message for five whole seconds, his lips twitching. Perhaps it was a smile, perhaps it was something else. Finally, he replied, "Okay."

Before he picked the boy up, he parked his car by the road and snapped up a packet of cigarettes from a convenience store. He rolled his windows down and lit one up. It had been seven years since he last smoked.

The first drag choked his lungs, making him cough and hack.

Still, that puff of nicotine was what he needed to keep his head in the game.

Even though he'd cared for Timothy as though he were his son for six years, he had already made up his mind to proceed as planned if the results came out as he expected. He snubbed the cigarette and revved up the car.

He picked up Timothy at the entrance, and the boy really did look sickly. He opened the door, called Anthony 'Dad', and threw himself into the back seat.

Anthony could hear just how half-hearted that 'Dad' was, and how devoid of warmth it was. Just then, he noticed a new toy stuffed in the boy's bag's side pocket, and it wasn't even out of the packaging yet.

Anthony observed the boy closely through the rearview mirror. In the past, he had just assumed that Timothy took after his mother more.

Now, part of him couldn't help but try to find anything that screamed that the boy was his. He scrutinized the boy's brows, nose, and even the curvature of his jaw. Alas, there was nothing.

The seed of doubt had been planted, and it was growing strong. Still, he tucked his suspicion away and took the possible bastard back home. After the kid was settled in, he promptly changed into something more presentable for his lawyer's appointment.

…

Rachel Shepherd's office was on the 23rd floor in the center of the financial area, boasting a floor-to-ceiling window that faced the river. Every square foot of real estate here cost more than his annual pay.

Anthony called Lawrence again just to confirm that the lawyer was reliable before biting the bullet and walking into the building. He eventually made it to the 23rd floor, but he found that Rachel was on a call when he got there.

Her piercing eyes snapped to his figure as she warmly beckoned him to sit.

"I'm not taking this case, Mr. Wilson. You'll have to ask someone else." She hung up.

Anthony sized her up. She wasn't even in her 30s yet, and her dark gray jacket accentuated her well-endowed bosom.

Her hair was in a ponytail, and she had light makeup on her deep-set features. She wasn't what they would call an outstanding beauty, but she was definitely a looker in her own right.

Rachel scanned Anthony's outfit. It was bleached but neat, though his face looked worn out. Nevertheless, he noticed that there wasn't any disdain in her eyes, but there certainly wasn't a sliver of compassion in them either.

"Mr. Crestellan?" She leaned against the back of her chair. "Mr. Grayman told me you have an asset dispute case?"

Anthony placed the file on her desk. "It's not a dispute. I need to cash in on an asset, and I need professional legal help to make sure this is by the book and on the down low."

"How much are we talking here?"

"Two billion."

Her hand froze on her armrest. Frankly, she wouldn't have taken him on if Lawrence hadn't called in a favor. She stared into Anthony's eyes for a while, trying to discern any falsehoods.

When she realized he wasn't kidding, she took a deep breath and accepted the file.

The papers showed the drive's snapshot, the printout of the Bitcoin's value, and handwritten details of the case. It took her a few minutes to read through the file, but any questions she had were answered.

…

When she closed the file and raised her head, the look in her eyes had changed. She wasn't looking at a client, but a mystery.

"You know this isn't something I can do alone. We'll need pros from Porton and three more items to make this happen. An offshore account, a shell company registered in Porton, and a reasonable explanation for this windfall."

"Can you do that?"

"Yes." Rachel thought about it for a moment. "But I have some conditions. This'll cost 2.5% of your total earnings, and no, I don't haggle. Also, I want complete control over this case."

Anthony met her eyes.

She reacted fast and named her price even faster. He made a mental calculation and realized that this would cost him 50 million. Then again, it wasn't much different from the range of fees he'd researched online.

Selling 4735 Bitcoins would gain the attention of someone in the chain, the exchange, and even law enforcement. Regular people wouldn't be able to handle this.

They had to hire expert OTC teams, lawyers, and tax experts to deal with it. Otherwise, their good fortune would be the death of them as well.

"Of course, but I have my terms, too. One, I don't care who you hire, but I won't be paying a single dime extra. Two, the guarantor must be made up of multiple custodians registered in Porton. Three, I want total confidentiality."

Rachel's lips curled as she took out a contract from her drawer. Then, she slid it over to Anthony.

…

When they signed the papers, he noticed that her right hand was under the desk and it was shaking slightly. Still, kudos to her for trying to hide it.

Then again, anyone would shake in the face of two billion. So, he didn't expose her excitement. After they signed the papers and sorted out all the IDs, she stood up to send him off.

Before he left, he asked, "How long until I see the money, Ms. Shepherd?"

She wasn't surprised upon hearing that question. After all, anyone would be in a hurry to have this settled when this amount of money was involved.

So, she answered calmly, "I'll need five days to handle this. The first batch should hit the Porton account on the fifth day. However, you'll have to take a day off and make a trip to Porton for that to happen. The sooner, the better.

"At that point, the private key will be split into three shards. You will retain one shard, while the licensed and compliant custodian holds the other two for safekeeping. Any Bitcoin transfer will require your handwritten and online authorization, and you must authorize the first transfer in person."

Anthony nodded in satisfaction and left.

This time, his destination was on a different street—Bresenia's old business district, more specifically. The private investigator he found last night worked here.

…

When he got there, he learned that it was an old apartment building that had no elevators to speak of. So, he had to climb up to the fourth floor to get to the private investigator's office.

The corridor walls were covered in all sorts of ads like plumbing, reselling old electronics, and even ads for forging papers.

Anthony knocked politely at the door.

To his surprise, the man who answered the door looked like a college lecturer. He had a round face, was about 30 years old, and had a clean, scholarly feel to him.

The house was simply decorated, but it was neat enough except for the files scattered on the coffee table. The laptop felt less like an electronic tool and more like a paperweight. It really didn't look like the base of a private investigator at all.

"Anthony? I'm Samuel Ginger."

Anthony sat on the couch and placed a slip on the coffee table. It read, 'BEA 7D461, black Audi Q7.'

"I need all the details about this car's owner."

"An affair, huh?" Samuel looked at the paper, and then at Anthony. He had been in this line of work for eight years and could see through his clients easily. So, he could tell with just one look that Anthony wasn't here for any business disputes.

Anthony nodded solemnly. "I also want you to look into another person—Linda Weston, my wife. I want the details about her bank cards, contact history, and the relationship she shares with this car's owner. Give me everything you can find."

Samuel fell silent for a while.

Finally, he held up two fingers. "I want two grand as a deposit. I can give you the report within the day. Any further service will be charged according to the workload."

Anthony swiped his card and stood up. He was about to leave when Samuel stopped him. "Anthony?"

Anthony stopped, but he didn't turn back.

"I've been in this line of work for eight years. This advice is on the house. The answer is often more painful than the mystery. Are you sure you want to go ahead?"

"I'd never have come to you if I hadn't thought this through," said Anthony, and he left.

A gust of cold wind hit his face, and he felt the cold seep into his bones. He tightened his coat around him, and a sliver of warmth finally crept back in.

He checked the time. It was almost 6 p.m. His mind reminded him that the DNA test result should be out at any moment.

Sure enough, his phone buzzed.

It was an email.

His hands shook as he clicked on it. His eyes skimmed through the words printed on the screen, inhaling sharply as they fell on one particular word. "Excluded."