Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 127 Something is wrong

The house is small, a single-story red brick structure.

The lawn in the front yard had just been mowed, and the edges still bore the marks of the shovel.

Alisa stood in front of the door, her short-sleeved uniform soaked with sweat.

A black notebook was tucked under his arm, and his right hand rubbed back and forth along the seam of his pants.

She hated this kind of task.

Notifying immediate family members is simple, but each time it feels like being forced into someone else's tragedy.

The doorbell rang.

A dozen seconds later, someone came out.

She was a woman in her sixties with light chestnut hair, dressed in loungewear.

"Are you Linda Morales' mother?"

The other person's expression was both guarded and bewildered.

“I am Alyssa Randall, from the city police department.” She showed her badge, speaking more slowly:
"I'm here to tell you something about Linda. May we go inside and talk?"

The woman paused for a moment, then stepped aside: "Please come in."

The living room was tidy with little decoration, and neatly folded laundry was piled on the sofa.

Several family photos are hanging on the wall, but they all look like they haven't been changed in a long time.

Alisa entered the house and asked softly, "You are Linda's mother, right?"

The woman nodded. "Yes. My name is Ann Miller."

Alisa sat down, looking directly at the other person, trying to keep a calm expression:
"I'm sorry, I have to be the one to say this."

"Linda was found dead in her home."

"What happened to her?" The other person's voice sounded a little unsteady, as if they didn't understand the true weight of the question.

“We are still confirming the final report,” Alisa repeated with difficulty, “but I can tell you that she was no longer alive at that time.”

The woman froze instantly, all color draining from her face.

After a long pause, she said in a trembling voice, "No... she sent me a text message last month saying she was rushing to finish a contract."

“We understand this is quite sudden for you.”

Alisa took a deep breath, suppressing the discomfort rising in her chest: "According to the current records, the preliminary cause of death is suicide."

As she said this, she stared intently at the crack in the floor under the coffee table, not even daring to look at the other person's face.

There was silence.

The woman neither cried nor screamed.

She just sat there blankly, her shoulders stiff, her eyes seemingly unfocused.

After nearly half a minute, she suddenly snapped out of her dazed state, stood up, and spoke in a trembling voice:
"Excuse me, I need to get some water."

She turned and walked into the kitchen, her steps unsteady.

A few seconds later, he sat back down on the sofa with a glass of water.

However, she did not drink it.

You're saying she committed suicide?

"That's the current conclusion." Alisa paused. "There were no signs of a struggle at the scene, nor any external injuries."

The woman did not reply.

After a while, she looked up and said, "She's not the kind of person who would do something like that."

Alisa remained silent.

There were too many things about this case that made her suspicious from the very beginning.

She wasn't in the major crimes unit, nor was she a state trooper; she was just a frontline local police officer.

But she knew that a normal "suicide case" wouldn't be handled this way.

She was only allowed to read two pages of the report.

The scene was cordoned off like a federal-level counterterrorism operation.

Even the deceased's call records were removed and archived.

The only thing she has left is that death notification process form.

“My daughter has her own problems,” the woman suddenly said.

"She doesn't get married, she's busy with work, and she doesn't confide in others much."

"But she is always very organized, has clear plans, and is responsible."

The woman looked down at the cup: "A few weeks ago, she even transferred some money to me."

Alisa's eyes flickered. "Back then, I still had a little bit of my mortgage left."

"She suddenly said she would help me settle the debt and transferred 100,000 yuan to me directly."

She paused for a moment, then said, "I asked her what was going on, and she said 'surplus,' and told me not to overthink it."

Alisa lowered her head, her fingers unconsciously rubbing against the edge of the notebook.

After hesitating for a moment, I finally spoke up: "Has she ever done anything similar before? Like, suddenly making a large transfer?"

“No.” The woman shook her head, her expression shifting from confusion to unease. “She’s always been very careful and never careless with her accounts.”

Did she say exactly where the money came from?

She said it was company dividends.

"But that amount doesn't sound like a bonus the company would give out."

Alisa did not respond.

But she could feel a slight tightness in her shoulders.

She actually knew she shouldn't ask any more questions now.

The higher-ups have instructed that the case has been filed, and that "the conclusion is clear, and further investigation is not recommended."

But this sudden transfer of 100,000 yuan was like a rivet, embedded in her heart.

Has she shown any particular changes recently?

"Have you suddenly changed in terms of emotions or lifestyle habits?"

“Nothing special,” the woman said slowly. “She just mentioned once that she had a client.”

"The background is quite complicated, and there were some problems with the process."

Did she mention which specific apartment or company it was?

"No. She rarely talks about details. I don't understand trading either."

After saying this, the woman sighed and moved the cup to the side.

A brief silence fell over the room.

Alisa nodded, her eyes sweeping over the notebook before looking at the woman.

"Okay. You've explained it very clearly."

She stood up and said solemnly:

"Thank you very much for your cooperation. We will contact you again if we need anything further."

After a few seconds of pause, Alisa took a business card with the police station logo out of her pocket and placed it on the coffee table.

"If you remember anything during this time, even the smallest detail, please feel free to contact me directly."

The woman was no longer looking at her; she sank into the sofa, swallowed up by her sadness.

Alisa did not look back as she walked out the door.

The sun beat down on the curb, and the air smelled of dried wood and concrete.

She got into the driver's seat, opened the notebook, and wrote two lines under "Remarks":
—Transferred 100,000 two months ago

The company's claim of dividends is unreliable; the source of funds needs to be investigated.

Alisa paused for a moment, the pen tip still resting on the paper.

Procedurally speaking, I shouldn't touch any details of this matter now.

All records, materials, and instructions have been handed over.

All she can do next is follow the procedures to complete the case closure documents and then file them.

But she still couldn't put down her pen.

A sudden transfer of $100,000, mortgage payments, vague "dividends," and clients with whom one cannot get any answers.

Too many doubts, too many "traces that shouldn't have been left".

However, no one was willing to challenge a federal agency with an unclear background over the extra $100,000 in transactions involved in the "real estate agent's suicide case."

That's not an "investigation," that's courting death.

Alisa knew very well what was going on.

She sighed, put the notebook into the file bag, and zipped it all the way up.

Then--

He pulled out the booklet he was carrying from the passenger seat and turned to a blank page.

Alisa took a deep breath, finally made up her mind, and solemnly wrote down the title:
"Linda Morales 'Suicide' Investigation"

(End of this chapter)