Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 234 I am not John

The evening breeze in the bay area carried a faint, fishy smell.

The motel's neon sign flickered occasionally, emitting an unstable electrical hum.

The vending machine was fitted with anti-theft iron bars, and the drinks and fast food were displayed behind old glass, their expiration dates unknown.

Zhou Yi sat in the corner of the room, smoke slowly rising from his fingertips.

A laptop sat in front of him, its screen lit up, the white light reflecting off his face.

Nearly two days have passed since the events in Uganda.

Starting from Entebbe, transiting through Istanbul, and then returning to Tampa via Nassau, the journey took dozens of hours without stopping. After a short rest, we flew to California overnight.

Just then, my phone vibrated twice in my pocket.

Zhou Yi took it out and saw that it was an email from a man.

"I just landed in the North*. I'll go to the old house this afternoon to sort out my dad's things and send them over. It might take a while."

Zhou Yi replied with "Okay" and then placed the phone face down on the table.

Zhao Wanpeng

He typed the name into the document and listed some possible spelling variations.

Then, a public white page search was conducted based on this list, targeting California.

After initial screening by age, three useful results remained.

1. Wanpeng Zhao owns multiple properties, but they may belong to different people.

2. Zhao W., located in South Bay, updated in 2008, no changes since.

3. Zhao WP, over 70 years old, listed as being in Berkeley, no contact number.

Zhou Yi clicked on the first one.

It looks more like a typical "successful immigrant" story, and there are even records of family members.

The business registration information on Spokeo shows that an import/export company was once registered at the corresponding address.

However, the legal representative is named "Wan Chao," which is not the same spelling.

The address in the second entry is located in northern San Jose, and is an ordinary suburban residence.

In the snapshot, weeds have grown to the windowsill, and two or three expired advertising newspapers are piled on the porch.

Scrolling down further, you'll find a cross-validation record for related addresses.

One of the women, named "Wen P. Zhao," had registered here.

The gender is incorrect.

Zhou Yi sighed and, clinging to his last hope, began to study the third point.

Berkeley, no phone numbers, no public records.

He memorized the address and switched to Google Earth.

The top left corner shows a satellite image taken two years ago.

The villa's exterior walls were painted white, and the yard was kept tidy.

The windows were intact, and there was a newspaper drop box by the door.

Zhou Yi didn't rush to make a judgment. He casually stubbed out his cigarette and went to the Alameda County Superior Court website.

The page loads slowly; the server seems to be stuck in the last century.

A full ten seconds passed before a civil debt dispute ruling, numbered RG0943XXXX, finally appeared.

The year was 2009.

The plaintiff is Chase Bank, and the defendant is a man named "Zhao Wanpeng" who lives in Berkeley.

The documents show that the delivery address at the time matched what I knew.

This discovery put Zhou Yi at ease.

This at least confirms that a man surnamed Zhao stayed there for a period of time.

Furthermore, considering the "Greater Bay Area" mentioned by Li Chengyi's son, the conditions for on-site investigation are met.

Zhou Yi stood up, unplugged the USB drive containing the Tails data, put it in his pocket, and then took his keys and went out.

Ten minutes later, a silver-gray Ford SUV drove out of the parking lot.

California is much colder than Uganda, but that "cold" is more structural.

In the deep darkness of night, there are neatly planned streets, shadows cut into equal blocks by sodium lamps, and buildings that are completely submerged in darkness beyond the light.

Zhou Yi switched from 880 to 580, then merged onto Interstate 80, heading north towards Berkeley.

As we passed the San Francisco Bay Bridge, the distant sea seemed to be swallowed up, with only scattered white dots dotting the hills on the opposite shore.

As they passed the gas station, Zhou Yi glanced at the fuel level; it was still a third full.

The next second, the red light ahead started flashing.

He gently applied the brakes and came to a stop.

On the sidewalk, several drunk men sat smoking. A black security guard, with a handgun and handcuffs tucked into his belt, idly observed them through the glass door of a convenience store.

The light turned green.

Zhou Yi continued driving, entering the low-density residential area on the outskirts of Berkeley.

It's much quieter here compared to the city center.

The streets are narrow, lined with towering old trees whose intertwined branches block out most of the streetlights.

The GPS indicated two minutes remaining.

Zhou Yi slowed down and turned into a dead end following the navigation instructions.

Both sides are detached houses built in the 1960s and 70s, mostly with wooden structures.

Only now did he feel a surge of tension.

If Zhao Wanpeng really lives here, what identity should I use to talk to him?

Anonymous.

Let's be honest with each other.

My name is Zhou Yi, not some bullshit "John".

I am Li Jin's son.

李瑾
Will he remember Li Jin?
Her thoughts, her death.
What does all of this mean to him?
Zhou Yi took a deep breath and couldn't help but reach for the cigarette pack in his pocket.

However, after hesitating for two seconds, he gave up.

Smoking less before taking action is good for your health.

After adjusting the position of the pistol at his waist, Zhou Yi got out of the car and walked to the end of the street.

There were no surveillance cameras installed in the vicinity.

He relaxed a little and went around to the back door of the target villa from the side.

This place is very different from what it was two years ago—it seems to have been abandoned.

Fallen leaves covered the path, cobwebs hung on the porch, and trash cans lay overturned on the ground.

Disappointment flashed through Zhou Yi's mind, but she still gripped the doorknob and tried to turn it gently.

"Click."

There was no lock.

Zhou Yi stopped moving, immediately drew his pistol, and cocked it.

With a metallic clanging sound, he pressed himself against the wall to minimize his exposure.

There was silence in the house.

There were no human voices, no water sounds, and no noise from the air conditioner's outdoor unit.

Zhou Yi, holding a gun in his right hand, peered into the doorway, the muzzle slightly below eye level.

After confirming that there was nothing else amiss, he lifted his foot, the toe of his shoe touching the ground, and slowly pressed down, his right shoulder against the door frame, and pushed the door open with minimal force.

The hinge rotates silently.

The lobby floor was covered in dust, and there was a musty smell in the air.

The wall clock had stopped, and several old suitcases were piled up below it, their zippers half open.

The entire villa appeared to be deserted.

Zhou Yi, however, remained vigilant and began to establish a search path in his mind.

He moved along the wall in sequence, cleaning gradually in a "cutting" style, and then quickly moved forward.

They checked the living room, kitchen, and bathroom one by one, but found no useful clues.

The drawers were all empty, and the telephone line had long been cut.

Just as Zhou Yi was about to change the direction of his investigation, he suddenly noticed something was wrong with the floor in the corner of the study—the edge was slightly raised unnaturally.

He thought for a moment, then squatted down, took out a knife, and pried it open along the gap.

Below, there is a very small interlayer.

Several photos, printed paper, and old envelopes were piled up haphazardly in one place.

Zhou Yi's gaze fell on the top document, and his heart began to race.

The header features the familiar white background with red lettering.

Date of signature: May 1988.

Before they could examine the contents closely, a soft rustling sound suddenly came from the second floor.

Zhou Yi's expression froze. He quickly covered the wooden board and retreated to the shadows next to the bookshelf.

Then, he switched to holding it with one hand, adjusted his breathing, and waited for the next sound.

(End of this chapter)