Chapter 50

Chapter 50: Shan Zhuo (10)

The investigation had progressed a little but then stalled; it seemed they needed to start again from the videos.

“Tang Jinli is like a hybrid,” Sui Xing said, holding a coffee. “The videos she filmed in Yan’ai District look like store-review vloggers. Entering office buildings, she also looks like a competent career woman. The topics she chats about range from international affairs to celebrity gossip. She even teaches people how to create content and write scripts that can make money. Now there are some vloggers who chat while doing makeup, right? Look at these few videos—she’s clearly imitating them. But her makeup skills are average, and her chatting isn’t witty enough, so the clicks aren’t high.”

Hai Shu swiped through the screen and found Tang Jinli’s most viewed videos—almost all staged in Yan’ai District. This indicated that netizens appreciated her appearance but weren’t very interested in her opinions.

“She must have critical stuff on her phone and laptop, maybe even a camera. So the suspect had to take them from 5-2.” Hai Shu asked, “Can the video posting locations still not be pinpointed?”

Sui Xing shook his head. “Only a general range. Tang Jinli usually posts videos from home and public places in Qianxin District. The videos posted after her death were also in public places in Qianxin District, basically overlapping. I had planned to check each mall to pinpoint times for searches, but…”

Hai Shu understood. “The surveillance has been overwritten.”

“The suspect knows Tang Jinli’s movements very well; it should be someone familiar with her,” Sui Xing said. “She didn’t have a fixed job. She was contracted with the Lukesi platform, but the monthly share wasn’t much—hundreds to a few thousand. I feel she must have had other work, just that her videos didn’t reflect that.”

Hai Shu leaned on the sofa, thinking. When a beautiful woman goes missing, her family doesn’t report it because she had long left home; landlords and agents don’t report it because it’s none of their business; colleagues don’t report it because her work doesn’t require check-ins or office hours…

The platform income couldn’t cover Tang Jinli’s expenses. Were her other jobs also similar platform contracts? Tang Jinli liked trending topics; whatever was popular, she would follow, copying popular formats. Apart from these trends, her more niche focus was scriptwriting. Was she a screenwriter?

Hai Shu obtained Tang Jinli’s bank statements. Besides the video platform’s earnings, there were three transfers totaling over 200,000 yuan, but these were all from a while ago; the most recent was December of the year before last.

The transfers came from a company called Tianming Media, which online sources indicated was a small business located in the commercial center of Qianxin District.

Hai Shu visited Tianming Media. The office was well-decorated but sparsely staffed, seemingly close to closure. The walls displayed a lot of “glorious history,” such as participation in a hit drama production and the boss having dinner with a veteran actor.

The receptionist said she had never heard of Tang Jinli and the videos seemed unfamiliar. The few employees looked at Hai Shu curiously and nervously, so she showed them Tang Jinli’s photos one by one.

“This… isn’t this Little Tang?” said a woman with her hair up. “She’s still in Huiyong?”

Hai Shu asked, “Did she work here?”

The woman with her hair up smirked slightly. “Her… not really. She submitted scripts, but as for quality, we can’t say.”

At that moment, the small office door opened. A man wearing glasses, looking refined, came out. He seemed to have heard the noise and was surprised to see Hai Shu, a stranger. “Who are you looking for?”

Hai Shu glanced at the photo on the wall—the person having dinner with the veteran actor was him.

The receptionist ran over quietly. “Director Li, the police are asking about Tang… Tang Jinli.”

The man’s expression immediately changed, showing panic and avoidance. “Police?”

Seeing his reaction, Hai Shu sensed an opportunity and glanced at the open office. “Director Li, why don’t we go inside and talk?”

The man, Li Siwei, closed the office door and appeared more nervous. His first words were defensive: “Tang Jinli previously worked part-time here, but it’s been over a year since she came. If anything happened to her, it definitely has nothing to do with our company.”

Hai Shu said, “No rush. I just want to understand her income and what work she usually did.” She handed Li Siwei the bank statements, and he swallowed nervously several times.

Hai Shu asked, “Is there a problem with this income?”

Li Siwei quickly shook his head. “No problem, no problem. She was a contracted screenwriter with our company. In our industry, there’s no base salary, no nine-to-five. Payment is made after completing projects and passing evaluations. This money is all legitimate.”

Hai Shu found it odd that Li Siwei emphasized legitimacy. “Oh? When did she sign? I thought she was a video creator. So she was also a screenwriter? Really versatile.”

Li Siwei said, “You mean her ‘Huǎn Huǎn’ account? That account wasn’t signed with us.”

Hai Shu asked again, “How did you know her?”

“She submitted her resume to our company, almost three years ago. At that time, our company was growing rapidly and needed many screenwriters.” He hesitated, awkwardly scratching his nose.

Hai Shu asked, “Is the situation not good now?”

Li Siwei laughed it off. “Industry’s in a downturn, normal. Once a few projects are done, I plan to change my lifestyle.”

Hai Shu continued, “So Tang Jinli submitted her resume, joined your company, and her scripts were excellent?”

“Not exactly excellent, but clever. She wasn’t formally trained, so she didn’t have that rigid academic style. The key point is we really needed people.”

Hai Shu asked, “These three transfers—were they for three scripts?”

Li Siwei avoided eye contact. “Yes, yes, three.”

“Which three are they?”

“Well…”

Hai Shu smiled. “These are your own projects, Director Li, you wouldn’t have forgotten, right?”

“I’ll check.” Li Siwei opened his computer as he spoke. “It’s really not my fault. I manage a lot of people and deal with many collaborators, negotiating more than ten scripts a day.”

As he searched, Hai Shu moved closer to watch. After a long time, Li Siwei still hadn’t found them, sweat forming on his nose and forehead.

Hai Shu’s sharp eyes caught one document and she pointed to it. “It says ‘Tang Jinli’ here.”

“Ah, this is it!” Li Siwei said. “This is the script she submitted. It’s a Republican-era story.”

Hai Shu handed over a USB drive. “Please copy it for me.”

Li Siwei’s pupils flickered. “Is this really necessary?”

Hai Shu smiled. “I’m doing this for the investigation. Tang Jinli had some trouble.”

Li Siwei had no choice but to comply, but he didn’t ask what happened to Tang Jinli.

Hai Shu said, “Is this the only one? I thought there were three.”

“They’re… stored on another computer,” Li Siwei said. “Once I find them, I’ll give them to you.”

Hai Shu nodded. “Why did Tang Jinli stop writing scripts for you later? A screenwriter this profitable shouldn’t be let go so easily.”

Li Siwei clicked his tongue. “What money could she make?”

“Huh?” Hai Shu asked.

Li Siwei immediately explained, “No, I mean this industry isn’t easy to make money in, no guarantees. When the hype dies down, everyone moves to the next project. She left early. Also, since the end of the year before last, we haven’t had many projects, and we didn’t need so many screenwriters.”

Hai Shu asked, “So it was a mutual termination?”

“Sort of.”

“Any contact afterward?”

“No, we were just colleagues, nothing more.”

Hai Shu stood. “Alright, Director Li, please contact me when you find the other two scripts.”

“Definitely, definitely!” Li Siwei seemed relieved.

At the door, Hai Shu suddenly said, “Aren’t you curious why the police are investigating Tang Jinli?”

Li Siwei: “Ah, what happened to her?”

Hai Shu said, “She was murdered.”

The sweat on Li Siwei’s forehead streamed down. He grabbed the stainless steel railing, which instantly fogged with condensation.

This company clearly wouldn’t last much longer. Hai Shu pushed the door open, seeing everyone gathered chatting, unconcerned about the boss’s presence. She glanced at the woman with her hair up, didn’t linger, and returned to the car, communicating with the team remaining in Guibai District while watching the office building entrance.

Sui Xing and Cheng Wei had already met with Liu Shazi and Liu Cunzhang, both interrogating and questioning.

When Liu Shazi heard “Tang Jinli,” he did react. He lifted his head and gave Sui Xing a peculiar smile. His eyes were bright, no longer the confused, foolish look he had when called Liu Shazi. He seemed done pretending, but when Sui Xing expected him to say something, he said, “You’re too slow.”

“What do you mean? Slow at what?” Sui Xing asked.

Liu Shazi just smiled and said nothing.

“Is he playing some game with us?” Sui Xing was annoyed. “A severely decomposed body, no one reported her, and now we’ve confirmed her identity. That’s not slow. And yet a suspect mocks us!”

Hai Shu studied Liu Shazi’s expression carefully. “I feel like he means something else.”

“He just wants to torment us!” Sui Xing calmed down. “But he’s really strange. He’s the most likely suspect, but I don’t feel it. He pretended to be a fool for almost twenty years. Suddenly revealing his true self—could it really relate to his parents’ and brother’s deaths?”

This had already been discussed by the first homicide team. The Liu family’s four deaths were suspicious. If Liu Shazi had faked stupidity, he might have intentionally caused incidents for police investigation. But he became ‘foolish’ twenty years ago. Any connection with Tang Jinli makes that theory shaky.

Hai Shu asked, “How does Liu Buquan explain his investments in Xincheng?”

Cheng Wei cleared his throat. “He said that after making money from tourism, people’s ambitions grew. Everyone wanted more money. Running farm stays is hard work, but opening shops in Xincheng makes money easily. That’s true. Anyone with idle cash wanted to buy storefronts or houses there. Now Yan’ai District is expanding, so the quickest beneficiaries would be Xincheng in Guibai District.”

Hai Shu checked the developers in Guibai District—had never heard the name before.

Cheng Wei added, “But what’s unusual about Liu Cunzhang’s family is that he hires outsiders to do the work.”

“Hire people?” Hai Shu asked. “What about their own relatives?”

Sui Xing poked Cheng Wei. “Haven’t you checked Liu Buquan’s family?”

Cheng Wei nodded. “The situation in Liu Cunzhang’s family is rare in Guibai Village, but in other suddenly wealthy towns, it’s more common. His wife passed away long ago. He has a son and a daughter; the son is married with a wife and kids, the daughter wasn’t married at the time. Four years ago, after Guibai Village became wealthy, he gradually sent them all abroad to enjoy life. So really, Liu Cunzhang is the only one left at home.”

Sui Xing said, “Like those corrupt officials who send their wives and kids abroad?”

Hai Shu thought for a moment, not ready to conclude. “By the way, their dealer authorization procedures—are they legitimate? From what I know, many computer and camera dealers sell fake products.”

“That’s what I wanted to mention,” Cheng Wei said. “Liu Cunzhang’s family has all the paperwork, but whether the goods are gray market or refurbished, we can’t confirm yet. Their business is big, mainly online sales.”

Liu Cunzhang had many issues; further investigation was necessary. After hanging up the video, Hai Shu settled down to organize her thoughts, and her attention suddenly fell on Cheng Wei.

Cheng Wei’s presence in the homicide team was usually low-key, but recently seemed higher. Everyone in the team could handle fieldwork; tech staff could do interrogations and visits. Wen Xu often joined field teams, claiming to slack off while observing carefully and catching key clues. Cheng Wei was different—he preferred staying in his forensic comfort zone, though he executed assigned tasks meticulously.

After returning to Huiyong City, Hai Shu had tried contacting Cheng Wei for some fieldwork. She assumed he’d come, but he said he still had checks in Guibai Village and couldn’t leave.

No problem, Hai Shu called another team member.

But now, thinking back, Cheng Wei seemed slightly abnormal. That day’s conflict with villagers occurred because Cheng Wei was surrounded; the rioting villagers noted in reports that he spoke disrespectfully and was confrontational.

Hai Shu found it hard to imagine Cheng Wei provoking trouble. He had said the villagers blocked his way, and he merely reasoned with them.

Now Cheng Wei was also involved in the investigation in Xincheng, seeming unusually invested in the case.

Just then, Hai Shu saw a familiar figure exit the office building—namely, the woman with her hair up. She slowly drove the car over, stopping in front of her, and rolled down the window.

The woman froze. “You’re still here?”

Hai Shu smiled. “We were chatting earlier when your Director Li suddenly came out. I wanted to continue talking, but the office was crowded.”

The woman glanced around. “And you just waited?”

Hai Shu unlocked the car door. “Yeah. Want to get in first? Writing scripts must be mentally exhausting, right? Let’s go have milk tea.”

The woman hesitated briefly, then opened the door. “I’ve never met a cop like you.”

Hai Shu said, “And you’re not the type of screenwriter I imagined either.”

It wasn’t off-hours, and the milk tea shop wasn’t crowded. Hai Shu ordered two signature drinks. The woman asked, “You imagined screenwriters all wearing thick glasses and being old?”

Hai Shu replied, “No, I guess I assumed screenwriters are like Tang Jinli.”

The woman’s expression of disdain returned. “Recording?”

Hai Shu shook her head. “Just chatting. But I’d like to know your name, so we don’t have to keep saying ‘you this’ and ‘you that.’”

The woman quickly wrote her name and phone number on the receipt. “I don’t lie. You can verify with me anytime.”

Hai Shu looked—surname Qu.

“Director Li said Tang Jinli was a very gifted screenwriter, wrote three scripts, but I feel he’s hiding something,” Hai Shu said. “The version he showed me was a thin, incomplete Tang Jinli.”

Ms. Qu laughed exaggeratedly. “Gifted? Give me a break! I’m leaving soon anyway. I’ll tell you what Tang Jinli really was. She couldn’t write a usable script; she was just Li Siwei’s kept mistress!”

Ms. Qu was a veteran in the screenwriting circle but not formally trained. In college, she did online work copying others’ scripts—open plagiarism. The work was easy but low-paid. Over time, she learned the craft and started creating her own works. When film, TV, and short video opportunities arose, she collaborated on several short dramas.

In formal circles, writers like her were just tools—given outlines, doing mechanical work with little personal input. Ms. Qu had ambition and wanted to be a true screenwriter, making a TV series. But the higher she aimed, the more networking she needed; a writer without connections had little chance to create her own scripts.

Ms. Qu later accepted reality, stopped pursuing personal projects, and focused on making money through outlined assignments. Studios like Tianming Media were springing up; she found being backed by a studio safer than struggling alone. Though the studio took a cut, she didn’t need to find clients herself.

A few years back, Tianming Media produced some decent works, but Ms. Qu joked that as a tool writer, it wasn’t her doing—the studio’s Li Siwei was good at networking and securing high-rated projects, unlike other companies producing short, low-quality market scripts.

In the last two years, the industry declined. Many companies collapsed; Tianming barely survived.

Ms. Qu was the chief writer at Tianming, but the title applied to a group. Introductions always said “chief,” sounding prestigious. When money came in, Li Siwei was generous; chief writers got high shares and bonuses, making the workplace comfortable.

Ms. Qu smiled helplessly. “I know you probably look down on us. You fight for ideals; we fight for money. We’ve long forgotten why we became screenwriters.”

Hai Shu shook her head.

Ms. Qu finally started talking about Tang Jinli. Tang Jinli’s resume had been the first Ms. Qu looked at. At that time, Tianming Media had landed more than a dozen projects and needed many screenwriters. Li Siwei, fearing the HR wasn’t professional, had Tang Jinli oversee recruitment.

In Ms. Qu’s professional eyes, the sample scripts Tang Jinli sent weren’t very qualified; the writing carried a stubborn streak and lacked the satisfying, market-friendly flair. But Ms. Qu vaguely saw in the sample a reflection of herself before reality had beaten her down, so she invited Tang Jinli for a detailed discussion.

At their first meeting, Ms. Qu thought Tang Jinli was beautiful. She asked why Tang Jinli wanted to be a screenwriter, given her looks she could find easier, more lucrative work. Tang Jinli’s resume showed experience in selling clothes and running a restaurant, with nothing related to the cultural industry.

Tang Jinli showed her works from high school and university, saying she loved film and TV from a young age, had been constrained by her parents, and now finally wanted to be part of the industry.

Ms. Qu thought Tang Jinli was too idealistic. During the interview, she could feel Tang Jinli’s passion and longing but sensed no matching talent. She said she would review Tang Jinli’s works before deciding.

That day, Li Siwei was at the company and ran into Tang Jinli in the lobby; Tang Jinli had reached the front desk while Li Siwei was still observing.

Ms. Qu diligently reviewed Tang Jinli’s works, confirming her interview judgment—Tang Jinli had enthusiasm but her output was mediocre.

Being a “tool” screenwriter didn’t require much talent; Ms. Qu felt nine out of ten in the field were mediocre, herself included. She preferred hiring a mediocre person than someone mediocre with high self-regard. So Tang Jinli was rejected by her.

Unexpectedly, a week later, Tang Jinli arrived at Tianming Media in style, sitting diagonally across from Ms. Qu. Tang Jinli called her “Sister Qu,” thanked her for hiring her, and asked for guidance in the future.

Ms. Qu went along politely and secretly asked HR if a mistake had been made. HR whispered, “No mistake, Tang Jinli was specifically requested by the boss.”

Ms. Qu immediately understood she hadn’t aligned with the boss’s wishes. But she felt no burden; between making money and women, Li Siwei would choose the former, and she was one of the company’s top earners.

Indeed, things played out as expected. Li Siwei didn’t give her trouble; projects assigned were suitable and lucrative. The only annoyance was Tang Jinli’s apparent gratitude, treating her like a teacher, often asking trivial, meaningless questions.

For example, how to get a credit on a TV series, whether they could attend filming on set, or why contemporary TV was low-quality and couldn’t have more depth.

Ms. Qu inwardly scoffed, but to save face with Li Siwei, she had to respond politely and discuss with Tang Jinli.

After a while, a bigger problem arose. Li Siwei assigned the new writers projects—mundane short scripts offering no sense of accomplishment. Tool writers usually started with these; doing well allowed them to handle better web drama scripts.

Tang Jinli obviously refused.

One day, Ms. Qu received a script from Li Siwei, written by Tang Jinli. Li Siwei politely asked if she, as chief writer, could review it and guide the newcomer.

Ms. Qu read it, feeling dizzy. Tang Jinli hadn’t followed the outline, had altered characters, awkwardly elevated the ideology, ignoring the target audience’s tastes.

Li Siwei said it was a review, but it actually meant rewriting the entire thing.

Of course, Li Siwei promised generous rewards for her work.

Reluctantly, Ms. Qu finished revising Tang Jinli’s script and politely explained how to write such scripts. She thought a working adult should understand this lesson—this was the nature of the job.

Tang Jinli, however, was surprised, questioning, “If I write like this, where is the screenwriter’s dignity?”

It was the first time a newcomer had spoken to her like this; she felt both shocked and angry. She remembered her younger self, still believing writers shouldn’t bow to reality. Tang Jinli’s words didn’t awaken her—they made her resent this favored girl even more.

They had both wanted to follow their hearts, so why did she fail while Tang Jinli dared to challenge her? Was it because she had less backbone? Less talent? Nonsense!

The real reason: she had only work ability; Tang Jinli had the boss’s protection. Tang Jinli was merely shielded by Li Siwei—a fool who couldn’t even follow workplace rules—so how could she challenge Ms. Qu?

After that dispute, she no longer revised Tang Jinli’s scripts. Li Siwei personally apologized, asking for her understanding.

Hai Shu asked, “Did Li Siwei ever admit his relationship with Tang Jinli?”

“Of course not directly, but anyone observant could tell. Especially those who revised Tang Jinli’s scripts,” Ms. Qu commented. “At first, it’s normal to struggle with a tool role, but Tang Jinli, being older, still naive, emotionally unstable—honestly, I’ve never seen another worker like that.”

Hai Shu asked, “What about the three scripts she successfully submitted? Did Li Siwei fund them?”

Ms. Qu laughed so hard she nearly rolled her eyes. “It was just play-acting; the boss was humoring her.”

Tool writers produce many scripts, but some are unproducible or scrapped early. At that point, writers only received base salary from the company. Tang Jinli aimed too high; none of her scripts were acceptable. Li Siwei’s payments to her were private—essentially kept mistress allowances.

Ms. Qu had learned this from finance.

Hai Shu asked, “So why did Tang Jinli stop later?”

Ms. Qu said, “I guess Li Siwei didn’t want to be the sucker anymore. He cares about money—he would pay to pamper a mistress, but if the mistress demands too much, he stops. Tang Jinli probably wanted him to invest in a TV drama, which is every writer’s dream.”

Ms. Qu mocked, “But with Tang Jinli’s skill level, anyone who invests would be a fool.”