Read Novel Full Chapter 228: Money Has a Source
Chapter 228: Money Has a Source
"You copied it yesterday. Recognize it now?"
He Xiufen's finger pressed on the eighteenth square of the desk calendar, a green stain from trimming vegetables along the edge of her nail. On the corner of the table lay Shen Zhixia's notebook. Under yesterday's square was the string she'd copied—three letters up front, ten digits behind.
"No."
"That's exactly the trouble." He Xiufen lifted her tea mug. "Numbers don't talk. Money does."
Shen Zhixia studied the string for a moment.
"He takes nearly half of Xingyao's work in a year."
"Who assigns the work, who sends the money—which one have you asked about?"
"Neither."
"Then ask now." He Xiufen tilted her chin toward the phone. "Don't ask people. Ask the money."
"What if he can't be bothered to go to the bank?"
"He'll go." He Xiufen set the lid on her tea mug. "It's not that he won't lift a finger. He's always believed Xingyao paid him directly. A person only makes the trip when the numbers stop adding up."
[Thud. A number you don't recognize—money recognizes it.]
Just after nine, the call connected. Traffic noise scraped past the receiver on the other end.
"Master Guo, this is Shen Zhixia from Zhengping."
"Hey. I kept that number from yesterday."
"Three things. First: Xingyao's payments—which card do they go to?"
"My own. Had it seven, eight years." He paused. "Last winter they told me to switch. Said to open it at that branch office on Chuangxin Road—faster transfers, fewer cross-bank issues. So I went. It's in that row of storefronts right under their building."
"Second: how do you settle each time?"
"They give a number, I give a number." He said, "They post a form in the group chat—whoever reports first gets paid first. I always thought it was an order number."
"Third: have you ever printed a statement?"
"Ten-plus years. Who bothers with that?"
He Xiufen reached over. Shen Zhixia handed her the receiver.
"Master Guo, this is He Xiufen. Make a trip to the bank this morning. Print statements for the last six months—every page, stamped by the teller. Don't fold a single sheet." She said, "When they're ready, bring them to the firm. You keep the originals. We keep photocopies. Sign on the spot."
He acknowledged. After the call ended, He Xiufen pushed the desk calendar forward half an inch.
"He can see the amounts. He can't see the name." She said, "The bank kept the name for him."
* * *
At eleven-forty, just as the scallion-oil smell started drifting up from downstairs, footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Guo Jianping came up in short sleeves, the strap of his black crossbody camera bag digging into his shoulder. He wiped his hands on his pants first, then pulled a plastic document sleeve from the side pocket of his bag.
"Three pages." He said, "The teller asked what I needed it for. I said reconciling accounts."
The statements lay spread on the table. The paper was fresh, a red business seal stamped in the upper right corner. He'd circled five entries in ballpoint pen, each circle rounder than the last.
"These are Xingyao jobs." He tapped the circles. "March twelfth, twelve hundred. April eighteenth, eight hundred. June twenty-third, nine hundred. They're slow to settle—the May twentieth job didn't get paid until late June."
Shen Zhixia's fingertip landed on the payer column. In all five circles, the same line appeared, identical every time:
Jiangzhou Dingchang Culture Media Co., Ltd.
She flipped her notebook back to yesterday's square and first checked the April transaction's reference line—a string of characters. It didn't match the one on the card back; already the second digit differed. Then she moved to the June twenty-third entry, reading digit by digit. At the last number, she laid the two pages side by side.
"Identical." She said.
"Don't write 'disbursed on behalf of.'" He Xiufen set down her tea mug. "That's the bank's phrasing, not yours. You write who the payer is and what the reference line says."
Shen Zhixia wrote in her notebook:
Three pages of account transaction statements under Guo Jianping's name (printed July 16, bearing bank business seal). Five transactions related to Xingyao. Payer for all five: Jiangzhou Dingchang Culture Media Co., Ltd. The reference number on the June 23 entry matches the serial number printed on the back of the May 20 footage card.
"I reported that number." Guo Jianping leaned over to look at that line. "June—that was the one I reported."
"Reported to whom?"
"The contact in the group chat." He straightened up. "I thought it was an order number."
"It's not an order number." He Xiufen opened the notebook, pointing to the line copied yesterday. "Not a single digit different from the number on the back of that May twentieth card."
Guo Jianping looked at the two lines, then glanced toward the side pocket of his bag, and withdrew his hand from the table.
"Write one more line." He Xiufen said.
Shen Zhixia wrote: Guo Jianping states that the number he reported to Xingyao at settlement was the number printed on the back of the footage card used on May 20.
"The number he reported—it landed in this bank column." He Xiufen lifted her hand from the statements. "Money follows the number. The number lives on the card."
He Xiufen stood up, pulled a page from the case file, and laid it beside the statements. That page recorded: Dingchang's corporate account received seven transfers in three months. Payers: Jiangzhou Taiying, Jiangzhou Sheng'an. The account-opening institution: the same branch office.
"Xingyao is at 11 Chuangxin Road. Dingchang is at number 9." Her finger tapped between the two lines of text. "The door where the card was opened sits between the two companies. The work is assigned by Xingyao. The money comes out of Dingchang's account. It lands in Master Guo's card—one street, one door."
[Thud. Money has a source.]
"A checklist. Two copies." He Xiufen said.
When she finished writing, Guo Jianping signed the bottom of the last photocopied page. His characters were as big as ever—three characters taking up more than half a line. He Xiufen had him add a line of small print: The above statements were provided by me, three pages in total.
"One more thing." Shen Zhixia pressed the cap onto her pen. "In June, did they tell anyone else to switch cards?"
"They did. A notice in the group chat saying payments would go through another company from now on, and everyone should report new card numbers."
"When was it posted?"
He pulled out his phone, the screen smeared with fingerprints, scrolled up several screens, stopped at one message, and read aloud: "June twentieth, just after four in the afternoon."
He Xiufen's eyes rested on that line for a moment.
"Did you switch?"
"No." He set his phone face-down on the table. "The May twentieth job didn't get paid until late June. I was waiting for that payment."
"He didn't push you."
"Urged me once. I said the money hadn't cleared yet. He said let it be for now."
Shen Zhixia started a new page and wrote three lines, side by side:
Jiangzhou Xinghe Culture Media Co., Ltd., date of establishment: June 20.
Tang Guo case, for-sale sheet number 0620-07, first four digits also June 20.
Card-switch notice from Xingyao as reported by Guo Jianping, posted June 20.
At the last line, she added half a sentence: The above three entries share the same date.
He Xiufen stood behind her, reading. When she finished, she took the pen from Shen Zhixia's hand and struck a line through that half-sentence.
"What should I change it to?"
"Just the word 'date.'" He Xiufen set the pen down. "'Same' is your calculation. The date is what you copied. Three dates on one page—the person reading the paper will make the connection on their own. Do the math for them and they stop thinking."
She folded the statements back into the document sleeve and placed it on the corner of the table.
"When do we submit this page?"
"Evidence deadline is the twenty-ninth." He Xiufen said. "Sooner is better. Don't let it sit past the eighteenth. What you're handing the judge is a piece of paper pointing him toward one thing in Dingchang's books."
"What thing?"
"The name 'Wu Jianchuan.'" She said. "Last time, he claimed he bought the footage from Wu Jianchuan. If money went out, the name should be in the account. If the name's there, it saves him a round. If it's not, he needs another story. Those three characters on these three pages—they don't appear once."
"At the hearing, someone has to own up to these five payments." Shen Zhixia looked at Guo Jianping. "The statements are yours. You'll have to testify."
"I'll testify." He ran the camera strap over his shoulder once. "I'm not taking jobs for the next few days."
He Xiufen called from the top of the stairs, telling him to eat before leaving. He ate two bowls downstairs. When he brought the bowl back up, a drop of soup spilled onto the corner of the checklist. He Xiufen pressed it flat with the base of her tea mug.
* * *
She got home at seven-forty. Two pages lay spread on the table—printed at the firm that afternoon. First she added a line of small print at the bottom of the page: Page 2 of 2.
Tang Guo came over and started reading from the first line.
"My name is Tang Guo. I came to Jiangzhou in 2016, worked two years in editing, and now make short videos."
"I added this paragraph myself." She pointed at the second section. "Originally I wrote, 'My income situation is as follows.'"
"Write 'money under my name.'" Shen Zhixia said. "Each amount, one by one."
"Platform creator earnings: eleven to eighty-plus yuan a month. The backend generates statements. One electric scooter ad in April: three thousand, invoiced. Last winter, an account I didn't recognize sent two hundred yuan. The note field was blank. I didn't accept it—returned it. The refund screenshot is still saved."
By the fourth paragraph, her voice slowed.
"I said in a livestream, 'I have never accepted a single cent for this case.' I edited the May video myself and typed the subtitles myself. The lines in those two clips posted elsewhere—I never said them."
"That sentence, exactly. Not one word added."
"Not writing 'forged.'"
"Not writing it."
"Why?"
"The moment you write 'forged,' you have to explain who did the forging." She held out the pen. "You only state what you received and what you said. Leave the other half-sentence for someone else to write on your behalf."
Tang Guo took the pen and signed the bottom of the last page. Her two characters were large, taking up half a line. The date read July 16.
Shen Zhixia reached over and switched on the ring fill light, training it on the paper. Under the light, the characters stood up line by line, and the crease at the corner of the page showed clearly.
Zhi'an came out of his room for water and stood at the table, watching for two seconds.
"So you keep accounts too."
"I do." Tang Guo gathered the papers toward herself. "The ten yuan you borrowed last month is in there too."
"I never said I wasn't paying it back." He carried his cup back to his room, leaving the door ajar.
"This piece of paper—does it count as standing in front of me?" Tang Guo asked.
"Half." Shen Zhixia picked up the two pages. "This half, you wrote yourself. The other half waits on the appraisal."
"Then when do I get to open my mouth?"
"When the time comes, someone will have written your words on paper before you speak." She said, "I'm not fooling you."
Tang Guo nudged the light toward the paper. She placed the two pages together with the three from earlier into one folder: on the left, payer, reference numbers, branch office; on the right, the three payments Tang Guo had received. The folder closed—one side recording where the money came from, the other recording what she'd accepted.
[Thud. Two pages. One side paid, one side received.]
At nine-fifty, her phone lit up. That unsaved number, one line.
—Hengzheng issues its opinion tomorrow morning. Whether that column gets signed off—we'll see tomorrow.
She read it twice, then copied the time into her notebook: July 16, 21:50. After writing it, she flipped to the eighteenth square—the two lines above were still there. The middle line remained blank.
"Will it land tomorrow?" Tang Guo asked.
"Tomorrow we check the seal in that column first."
She tucked the pen back into the spine of her notebook. Downstairs, the flame under the pot had gone out, but the scallion-oil smell still hung in the stairwell.