North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws Chapter 207 150 The Thorny Figure on the Cross2

Discrimination? So be it. He doubted he could beat her anyway.

Dean's gaze, however, sharpened. It fixed on the back of Ona's neck, which her thick braid had once again covered. The image he had just glimpsed flashed through his mind: a thorny human figure hanging upside down on a cross!

A tattoo! Relatives, a cross tattoo...

Dean took out his phone and stealthily sent a ssage to Daisy. Then, maintaining a calm expression, he followed Ona into the villa's main hall.

The decor here was similar to the villa's exterior, giving it the aged feel of a dieval castle.

Harry, being clumsy, spotted a tall suit of armor that had a heavy, cross-marked chain flail hanging on display. He exclaid, "Wow, this looks really cool! But could anyone actually wear this armor and wield such a heavy weapon?"

As he spoke, he reached out to test the weight of the flail.

This action imdiately angered Ona, who was standing nearby. She swung her thick braid, strode up to Harry, pressed her thick fingers onto his shoulder, and shoved him. Harry stumbled backward and fell to the ground.

Anger flashed in Harry's eyes. "Are you crazy?"

"Listen," Ona retorted, "even if you're a Los Angeles detective, you have no right to touch these artifacts without the owner's permission! You uncultured lout!"

After Ona finished speaking, she looked at Dean. "Little Mike is in the study reading. He has quite severe autism. Besides , he hardly communicates with anyone, not even his father. If you have any questions, please ask ."

Dean helped Harry up and whispered sothing in his ear, telling him to wait outside. Only after Harry left did Dean survey the hall and remark, "This place looks very nice. I almost feel like I've stepped into the ho of a European noble."

Ona's attitude towards Dean was the complete opposite of how she treated Harry. She raised a large hand—big enough to palm a basketball—to cover her mouth as she giggled softly. "Detective Dean, most of these are actually artificially aged replicas. Even Mr. Mike Smith would find the price of genuine antique armor hard to accept."

"But from what I understand, Mr. Mike Smith has a substantial inco," Dean countered. "He should be able to afford a suit of dieval knight's armor."

Dean had learned a bit about auction items due to his previous involvent with the treasure. Unless it held special significance, preserved ancient knight's armor generally cost tens of thousands of US Dollars, not an exorbitant sum reaching into the millions.

Ona shook her head. "I don't know about Mr. Mike Smith's inco, but his monthly expenses are very high. His health isn't good, actually, and he spends a lot of money each month just to maintain it."

As she said this, she seed to recall sothing, a hint of apology appearing on her face. "Oh, by the way, Detective Dean, would you like so black tea or coffee?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm a bit pressed for ti. To cut to the chase, Ms. Ona, I'd like to know if Mr. Mike Smith had a personal physician, or where his dication ca from."

"Sorry, I don't know." Ona looked troubled. "Actually, Mr. Mike Smith rarely ca back here. It seems he had other residences and never brought anyone he knew to this house."

Dean asked, "So you don't know anything about Mr. Mike Smith's social life or acquaintances?"

"That's right," Ona confird.

Dean continued, "Then what kind of person did you consider Mr. Mike Smith to be?"

This question stumped Ona. Her expression beca conflicted and troubled.

Seeing her hesitation, Dean reminded her, "Mr. Mike Smith has been murdered. His death was grueso; it looked like a revenge killing. His son, Little Mike, is only twelve. We haven't found any other relatives of Mr. Mike Smith. You're his only family now. If we can't find out who held a grudge against Mr. Mike Smith, you and Little Mike could also be in danger. There's no need to jeopardize the safety of the living for a dead man's privacy or reputation."

Ona still shook her head. "I can protect Little Mike. But as for Mr. Mike Smith... I really didn't know him well."

A relative who'd cared for the child for twelve years claiming she didn't know his father well... Ona was clearly stonewalling him.

But if she wouldn't talk, Dean couldn't exactly resort to forceful interrogation. He could tell Ona knew sothing she wasn't sharing. She didn't seem to have any affection for Mike Smith; on the contrary, her expression would unconsciously soften with tenderness whenever Little Mike was ntioned.

Dean often saw such an expression on his mother Sheila's face.

This ant that, in Ona's view, revealing information about Mike Smith might bring trouble to Little Mike—trouble she possibly considered more significant than the threat from the "killer or enemy" Dean had ntioned.

It was a frustrating situation. After all, as a Los Angeles five-star detective, Dean couldn't just string up a victim's relative and torture them for information simply because he hadn't obtained any leads.

His mind working quickly, Dean changed the subject and asked Ona to show him around the villa.

Though it was called a villa, the interior truly resembled a sowhat spartan nobleman's castle. However, it lacked the characteristic gloominess and narrowness of an actual ancient castle; the resemblance was purely in its style and architectural structure.

Dean noticed that the corridors and so rooms were filled with nurous artificially aged dieval-style weapons, taxidermied animals, and portraits, all seemingly displayed to showcase the owner as an avid enthusiast of the dieval era.