Blackstone Code-Chapter 663: What I’m Doing Has Nothing to Do With Money

This was something Michael had come to realize after entering prison.

When a person falls into a bad situation—not quite hopeless—after a period of panic and despair, most eventually calm down.

Michael did, too. He started re-examining his final case, wondering if there were issues he hadn’t noticed or aspects he could still use.

Maybe it was out of stubbornness, but he ultimately managed to uncover elements he had previously overlooked—like the newsboys who sourced change for Lynch.

These individuals seemed scattered and insignificant, but if even a few of them could testify—say, how much change they had exchanged from Lynch during a specific time—it would allow a rough estimate of Lynch’s actual cash flow.

At the time, Lynch was unemployed, meaning he had no legal income. Even if his girlfriend had handed over her savings to him, Michael was convinced Lynch had far more money than what she could’ve provided.

This implied an extra source of income, one that hadn’t been declared. No job, no official filings—this meant Lynch was hiding income, which fell squarely under the jurisdiction of the Federal Tax Bureau.

As long as the judge had a reasonable IQ, they would authorize deeper investigations into Lynch. And back then, it would’ve been entirely possible to uncover illegal activity.

There’s no such thing as the perfect crime—that’s just fiction writers’ fantasy.

There was once a serial killer in the Federation who used different methods, locations, and targets for each murder. After his arrest, he confessed to his system: dice, darts, a map—it was all random. At first, the randomness made it impossible to connect the cases.

It’s like a math puzzle: maybe from the first to the 999th number, there’s no pattern—but once the 1000th fits a formula, a pattern emerges.

No crime is truly flawless—especially one driven by conscious intent. Every crime has a motive, even random ones.

Lynch wasn’t untouchable either. All it needed was one person to step forward against him.

But back then, Michael’s focus had been entirely on Lynch and Fox, ignoring the seemingly minor roles—like the newsboys or the news dealer who vanished.

Of course, he didn’t know the distributor had been killed by the newsboys, led by the Greene brothers, on the road out of town, and that the body had been sold to a medical school, leaving him missing to this day. Michael still thought the man had either fled or been eliminated.

He shared his thoughts with the pale-faced investigator. “Also, there was someone critical during Lynch’s early days—the news dealer from the neighborhood where he was staying.”

“He was also involved in Lynch and Fox’s business. If you can find him, he might know something.”

The pale-faced man noted both leads carefully. After asking a few more questions and getting no further answers, he ended the conversation.

“These two leads are already great. You can expect good news from me soon…” He closed his notebook. “Once this is over, I’ll make sure the judge understands your value. You could be out in two or three years.”

After reassuring Michael, the man left the room, visibly excited. He had a feeling he’d found something crucial. If he could follow these small threads, he might be able to take Lynch down.

Michael returned to his cell. Gap looked up. “You seem in a good mood,” he said, leaning on his soft bed.

In prison, only political or white-collar criminals got soft beds. For someone like Gap, with no real connections, having one was extremely rare.

He was holding a law textbook—he’d been studying the subject.

Michael nodded. “There’s been some progress. You know that case I was on? The one that got me in here.” Gap nodded, and Michael continued, “There have been some developments. I might be able to get out early.”

He smiled. He had confessed to convincing his son to take the fall for crimes he himself committed, which earned him a harsher sentence.

If he hadn’t, he’d have had to serve another ten years—by then, everything would be over for him.

But now, there was a chance. If the state tax bureau nailed Lynch, and his evidence proved key, and the bureau vouched for him in court, he could shave off one to three years.

Then, as a specialist, he might only have to serve another two or three years before being released. Getting out early was what mattered most.

Gap congratulated him. “You used to avoid talking about this. Mind telling me more now?”

A moment later, Gap gave him a strange look. “You know… Lynch?”

Michael froze. “Sounds like you know him too?”

“I do. He used to employ my ex-wife. That’s how I met him. I didn’t expect the person you were talking about to be him.” Gap looked a little dazed—they had unexpectedly found more common ground in their shared misfortune.

Michael gave a complicated smile. “A terrifying young man.”

His comment came from calmly reflecting on it all. Despite being disadvantaged in every way, Lynch had used public opinion to pressure the Federal Tax System, forcing them to abandon Michael just to quiet the outrage.

Even an older, more experienced man couldn’t have done it better. What Lynch accomplished was simply beyond his years.

Gap agreed. “Definitely terrifying.”

His words came from watching Lynch rise at an unbelievable pace. Not long ago, Vera had just been his bookkeeper. Now she was head auditor and CFO of a corporation, and Lynch’s assets had ballooned to a terrifying scale.

Just what he currently held nearly matched the size of the old Restoan Group.

That group had taken decades to grow—Lynch had done it in barely over two years. It wasn’t just surprising. It was astonishing.

That afternoon, after lunch, Gap didn’t go out for rec time. He made an excuse to brush Michael off, then went to find a guard and asked to see the warden.

“What brings you here, Mr. Gap?” the warden asked with a broad smile. He used to pay hefty fees to hire professional accountants with little to show for it.

Since Gap arrived, not only had he saved him a fortune, but he also helped him legally avoid more taxes. The warden thought very highly of him.

Gap adjusted his glasses with a familiar smile. “I’d like to make a phone call.”

The warden didn’t refuse. He pointed at the phone on his desk with a casual wave.

Federal prisons didn’t entirely cut off inmate communication, but it was normally limited to letters—which could be reviewed and censored. Phone calls weren’t allowed.

Clearly, the warden was breaking the rules—but who cared?

Here, he was king. His word was law.

Seeing the warden wasn’t leaving, Gap knew he wouldn’t get privacy. He simply picked up the phone and dialed a number.

The warden watched with curiosity. “That’s a call to Eminence?” Gap nodded. He asked again, “I didn’t know you had friends in Eminence.”

Gap smiled before the call connected. “My ex-wife lives in Eminence now. I saw her on TV once.”

The warden lost interest in asking further. He didn’t care about the call’s content. Lighting a cigarette, he kicked his feet up on the desk and drifted into idle thoughts.

Soon, the call connected.

“Hello, this is Blackstone Fund. How may I assist you?”

The receptionist’s sweet voice instinctively made people want to act more refined. Few would yell at a pleasant-sounding female operator—something they often did with male ones.

At Lynch’s request, all Blackstone Fund operators were women with sweet voices. Looks didn’t matter.

“I’d like you to transfer this call to the CFO’s office. My name is Gap. She’ll take my call—just connect me.”

The receptionist hesitated for a moment, but eventually did as he asked.

A moment later, she returned. “There’s no one there at the moment. I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Gap frowned. “Then transfer me to her secretary or assistant.”

The receptionist’s voice dropped, soft and apologetic. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. I’ve already broken company protocol…”

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks when this is done…”

“Sorry…”

“A thousand!”

“It’s not about the money…”

“Ten thousand!”

“Connecting your call now. Please hold…”