Chapter 17: Someone Even Stole This? (Please Keep Reading)

When a person encounters a joyful event, their spirits soar. Ao Xi had finally managed to secure a spot on the regular shift, becoming a proud full-time reserve deputy sheriff. His green card application had already been submitted; once he received it, he could apply for citizenship and officially become a police officer.

He greeted Susan first, not daring to compliment her casually this time—he was afraid she might take it seriously. Susan helped Ao Xi update his information sheet, then led him to retrieve his previous personal gear and two handguns. They went to the equipment room to exchange some items, essentially supplementing gear that part-timers didn’t need: a Motorola custom walkie-talkie, a body camera, a Taser X26 stun gun, a baton, and a hard ballistic vest, all packed into a large equipment bag.

There was also a Remington M870 shotgun and fifteen 12-gauge rounds—only that many. If fifteen shells couldn’t resolve the situation, there was no point in you being there; call SWAT instead. If necessary, he could also check out a riot shotgun that fired non-lethal beanbag rounds, but unless required, he wouldn’t. This shotgun had been in mass production even before Ao Xi’s father was born, yet it remained a staple for police and military, though not compulsory; officers could purchase other models at their own expense, though few were willing to pay.

Ao Xi carried all this gear out and found his designated patrol car, a Ford Taurus numbered 388 in classic black-and-white livery. The chief’s word was indeed reliable; the car was ninety percent new, which was as good as brand new. At least he wasn’t given a barely used vehicle with two hundred thousand kilometers on the clock.

He circled the car for an inspection and discovered many features missing from Mark’s old car: strip lights, four license plate scanners beneath the light bar, dash and rear cameras, a speed detector at the front, and a multifunction streaming rearview mirror, lending it a high-tech feel.

He tossed the equipment bag into the trunk, slid the baton into the door panel slot, mounted the Taser on its dedicated charger in the car, ensuring it was ready for use at any moment.

The shotgun went onto the gun rack inside. If an officer had a rifle permit, they could check out an AR-style rifle—the basic model cost under a thousand dollars. Officers could buy better ones at their own cost, but usually no one did. Rifles were expensive; decent models ran over a thousand dollars, top-tier ones exceeded two thousand. Handguns were much cheaper—a Glock 19 Gen5 MOS cost just over six hundred.

Ao Xi didn’t have the permit, so he couldn’t take one. That’s why, in some American police videos, some officers wield rifles while others only carry shotguns or handguns. It wasn’t that they didn’t know their shotguns or handguns were less effective—they simply didn’t have rifles.

After organizing everything, his preparations were complete. Ao Xi reported to Dispatch and began his first solo patrol.

He drove out, keeping his speed low, hoping to learn “fishing enforcement” from old officers: ticket everyone who drives faster than him.

He soon realized this wouldn’t work. In broad daylight, with clear visibility, cars on the road spotted his patrol car from afar and slowed down; he caught no one after a long time.

Ao Xi was a bit frustrated. If he couldn’t catch speeders, he’d have to steal the traffic department’s job and issue parking tickets. After all, the monthly quota had to be met; reportedly, a million or two tickets were issued annually.

Police work was tough; their salaries depended on district residents’ taxes. If funds ran short, they had to find ways themselves.

If you don’t pay enough, I’ll find another way to take money from your pocket—a stubborn resolve.

Before Ao Xi actually started issuing tickets, a voice crackled over the radio: “Adam388, Adam44, a burglary has occurred on Rampart Street. Please respond immediately.”

“Adam388, received.”

“Adam44, received.”

By the time Ao Xi followed the navigation to the address, Wally was already waiting downstairs. Ao Xi hurriedly got out and jogged over.

Wally nodded to him. “The burglary happened in a room on the fifth floor. A neighbor returning from shopping found the door open and the place in disarray, then called it in. Let’s go up and check.”

It was an old building with no elevator, so the two climbed the stairs to the scene. The room housed multiple occupants—a group rental, judging from the bedding on the floor at least six or seven people lived there.

With so many sharing the space, the burglar’s rummaging left chaos; there was barely room to step.

Wally was stumped, unsure whether to enter or not. He said, “Contact the station and have them check the registered landlord. The landlord should reach out to the tenants to come and check what’s missing.”

Ao Xi nodded, took out his phone, and called Susan. All rental properties had to be registered with the police, so finding the landlord and tenants by address was easy.

Judging from the state of the room, the landlord had definitely underreported the number of tenants.

Susan said she’d have the landlord call and notify the residents.

Ao Xi put down his phone and couldn’t help but ask Wally, who was standing with arms akimbo, “Aren’t you going to investigate who stole it?”

Wally answered boldly, “I don’t know how. Do you?”

“All my training was from you. What do you think?”

The two stood at the doorway, staring at each other like sentinels, when suddenly rapid footsteps echoed from downstairs.

Ao Xi turned toward the sound. Two men of East Asian appearance, faces sweaty, hurriedly climbed up and saw the two officers at the door.

Startled, they spun around to flee.

Ao Xi reacted instantly, shouting, “Don’t run! If you run, I’ll open fire!”

They immediately froze, not daring to move—American cops really would shoot.

“Come up. We’re LASD, only here for this burglary, not immigration issues,” Ao Xi said in their language.

“You’re Chinese?”

“Yes, I keep my word. Go check what’s missing.”

One of the men muttered, “Those Fujian guys also said their own people wouldn’t cheat each other.”

Ao Xi shot him a glare. “With talk like that, why not go do stand-up comedy?”

The man chuckled, about to say more, but his companion pulled him inside to check their losses.

“I told them we’re not immigration, we don’t deal with illegal status.”

Wally nodded—when Ao Xi spoke earlier, he’d glared like a bear.

Soon, more anxious residents arrived—the tiny room was home to over a dozen people.

After the crowd settled down, Ao Xi took statements one by one. According to their tally, each person had lost several thousand dollars, plus laptops, cameras, and other valuables, totaling over forty thousand dollars—a considerable sum.

The most outrageous was an unclaimed scratch-off lottery ticket, which the thief had cashed by scanning it with a smartphone. Ao Xi was stunned—how meticulous must the thief have been?

“Why don’t you deposit your money in the bank?” Ao Xi asked, then realized he’d posed a foolish question. None of them had legal status; banks wouldn’t give them accounts. Without legal status or a bank card, they couldn’t pay taxes, so wages were paid in cash.

Carrying cash wasn’t safe, so they kept it at home. Was the place secure?

Of course not—it was wiped out in a sweep.

Whether the theft was by an insider, a Chinatown gang, or a professional burglary crew was unknown, and not Ao Xi’s concern; the detective division would investigate and eventually provide an answer.

As for whether the money could be recovered—there was almost no hope.