Chapter 12: A Bitter Smile (Please Keep Reading)

Wally remained indifferent.

The other officers laughed and said, “Don’t rush, rookie. The suspect’s on the highway—by the time you get there, you won’t even catch a whiff of exhaust. Besides, the Highway Patrol’s got it covered. Trust in their skills.”

Aoxi could only force a smile and lean back against the car door. These veteran cops were masters at collecting their paychecks with minimal effort.

But things unfolded just as they predicted. After about ten minutes, the radio crackled with a call from dispatch: “Dispatch to all units: The suspect on Highway 10 has been apprehended. Cancel backup. Resume regular patrol.”

Wally called out, and the two removed their bulletproof vests and got into the car. The vests were stifling hot, but going without them wasn’t an option.

After basking in the cool air from the AC for a while, Aoxi finally felt comfortable.

“Are we continuing patrol? Or should we grab something to eat first?”

They’d received dispatch’s notice a little after six o’clock, and now it was past seven—they hadn’t even had dinner.

Wally shook his head. “I’ll keep patrolling. You can head home or enjoy a proper dinner at a restaurant. Your backup shift is over.”

“Oh, I see. But we could grab a bite first, right? My treat.”

“Patrol can’t stop. I’ll swing by the department’s partner restaurant later, grab a burger or something. Eating there comes with a meal subsidy—save where you can. You should head back.”

Seeing Wally’s resolve, Aoxi didn’t argue further. He opened the door and got out—only then did he realize he had no way to get home.

“How are you planning to get back?” Wally called out. “However you want to, up to you.”

“Aren’t you going to drop me at the station?” Aoxi was stunned.

“I said patrol can’t stop. Figure it out yourself.” Wally laughed wickedly and sped off.

Aoxi clenched his fists, wishing he could punch Wally—this was definitely intentional.

With no other option, he pulled out his phone and ordered an Uber.

When the Uber arrived and realized it was a police officer requesting the ride, the driver’s expression shifted—he drove extremely cautiously, always erring on the side of caution, never rushing even by a second.

The slow pace was unbearable for Aoxi. “I’m off duty, just heading back to pick up my car. Relax, I won’t cause you any trouble.”

The driver, an ethnic Chinese, let out a relieved sigh and said in Mandarin, “You scared me—I almost thought I’d be deported.”

Aoxi chuckled and replied in Mandarin, “So you’re Chinese? I thought so, but didn’t dare assume.”

There’s a difference between East Asian, Chinese-American, and Chinese—some Chinese-Americans have been in the States for generations and don’t speak any Chinese, while newly arrived Chinese might have landed just this year, even today. Claiming kinship instantly isn’t always wise.

The driver was amazed to find a Chinese police officer and insisted on treating Aoxi to a meal, taking him to a Chinese restaurant. The two toasted and drank together.

After a few drinks, the driver couldn’t help but pour out his troubles—he’d paid to sneak into the country and lived in hiding, terrified of immigration catching him and sending him back. With no English and no work permit, he could only work illegally in Chinese restaurants.

The Chinese restaurant owners were ruthless, paying wages a fifth below the legal minimum, offering no food or lodging, requiring two hours of unpaid labor daily, and sometimes withholding wages for up to half a year.

He was angry but didn’t dare call the police; confronting the boss meant being threatened by the gang enforcers. Truly, seeing a fellow countryman could mean getting shot in the face.

Speaking of his wife and kids who hadn’t followed him over, the driver sobbed on the table.

Aoxi tried to comfort him, but the driver soon fell asleep right there.

With no choice, Aoxi settled the bill and called for another driver waiting outside to take the man home.

Afraid the substitute driver might harm him, Aoxi pointed to his police uniform and warned, “If he doesn’t get home safely, you’ll answer to me.”

The driver, also Chinese, promised repeatedly.

After sending the driver off, Aoxi realized he was still in the restaurant and needed to get home himself.

Exchanging helpless glances with the other waiting drivers at the entrance, he ordered another Uber.

By the time he returned to his apartment, it was past one in the morning.

Lying in bed, Aoxi couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. What a chaotic day.

He slept soundly, and the next morning, yawning, he changed into casual clothes and headed out—his XT4 was still parked outside the station, and he needed to retrieve it. This time, he took the bus to save money; rideshare was too expensive.

Just as he reached the station entrance, Mark walked out.

“Morning, Mark. Have you eaten yet?”

“You’re early too. I… I have.”

Well, foreigners aren’t used to greetings like this. Aoxi simply said, “Go ahead and get busy. I’m just here to pick up my car.”

Mark nodded. “I heard from Wally you did well yesterday. How about joining me on patrol today?”

“Thank Wally for looking out for me yesterday. I’d love to join you, but I haven’t received any notice, and my uniform hasn’t been washed.” Aoxi scratched his head, feeling a bit troubled.

“I’ll go in and talk to Susan. She’ll schedule you. Just drive home, grab your gear, and come back. The station has plenty of uniforms; you can buy another set.”

Aoxi’s certainty grew—they were part-time salesmen for the uniform supplier! Now he’d caught them in the act.

Joking aside, patrol was no laughing matter.

He hurried home, dropped his uniform at the downstairs dry cleaners, and brought his duty belt and holster to the station.

American police officers can leave their issued firearm and gear in the station’s locker or take them home, just like their patrol cars.

But usually, they leave them in the locker—most have more than one gun. Besides the issued sidearm, they often carry a concealed personal weapon, and at home, they have a handgun or shotgun for home defense. Not bringing their issued weapon home is simply because they already have others.

He only had the one issued sidearm. He hadn’t expected to be called for patrol on short notice, so he hadn’t brought it, but he kept a concealed, unregistered gun in his car for protection—a risky move. If someone searched his vehicle, it could spell trouble.

For now, he had no choice. Once he acquired a weapon he could store in the locker, he’d be in the clear.

Aoxi bought another uniform from the station’s supply office, muttering to himself as he joined Mark for patrol.

Once in the car, Aoxi asked casually, “How’s the investigation on that shooting you mentioned a while back? Any results?”

Mark replied offhandedly, “Nothing much. It was dark, no surveillance, no witnesses, nothing came up. The case was shelved. We have plenty of unsolved cases like that every year. If we can’t find anything, it’s left alone—besides, the victims are all gang members, so it doesn’t matter.”

Aoxi instantly felt relieved. Shelved—after a year or so, no one would look into it anymore. That meant he’d be unofficially cleared.

“Aren’t we supposed to be patrolling? You’re off the patrol route, aren’t you?”

The area covered by the Temple station was substantial, divided among several patrol teams, each with its own sector.

Aoxi was most familiar with Mark’s patrol sector, and he immediately noticed Mark had deviated from the area.