After finishing the report, Felix handed it to Carles. Carles took it and set it aside."Sit down, Felix. I want to talk to you."
"Alright." Felix pulled out a chair and sat.
"You know, working in the Chinese community is something many officers envy. People here are diligent, kind, and well-educated. It makes day-to-day work pleasant. And the food scene isn't bad either. Serious incidents are rare. Compared to other areas, it's safer—you don't have to worry about drivers suddenly pulling a gun during a routine stop.So when I heard Major Crimes wanted you, and you agreed, I was surprised. I want you to give me a reason."
They moved quickly, Felix thought.
He considered his words. "There's no special reason. I'm still young. I want to see more of the world."
"No other reason?"
"No."
Carles spread his hands. "With that answer, I can't talk you out of it. Still, I hope you'll think carefully. Being a cop is just a job. Life matters more."
"Alright. I'll think about it."
"You're brushing me off, but fine. Your transfer request needs my signature. I'll hold onto it until the time's right."
"Carles, come on. Give me a reason."
"You're still a rookie. If you go now, Major Crimes will eat you alive. Once you're at least a Police Officer I, I'll let you go."
"That'll take forever."
"Then rack up commendations. Promotions move faster that way."
Felix rolled his eyes, stood, and left—grabbing Carles's iced Coke on the way out. He twisted off the cap, took a long swig, and let out a breath. Major Crimes had moved fast, faster than he expected. And Carles blocking him hadn't been on his list either.
Still, Carles wasn't wrong. A rookie wouldn't carry the same weight as a full officer. It wasn't urgent.
Felix exchanged a few words with colleagues, then headed out on patrol. Today, he planned to write more tickets—his numbers had fallen behind after back-to-back administrative leaves. Susan wanted him to catch up. The gap was big, too big to close easily.
"Adam 388, a burglary reported at Teriyaki Madness on Truman Street. Respond.""Copy. On my way."
So much for tickets. They could wait until tomorrow. Felix drove toward the scene.
At the intersection, he parked and got out. A man walked up. "Hello, officer. I'm James, the restaurant manager. I called it in."Felix pulled out his notepad, jotting down the name. "Alright, Mr. James. Let's take a look."
"Of course. This way."
At the front entrance, both glass doors were shattered, fragments littering the ground."See here, officer? They broke through the front doors."
Felix crouched, brushing over shards. No bullet marks—just smashed glass. "Looks like blunt force. No alarm system?"
"No, just surveillance cameras. That's why there was no alert last night. We only discovered it this morning."
Basic burglar alarms were crude—an infrared beam across the door that triggered lights and noise when broken. Better systems had night-shift monitors who could check cameras and call the police. But even then, alarms only went so far. Enough to scare off petty thieves. If not—well, the cops would deal with it later.
"Can we take a look inside?"
"Of course."
Felix nodded and stepped carefully over the glass. Inside, the tables and chairs were untouched. Polite burglar, he thought.
"Our main loss was the register—and the cash inside," James said.
Felix followed his finger. The register had been smashed open, the drawer emptied."How much was taken? Why leave money in it overnight?"
"Not much. Just a small change, maybe a few dozen dollars," James admitted. "This place has been here a long time. We'd never had trouble before. We kept some cash for the next day's opening. Didn't think it'd make us a target."
Complacency. It always crept in.
Felix was about to reply when something caught his eye—a sticky note on the counter. He leaned closer. Scrawled handwriting read: Sorry. Needed money for drugs. Won't happen again.
A junkie with manners, apparently.
James had already seen it. He gave Felix a helpless smile.
They went upstairs to the office to check the surveillance. The manager had prepared, copying the footage onto a USB stick.
On screen, the break-in matched Felix's guess. Past midnight, a man in black, hood up and mask on, carrying a hammer. He smashed the door, swept a flashlight across the floor, went straight for the register, and cracked it open in seconds. Cash stuffed into his pocket, gone in less than a minute.
"An old hand. Plenty of practice."
Like killing, Felix thought. Killing was easy—disposing of the body was hard.
A clean burglary was the same: fast, precise, and rewarding required scouting, planning routes, preparing tools, disguises, and exit plans. Becoming a career thief meant dozens of runs—and a mind hardened against setbacks.
In America, the system almost encouraged it. Arrest, release, repeat. Nobody treated jail time as a deterrent. That's how career criminals get seasoned.
Felix wrapped up with the USB stick and was about to leave when another man approached—the manager of a nearby shop. His store had been hit the same night. At a glance, the method was identical. Surveillance confirmed it. Same man, same hammer, same speed.
Only this time, the thief walked off with the entire register—a newer touchscreen model, capable of online and in-store processing. Worth far more.