The police car drove along the street for a while. Wang Bo glanced at the roadside signs and said, “Turn left at the next intersection — let’s drive in and have a look.”

Uncle Bing thought he’d found something and immediately straightened up, turning the wheel and driving down the road. Less than five hundred meters later they came upon the sign for the Dunedin Botanic Garden.

This botanical garden is one of the South Island’s largest and most diverse specialized gardens. Founded in 1863, it’s also the oldest botanical garden in New Zealand. A driveway led into the park; Uncle Bing hesitated, but Wang Bo nodded decisively, so he slowed and drove in.

Wang Bo rolled down his window and took in the scene. Spring had arrived and the place was beautiful — streams murmured, paths wound through quiet groves, fountains danced, and birds sang. It was elegant and peaceful, like a little paradise removed from the world.

“So beautiful,” he couldn’t help but sigh.

Uncle Bing agreed. “Yes, it’s lovely, boss. But what does this have to do with the case?”

Wang Bo replied, “Nothing, really.”

“Uh… then why did we come here?” Uncle Bing was momentarily puzzled.

Wang Bo said, “This is the South Island’s most famous botanical garden — how could I miss a chance to visit? I’m thinking of establishing a botanical garden in our town someday. What do you think?”

Uncle Bing could only nod. “As long as you’re happy.”

The Dunedin Botanic Garden is made up of several themed gardens — a rose garden, glasshouses, an herb garden, and even a Japanese garden. You could see all kinds of exotic and rare plants here. With a phoenix tree in your yard, you might even attract a golden phoenix — the garden attracted botanists for all kinds of fieldwork, and botanical gardens worldwide often exchanged catalogs and seeds with it.

They drove around the grounds and Wang Bo spotted four or five botanists with fliers announcing upcoming work reports. There were also several exhibition halls in the park, almost all donated by wealthy patrons or research institutes; the garden itself just provided the land.

After circling the garden, Wang Bo had collected a lot — he’d filled his phone with hundreds of photos. He’d sort them out later; they could serve as reference for building a botanical garden or large park in Sunset Town.

“Next we need to start work,” Uncle Bing said. “First find some local thugs or lowlifes and see if we can get information from them.”

That wasn’t so simple. Neither of them knew Dunedin well. This city wasn’t like chaotic places such as Mexico or Brazil where criminals were visible on the streets; the offenders and thugs here didn’t dare show themselves. After an hour of driving around they still hadn’t found a target.

Wang Bo thought for a moment, picked up the telephone on the police car and called the service desk. “Using our current location as the origin, are there places nearby where crimes tend to occur?”

The female dispatcher answered politely, “About six hundred meters from you, at 15 Cape Town Road, there’s a parking lot. In the past two weeks two cars have been stolen, and four vehicles vandalized.”

Uncle Bing immediately turned the wheel and headed that way. Wang Bo shrugged. “See? Finding them isn’t that hard.”

Six hundred meters is nothing for a car — just a press of the gas. They circled the open parking lot. “This won’t do,” Uncle Bing said. “A patrol car is too conspicuous. Even if there are car thieves, they won’t act while we’re visible.”

There’s a saying in New Zealand: one eye of the thief is on the loot, the other on the police.

Wang Bo nodded and then said, “Actually, why do we have to catch thieves and interrogate them? Doesn’t the police station have its share of lowlifes? Couldn’t we question them instead?”

Uncle Bing laughed helplessly. “No — that won’t work. You don’t get information in the station by interrogation so much as by trading. At the station we don’t have the right chips to trade with them, and the atmosphere inside isn’t suitable for that kind of talk.”

Skyscrapers surrounded the parking lot. They parked beside a supermarket. A security guard approached and said, “Officers, you can’t park here.”

Wang Bo flashed his badge. “We’re on a case. Please cooperate, thank you.”

The guard shrugged and didn’t press it. But after they left, the guard muttered with disdain, “What’s the fuss? Just parasites living off taxpayers’ hard-earned money. They still call it policing — hundreds of cows were stolen and it’s not solved yet, and they still have the nerve to pretend they’re doing real work!”

Wang Bo felt his calves tremble with anger. What did that mean? Sure, maybe he could admit to being not perfect at every case, but calling them parasites — that he wouldn’t accept. He glared at the guard, changed clothes and headed toward the parking lot.

Every task force unit was equipped with binoculars. The two of them went up to the second level of the parking structure, found a spot, and took out their binoculars to surveil the whole lot.

Compared with many countries, New Zealand’s resources were truly generous. This parking lot was open-air and covered thousands of square meters. In big Chinese cities you’d never see such wasteful land use for a parking lot. In New Zealand, when car thieves steal a vehicle they usually first pry open the door with tools, then go under the steering wheel to expose the ignition wiring and connect it — an experienced hand could finish the job in two or three minutes.

After stealing a car there are usually two routes: first, disguise it and re-register it for the road; second, sell it to an illegal repair shop and have it stripped for parts.

This was Wang Bo’s first time doing surveillance work. After lying against the window for less than half an hour he understood why this job is called one of the hardest in policing.

Waiting is a strange thing; it stretches out time. Wang Bo felt like he’d been there half an hour, but when he checked the time only ten minutes had passed.

The work was extremely dull, especially in the afternoon when the car paint reflected the sunlight — it was harsh, and after looking at it too long his eyes watered.

Uncle Bing went to buy coffee and snacks and handed them up. “I’ll take over, boss. You rest a bit.”

Trained SAS — now that’s something. Wang Bo felt he couldn’t stand it any longer, but Uncle Bing could peer through the binoculars seemingly without effort, resting his eyes every minute or two.

He didn’t know how long had passed — at least two hours. The sun had already begun to slant toward the west. Wang Bo was chatting happily on his phone when Uncle Bing nudged him and handed over the binoculars.

Wang Bo took them and said, “Okay, you rest. I’ll watch now.”

“No, boss — people are coming out. Look: those two white youths, one bald and one in a blue tracksuit. Those two are the targets.”