Chapter 33: Chapter Thirty-Three: Losing the Car

Dusk.

In the noble, heavy, massive traditional wood-fired stove, a whole sheep bubbled away.

Comrade Jiang Fuzhen was naturally generous; in his youth, he would gladly split half a wild rabbit with friends, and now that he had money, treating people to lamb was no big deal.

The more often he hosted, the more his lamb-cooking skills improved, drawing even more friends to share the meal—until, almost imperceptibly, he entered a near-perfect positive cycle, with almost no flaws except for the money and time spent.

Jiang Yuan stepped inside and immediately smelled the savory aroma of lamb. Unlike chefs outside who chased efficiency, his father at home always had endless time for preparatory steps—like skimming off the scum. Many waited until a thick layer formed, then scooped it off with a few ladles, letting a little scum float and sink with the meat.

Jiang’s father did not do that. He stayed by the pot from the start, skimming off every bit of scum as it formed. Sometimes this process lasted half an hour.

This method not only reduced the lamb’s gamey odor but also helped control tenderness, for while boiling a whole sheep was simpler than roasting one, it still required considerable skill.

In a pot as wide as a large goose, the lamb—white streaked with red, red streaked with white—gently swayed and floated… Just looking at it, you’d never guess this was an ordinary family kitchen.

“Yuanzi’s back,” said relatives and friends who’d come for the lamb, offering casual greetings. Two brought their own bowls, chopsticks, and seasonings; the rest weren’t so particular.

“Sorry for making a mess,” some politely added.

Jiang Yuan waved his hand naturally: “It’s just two men here—can’t get any messier.”

Back in the village, he often ate meals from different households. Back then, families didn’t just bring food when they came for rabbit; they’d drop off gifts even when there was no occasion, and often, the offerings from a few households added up to a full meal.

Jiang Fuzhen stepped out of the kitchen, glanced over, and said: “Good, you’re back just in time—almost ready. Did you dissect a body today?”

“No bodies today,” Jiang Yuan replied.

“No bodies means you can eat with your hands. If you dissected a body, don’t touch the big pot of lamb. Either way, wash your hands.” Jiang Fuzhen drew a line for his son, then soon after brought out a large basin of lamb.

Jiang Yuan sat among the crowd, chopsticks in hand, eager to dig in.

“Start with the ribs,” Jiang Fuzhen beamed. “Today’s lamb’s thirty-two jin—a wether. I reckon the small ribs here taste best.”

Jiang Fuzhen’s hand swept through the air twice; when his elbow pulled back, the ribs had all landed in everyone’s bowls and plates.

Jiang Yuan used a plate, sprinkling salt and pepper—tiny specks of white mixed with black, known as pepper salt—onto the lamb, making the flavor seem to rise.

The lamb was tender but not soft, chewy but not tough. The first bite sent a burst of umami straight to his sinuses, the richness of fat rushing to his skull.

“Jiang Shu’s lamb is still the best—no gamey smell at all. So fragrant,” someone remarked, pausing briefly amid their eating.

The rest buried their heads, chewing noisily.

Jiang Fuzhen only smiled in the kitchen, tending to the remaining lamb.

He was old now, could only eat two or three bites before stopping, especially with lamb—it was too fatty, too greasy; two days straight would upset his stomach. But he still loved to cook, loved watching his son and the villagers eat together. It was a dream he’d had since youth—a happiness he’d only dared imagine.

Jiang Yuan was entirely different. At twenty-two, with his heavy mental and physical workload, he was at his peak appetite. Whether beef, lamb, pork, or chicken—if it tasted good, he ate it all. Even if it tasted bad, he’d still eat seven-tenths full before putting down his chopsticks to critique.

As they ate, they chatted, the atmosphere warm and easy.

Those present were all relatives or neighbors he’d known for at least ten or twenty years. Perhaps because they knew each other so well, the conversation quickly turned to the latest novelty—Forensic Jiang Yuan.

“Jiang Yuan, you’re a cop now—how many cases have you solved?” Aunt Hua ate little but talked eagerly.

Jiang Yuan chuckled. “I’m a forensic pathologist—I’ve assisted in a few cases.”

“What cases?” Aunt Hua immediately pressed, rising to ladle a bowl of soup.

Jiang Yuan said: “I can’t talk about case details.”

“Police have rules,” a young man nearby explained knowingly.

Jiang Yuan nodded in agreement: “Case content must be kept confidential.”

“By the way, Yuanzi’s a cop now—help your uncle out,” Uncle Thirteen, who’d been shoveling lamb into his mouth, looked up, gulped two sips of soup, sighed contentedly, and said: “I lost my electric bike—six months ago. I reported it, but they never found it. Can you help me get it back?”

Since the village’s demolition, everyone had gotten rich; many households bought cars. But given the county’s road conditions and distances, most still preferred electric bikes for daily travel—including Jiang Yuan, who rode one to work.

Electric bike thefts… were always common and had an extremely low recovery rate.

Jiang Yuan put down his lamb. “Uncle Thirteen, not all police handle the same things. Electric bike thefts fall under the jurisdiction of the police station.”

“But they’re still colleagues.”

“I can ask around,” Jiang Yuan thought. If he asked his master Wu Jun for help, he might get a word to the station. After all, any abnormal death in the district required a forensic pathologist’s involvement—Wu Jun knew plenty of people.

Uncle Thirteen frowned. “Whether you ask or not doesn’t matter—I just want my bike back. A Yashitai, over five thousand yuan. I picked a good one, barely rode it before it vanished. Your aunt blames me to death.”

Jiang Yuan sighed. “Being a cop doesn’t mean you can find lost stuff for everyone. Electric bike thefts are among the more complicated cases.”

“I bet it was those old scrap collectors who come around here. Can you check on them?” Uncle Thirteen’s brow twitched, quick-witted. “The property office has their names—I can ask…”

Jiang Yuan’s spine prickled at the mention of checking people—investigating individuals wasn’t just a violation of rules, it was outright illegal. He quickly stopped Uncle Thirteen: “No… no rush—I’ll ask around for you.”

Whether the bike was found or not didn’t matter—helping investigate people was a major taboo. As a rookie, Jiang Yuan had no desire to escalate the conversation to that level.

Jiang Yongxin, who ran a car wash downstairs, raised his hand while eating: “Count me in—I lost two bikes.”

“Does last year count? I lost one last year too,” Aunt Hua added, never missing a chance for excitement.