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out that information anyway. Maybe it was the King of France. You might want to ask him.”
    Richard’s ice eyes moved around the street. Without saying anything else, he swung his heavy, chip-laden shoulders defiantly away.
Sam
was certain they would meet again.
    The backup patrol car cruised up to him with its lights still off.
Jackson
, the officer inside, rolled down his window.
Sam
went over to the car and leaned against the front door.
    “Thanks for dropping by.”
    “No problem,” Jackson said. Jackson was a good neighbor. He never barged into a call, but he was always there to help. “What did the kid do?”
    “He waited for the green light.”
    They spoke the same code, but this was a code that even Jackson did not understand.
    “He was hanging around the front door of the Donut Shop,”
Sam
explained. “Before he crossed the street, he stood and waited for the light to change. Too upright a citizen to be standing in front of the Donut Shop.”
    “Nothing on him though?” Jackson asked.
    “No, but I imagine there will be. The kid is hard core.”
    “Maybe I’ll just drive past him and take another look.”
    “He’ll like that.”
    Sam moved from the car door and Jackson pulled slowly away from the curb. He turned in the alley before Second Avenue and accelerated north to take a closer look at
Richard
Jonathan
Rutherford
.
    Sam stood on the corner a moment longer. The Donut Shop was still dark.
Pierre
should have been there by now. Where are you today, Mr. King of
France
? Miraculously the sun began to rise on Pike Street . He felt the rays of sunshine on his face as he squinted into the light. It was hard on his eyes and he turned away from it. He walked back into the Market. Pike Place, where he had parked his car, remained in shadows.

Chapter 4
     
    The elevator had no button for the third floor. The girl with long dark braids stood before the control panel, her finger poised to push, but there was no button. There was one for the first floor, then none until the fourth. Other people reached in front of her and punched buttons for the higher floors. The door closed and the elevator carried them up, past the floor she wanted. Did it even exist? She had traveled all this distance from Alaska , and farther in other ways, and now could not even find the floor. It seemed like some kind of joke, but no one was laughing. No one even noticed her.
    She stepped off on the fourth floor behind a stream of people who disappeared through doors on both sides of the elevator lobby. Everyone else knew where to go. Three women hurried toward the elevator but just missed it. Annoyed that it had left without them, one of them punched the button with more force than necessary. All three watched the lighted numbers on top of the elevator mark its ascent. She stood apart and wished she could break into their confidential circle and ask how to find the third floor. But it was
7:30
in the morning, they were in a hurry to go to work, and they wouldn’t have time for ridiculous questions.
    She noticed more elevators on the other side of the lobby. There was a small sign fastened to the wall. “Police Department Elevators.” She walked over to the police elevators and walked into the first one that opened. No one else was in the cab. Her hand trembled as she delicately touched the third-floor button.
    For a moment as the elevator door closed, she considered going all the way down to the first floor again, to escape to the street, to the motel, to the airport, reversing all the steps she had taken. How far back would she have to go? When the door opened, she stepped into the lobby on the third floor.
    Above an opening cut into the opposite wall, there was a small, waist-high wooden counter. Behind it was a room cluttered with shelves. A man in uniform stood behind the counter and looked at her. She walked toward him.
    “Is this the patrol office?” she asked.
    “Down that way.” He pointed with the least possible effort.