First Avenue (8 page)

“1-David-4,” he said.

Radio responded to his call letters.

“A citizen has reported a minor disturbance at First and Pike. I have it on view. No backup is needed. Copy this description, will you?”

“Go ahead, David-4.”

“The suspect is a white male, eighteen, five-foot-ten, wearing an orange baseball cap, blue jacket, and blue jeans.”

“Received, David-4. I’ll log you out.”

When the light changed and the boy started across
Pike Street
,
Sam
crossed
First Avenue
to meet him. The boy began slouching toward the east, away from
Sam
.

“I want to talk to you,”
Sam
said. His voice was loud enough to be unmistakable. He also pointed at the boy. Even so the boy could not believe it.

“Me?” he asked. He stopped in the middle of the street.

“Yes. Come over here.”
Sam
waved him over with his hand.

“I didn’t do anything,” the boy protested. He didn’t move from where he had stopped in the street.

“Good, then this won’t take long. Come over here.”

The boy then walked toward
Sam
—not directly to him, but in the general direction. “You have to have some reason to stop me,” he said.

“I have a reason. What’s your name?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. I was just walking down the street.”

“I see. Come here. Listen to this.”
Sam
raised the radio that was in his left hand. The boy was now close enough that
Sam
gestured with a single finger for the boy to join him. “Come here,”
Sam
repeated.

Reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, the boy took a few more steps toward
Sam
.
Sam
took a few toward the boy.

“1-David-4,”
Sam
said into the radio. After Radio acknowledged him, he continued, “Will you repeat the description you have of the suspect at First and Pike?” He held the radio out so that the boy could hear.

“David-4, I have your suspect as a white male, eighteen, five-foot-ten, orange cap, blue windbreaker, blue jeans.”

“Thank you, Radio.”
Sam
shoved the radio back into its holster. Another patrol car crept around Post Alley in the Market and shut its lights off.
Sam
lifted his hand to tell it to stay there. The boy saw the car, too. “I guess that’s you. Radio never lies.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“So maybe somebody’s playing a joke on you. What’s your name?”

“
Richard
.”

“Your last name?”

“
Rutherford
.”

“Do you carry any weapons,
Richard
?”

“No.”

“Let me check. Turn around for a second. Lift your arms.”

The boy turned away from
Sam
and raised his arms from his side.
Sam
felt the boy’s coat pockets first, found them empty, and then used his palms and fingers to search for anything big enough to be a weapon.
Richard
had none. He had a wallet, however.

“Take out your wallet,
Richard
, and show me some ID.”

The boy reached for his wallet and fumbled through it until he found a social security card. He handed it to
Sam
.

“
Richard
Jonathan
Rutherford
,”
Sam
said, as he held it up to the streetlight. “That’s quite a name. Your parents must have thought you would become an important man. Are you important,
Richard
?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes showed anger.
Sam
pulled a pen and notebook from his shirt pocket and wrote down the boy’s name.

“Am I under arrest or something?”

“Not yet, Richard. How old are you?”

“Ni
net
een.”

“Got a record,
Richard
?”

“No.”

“What’s your date of birth?”

The boy gave him a date, and
Sam
wrote it down although he had no way to verify it.

Sam pulled out his radio and asked for a name check. When Radio acknowledged,
Sam
gave the boy’s full name, spelling the middle and last names, and the boy’s birth date. He watched the boy’s eyes while he talked.

“Where are you living now?”
Sam
asked while he waited for Radio to run the name in the computer.

“I’m staying with some friends. I don’t know the address.
Roy Street
, I think.”

Sam nodded. He doubted he would get any closer than that.

“Do you go to school, do you work? What do you do with your time?”

“Nothing.”

“When I came around the corner, I saw you standing in front of the Donut Shop.”

“So?”

“Do you hang out there? Are you one of
Pierre
’s buddies?”

“Who’s
Pierre
?” the boy asked insolently.

“The King of France,”
Sam
said.

“David-4,” said the woman’s voice on the radio.
Sam
knew then that the name was clear. If not, the operator would have addressed him differently, beginning the transmission with a full “Radio to 1-David-4.”

Sam lifted the radio to his mouth, repeated his call letters, and waited as Radio told him the name was clear. The boy knew he was home free then.
Sam
could see it in his eyes. He gave the social security card back.

“Well,
Richard
, I guess it’s your lucky day. I don’t see any bodies on the street, so you’re free to go.”

Richard was no longer in a hurry to leave. “Who called you?” he asked. His eyes narrowed into small stones of ice.

“I’m not real sure. Can’t give 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.

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. “End of the hall.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

On the green tile floor a line of yellow tape led to another much larger counter that stretched the entire width of the wide hall. Behind it daylight poured in through a bank of windows. Slowly, with dread and anticipation, she followed the yellow line down the green hallway, past closed doors, past wooden benches, until she came to the counter. There, from a small speaker mounted on the wall, she heard police voices, like on television, with sharp piercing static coming after each voice. There were many voices, one after another—all different.

Before her was a bell on top of the counter, but she didn’t ring it. A policeman sat at a desk not far from her. She carefully lifted her hands onto the counter and waited for him to see her.

When the policeman looked up from his paperwork and noticed her, he pushed himself away from the desk. He removed his glasses and carried them in one hand as he walked toward her. He was older than she thought a policeman would be, and his white eyebrows stuck out in all directions. His face was not unkind.

“What can I do for you, young lady?”

She cleared her throat and wet her lips with her tongue. “I’m looking for
Officer
Wright
. I called the information office, and they said I should come here.”