On Sunday morning the city streets were deserted. The Monday thru Friday office buildings stood silent, and traffic was sparse. Across the street from the Richards Boulevard police station Jan sat in her car, sipping coffee, watching the entrance to the precinct. She’d been watching for more than two hours, as the officers parked their patrol cars and sauntered up the steps and into the station, or went to their cars to either begin or end their shift.

Another hour passed, and then she saw him. Bobby Callous, wearing his cop’s uniform and a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, parked his patrol car in front of the police station, ran a comb through his sandy hair, and walked toward the steps leading to the station entrance. Jan hopped out of her car and ran across the street. She caught up to him at the bottom of the steps.

“Hey!” He turned around as she approached.

“You damn well better drop the charges against Carter. He was protecting me from you.”

“No chance, Lady. And if you bring charges against me you’ll regret it. Besides, you have no proof. We were both drunk, and you were advertising.”

“That’s a lie. And you’re a disgrace to the entire police department.”

“You want to know why I won’t drop the charges?” He turned around to reveal the stitches in the back of his head. “See that? He hit me from behind with that heavy fire extinguisher. I was walking away from him when he picked it up and hit me. You didn’t see it…and I’ll bet he didn’t tell you that. He pulled me off of you and we wrestled on the ground. Then I got up and started to walk away. That’s when he came after me from behind and whacked me. He didn’t have to do that, and that’s why I won’t drop the charges.”

“I don’t believe you,” she replied.

“That’s too bad, because the judge will. Being hit from behind…he’s the guilty one.”

“You’re ten times guiltier than he is,” she said angrily.

“Give it up,” he replied. “Your black boy’s going to jail.”

Jan swung her arm around to slap him across the face, but he caught her arm in mid-air.

“Watch it lady! You almost assaulted a police officer. I could have you arrested for that.” He let go of her arm, turned around, and walked up the steps to the precinct.

That morning Wes Russell attended St. John’s Lutheran church on 17th street, a solid, red-brick building and one of the oldest, most established churches in town. He had been a regular at the church for the past three years, since his return from overseas, when his stint in the Peace Corp came to an end. He was seated in a pew at the back of the church when he felt a vibration in the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. He quickly reached into the pocket and extracted his cell phone. After a glance at the pastor, who was in the midst of his Sunday sermon, Russell looked over at the young girl seated next to him, whispered something in her ear, then ducked out of the chapel and onto the steps in front of the old church.

“Hello…this is Wes. Oh…you decided to…where? Yes, I know where that is. In about twenty minutes. No, I’m in church. No, it didn’t ring in the church; I put it on vibrate. Yes, I’ll be there.”

Jan sat by the window in the International House of Pancakes (IHOP) on Arden Way, sipping coffee, waiting for the lawyer. When she saw him getting out of his pickup truck, he wasn’t alone. There was a girl with him, the young girl who sat beside him in the church. She must have been ten or eleven, thought Jan. Wes took her by the hand as they walked quickly into the restaurant. Jan waved to them and they came over to her table. The girl had small, delicate features, a thin dark face, dimpled cheeks, large brown eyes, and a wide, warm smile.

“We haven’t had breakfast,” commented Wes, “so we can eat while we chat. This is Amanda.”

The girl held out her hand. “Hello.” She had a slight accent.

Jan smiled and shook the girl’s hand. “Pleased to meet you Amanda.”

“Have a seat in the next booth,” said Wes. “You want pancakes?”

“I’ll see. I want to study the menu first.” Amanda slid into the next booth. Wes sat down opposite Jan. She leaned over to have another look at the girl.

“She’s from Singapore,” said Wes. “I taught English to some school kids over there for two years when I joined the Peace Corp. She was one of my students. She lost her parents in a car accident. I adopted her and brought her over.”

“She’s cute…and bright,” replied Jan. “How old is she?”

“Eleven. I brought her along, but I didn’t want her to hear our discussion.”

Jan leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I decided to take you up on your offer. Same terms, okay?”

Wes raised a quizzical eyebrow. “The same terms, but why the change of heart?” He took a note pad and pen out of his jacket pocket.

“I confronted that cop today. I told him to drop the charges against Carter, but he refused. He showed me stitches on the back of his head where Carter hit him with that fire extinguisher. He claimed that Carter attacked him from behind after he walked away from the scuffle. He made it sound as if there’s no chance to prove otherwise.”

“That does complicate the case,” said Wes. “What’s the cop’s name?”

“Callous…Bobby Callous.”

“And the clarinet player’s full name?”

“Louis Carter.”

Wes noted the names. “I’ll need more information, about the cop, and about Carter. When can I meet Carter?”

“Today. You can probably find him at the corner of eighth and L. He plays his clarinet there. He’s staying at a hotel downtown.”

“Okay, and about that cop; you better let me handle it.”

“All right, but don’t the cops know you from the cases you’ve worked on?”

“I haven’t worked on that many, but I can disguise myself if I have to. I’ve been an orthodox rabbi, a goat farmer, a street bum, a hooker…”

Jan laughed. “Whatever works,” she replied. “But I would like to come along when you meet Carter. I want to reassure him that you’re there to help.”

“Okay, but we can’t solve this case on an empty stomach.” Wes picked up a menu. “What kind of pancakes do you like? Breakfast is on me, so order whatever you want.”

“Can I have blueberry pancakes, bacon and scrambled eggs,” asked Amanda?”

“Yes you can,” replied Wes.

“She has a good appetite,” commented Jan.

“Her family was very poor. She’s making up for it. And don’t worry, I’ll drop her off at her grandmother’s before we go to meet your clarinet player.”