Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

The smile faded from Williams’s face as he looked toward the bedroom. “Man,” he said. “Man.”

The lobby of the Sherry-Netherland hotel seemed pretty stark to Tony Vincenzo, who judged the quality of hotels by the length of the happy hour and the square footage of chrome in the lobby. But this was rich person territory and what did he know about rich people?

It was small too. And it looked even smaller because it was filled with reporters and cops. Along with the woman in the red dress, the one from the mayor’s office. Sergeant Weber was here too, as well, looking pissed he’d been called out of bed at two A.M. to appear at a dog-and-pony show for an asshole, however famous he was.

Tony walked into the lobby, carrying the violin under his arm. He stopped in front of Weber, whose perpetual frown deepened slightly as he waved off reporters’ questions.

Beaming, a coiffed Edouard Pitkin, wearing a suit and tie, Jesus, at this hour, stepped out of the elevator and into the glare of the lights. He strode forward to take the violin. But Tony didn’t offer it to him. Instead, he merely shook the musician’s hand.

Pitkin dropped the beat for a moment, then — aware of the press — smiled again and said, “What can I say, Officer? Thank you so much.”

“For what?”

Another beat. “Well, for recovering my Stradivarius.”

Tony gave a short laugh. Pitkin frowned. Then the cop motioned to the back of the crowd. “Come on, don’t be shy.”

Devon Williams, wearing his A&P uniform and work shoes, walked awkwardly through the forest of reporters.

Pitkin spun to Weber. “Why isn’t he in handcuffs?” he raged.

The sergeant looked at Tony, silently asking the same question.

Tony shook his head. “I mean, why would I cuff the guy recovered your violin?”

“He... what?”

“Tell us what happened,” a reporter shouted.

Weber nodded and Tony stepped into the crescent of reporters. He cleared his throat. “I spotted the perpetrator on One hundred twenty-fifth Street carrying the instrument in question and gave pursuit. This young man, Devon Williams, at great risk to himself, intervened and tackled the assailant. He was able to rescue the instrument. The perpetrator fled. I pursued him but unfortunately he got away.”

He’d worried that this might sound too rehearsed, which it was. But, hell, everybody’s used to cop-speak. If you sound too normal nobody believes you.

Pitkin said, “But... I just thought he looked like... I mean... ”

Tony said, “I saw the perpetrator without the ski mask. He looked nothing like Mr. Williams.” A glance at Pitkin. “Other than the fact they were both African American. I asked Mr. Williams to join us here so he could collect his reward. He said no but I insisted he come. I think good citizenship ought to be, you know, encouraged.”

A reporter called, “How much is the reward, Mr. Pitkin?”

“Well, I hadn’t... it’s five thousand dollars.”

“What?” Tony whispered, frowning.

“But ten if the instrument’s undamaged,” Pitkin added quickly.

Tony handed him the case. The musician turned abruptly and walked to a table near the front desk. He opened the case and examined the violin carefully.

Tony called, “It’s okay?”

“Yes, yes, it’s in fine shape.”

Weber crooked his finger toward Tony. They stepped into the corner of the lobby. “So what the hell’s is going on?” the sergeant muttered.

Tony shrugged. “Just what I said.”

The sergeant sighed. “You don’t have a perp?”

“Got away.”

“And the kid got the fiddle. Not you. This ain’t gonna do shit for your application.”

“Figured that.”

Weber looked Tony up and down and continued in a coy voice, “But then maybe you wouldn’t want this particular case to go on the report anyway, would you?”

“Naw, I probably wouldn’t.”

“Tough break.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Tough.”

“Hey, Mr. Williams,” a reporter called. “Mr. Williams?”

Williams looked around, not used to a Mr. being joined with his last name.

“Oh, what?” he asked, catching on.

“Could you come over here, answer some questions?”

“Uhm, yeah, I guess.”

As the young man walked uneasily toward the growing crowd of reporters, Tony leaned forward and, a big smile on his face, caught him by the arm. The boy stopped and lowered his ear to Tony, who whispered, “Devon, I gotta get home but I’m just checking... your aunt gets up here, she’s making me ham hocks and collards, right?”

“She’s the best.”

“And the rest of that money’s going in an account for the kids?”

Another gold-toothed grin. “You bet, Officer.” They shook hands.

Tony pulled on his rain slicker as Williams stopped in front of the cameras. Tony paused at the revolving doors, looked back.

“Mr. Williams, tell us: You like music?”

“Uh, yeah. I like music.”

“You like rap?”

“Naw, I don’t like it too much.”

“Do you play anything?”

“Little piano, guitar.”

“After this incident do you think you might want to take up the violin?”

“Well, sure.” He glanced toward Edouard Pitkin. The musician looked back at the young man as if he were from outer space. Holding Pitkin’s eye, Williams continued, “I’ve seen people play ’em and it doesn’t seem that hard. I mean, that’s just my opinion, you know.”

“Mr. Williams, one more question...”

Tony Vincenzo pushed outside into the night, where the fog was gone and the rain had finally started to fall — steadily and chill but oddly quiet. The night was still peaceful. Jean Marie would be asleep, but he still wanted to get home. Have a beer, put on a CD. Tony knew what he wanted to listen to. Mozart was good. Smokey Robinson was better.

“You’re gonna lose this one.”

“Am I, now?” asked Prosecutor Danny Tribow, rocking back in his desk chair and studying the man who’d just spoken.

Fifteen years older and forty pounds heavier than Tribow, the defendant Raymond Hartman nodded slowly and added, “On all counts. Simple as that.”

The man next to Hartman touched his client’s arm to restrain him.

“Ah, he doesn’t mind a little sparring,” Hartman said to his lawyer. “He can take it. Anyway, I’m just telling it like it is.” The defendant unbuttoned his navy suit jacket, blue and rich as an ocean at night.

The truth was that Tribow didn’t mind sparring. Not one bit. The man could say whatever he wanted. Tribow wasn’t going to prosecute the case against Hartman any more vigorously because of the man’s arrogance than he would’ve held back if the man had been tearful and contrite.

On the other hand, the thirty-five-year-old career prosecutor wasn’t going to get walked on either. He fixed his eye on Hartman’s and said in a soft voice, “It’s been my experience that what looks pretty clear to one person may turn out to be the opposite. I’m convinced the jury’s going to see the facts my way. Which means you’re going to lose.”

Hartman shrugged and looked at his gold Rolex watch. He couldn’t’ve cared less about the time, Tribow suspected. He was simply delivering an aside: that this one piece of jewelry of mine equals your annual salary.

Danny Tribow wore a Casio and the only message a glance at that timepiece would deliver was that this meeting had been a waste of a good half hour.

In addition to the defendant, his lawyer and Tribow, two other people sat in the office, which was as small and shabby as one would expect for a district attorney’s. On Tribow’s left was his law clerk, a handsome man in his twenties, Chuck Wu, who was a brilliant, meticulous — some said compulsive — worker. He now leaned forward, typing notes and observations about this meeting into the battered laptop computer he was inseparable from. The keyboarding was a habit that drove most defendants nuts but it had no apparent effect on Ray Hartman.