Twisted

his fist at the boy’s head.
    “Don’t!” Tony cried. Certain he’d hear the pop of a pistol shot and see the man fall. Then Tony’d have to draw a target and pull the trigger of his own gun, making his first kill in the line of duty.
    But the boy didn’t shoot. Just then the stage door swung open and a half dozen other musicians stepped out. They saw what was happening and scattered in panic—some in between Tony and the mugger. The boy pulled the violin from the musician’s grip and turned and fled.
    Tony lifted his gun, shouting, “Hold it!”
    But the kid kept going. Tony sighted on his back and started to apply pressure to the trigger. Then he stopped and lowered the gun. He sighed and sprinted after the boy but the mugger had vanished. A moment later Tony heard a car engine start and an old gray car—he couldn’t see the plate or make—skidded away from the curb and disappeared uptown. He called the getaway in and ran to the musician who’d been robbed, helped him to his feet. “You all right, sir?”
    “No, I’m not all right,” the man spat out, holding his chest. He was bent in agony. His face was bright red and sweat ran from his forehead.
    “Are you shot?” Tony asked, thinking he might not have heard the gun if it was just a twenty-two or twenty-five.
    But the musician didn’t mean that.
    Eyes narrow with fury, he straightened up. “That violin,” he said evenly, “was a Stradivarius. It was worth over a half million dollars.” He turned hispiercing eyes on Tony. “Why the hell didn’t you shoot him, Officer? Why? ”

    Sergeant Vic Weber, Tony’s supervisor, was first on the scene, followed by two detectives from the precinct. Then, because word got out that Edouard Pitkin, conductor, composer and first violinist with the New American Symphony, had been robbed of his priceless instrument, four detectives from headquarters showed up. And the media too, of course. Tons of media.
    Pitkin, still immaculate except for a slight tear in his monkey-suit slacks, stood with his arms crossed, anger etched into his face. He seemed to be having trouble breathing but he’d waved off the medics as if spooking irritating flies. He said to Weber, “This is unacceptable. Completely.”
    Weber, gray-haired and resembling a military rather than police sergeant, was trying to explain. “Mr. Pitkin, I’m sorry for your loss—”
    “ Loss? You make it sound like my MasterCard was stolen.”
    “—but there wasn’t anything more Officer Vincenzo could do.”
    “That kid was going to kill me, and he”—Pitkin nodded toward Tony—“let him get away. With my violin. There is no other instrument like that in the world.”
    Not exactly true, thought Tony, a man raised by a father who loved to dish out musical trivia at the dinner table while his mother dished out tortellini. He remembered the man solemnly telling his wife andchildren there were about six hundred Antonio Stradivari violins in existence—about half the number the Italian craftsman had made. Tony decided not to share this tidbit with the violinist at the moment.
    “Everything went by the book,” Weber continued, not much interested in the uniqueness of the stolen merch.
    “Well, the book ought to be changed,” Pitkin snapped.
    “I didn’t have a clear target,” Tony said, angry that he felt he had to defend himself to a civilian. “You can’t go shooting suspects in the back.”
    “He was a criminal,” Pitkin said. “And, my God, it wasn’t as if . . . I mean, he was black.”
    Weber’s face grew still. He glanced at the lead detective, a round man in his forties, who rolled his eyes.
    “I’m sorry,” Pitkin said quickly. “It’s just that it’s terrifying, having someone push a gun in your ribs.”
    “Hey,” a reporter shouted from the crowd. “How ’bout a statement?”
    Tony was about to say something but the detective said, “No statements at this time. The chief’s going to give a press conference in a half hour.”
    Another detective walked up to Pitkin. “What can you tell us about the assailant?”
    Pitkin thought for a moment. “I guess he was about six feet—”
    “Six-two,” Tony corrected. “He was taller than you.” At five-seven, Tony Vincenzo was a good observer of height.
    Pitkin continued, “He was heavyset.” A glance atWeber. “He was African American. He wore a black ski mask and black sweat clothes.”
    “And red-and-black Nike Air pumps,” Tony said.
    “And an