Twisted

“Yeah?”
    “Sure. But I tell you, you move an inch a way I don’t like, I’ll park one in your ass.”
    “No, man. I’m cool.”
    Tony unhooked the cuffs and stood back, the Glock pointed near his prisoner.
    Williams picked up the violin and played another riff. He was getting a feel for it. The sound was much more resonant, fuller, this time. He launched into “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” and played some variations on it. Then a few little classical exercises. Some Bach, Tony thought. A bit of “Ain’t Misbehavin’ ” too. And a few pieces he remembered his mother playing when he was a boy. Finally, Williams finished, sighed and tossed the instrument into the case. He nodded toward it. “Funny, ain’t it? You think about stealing something for months and months and you finally get it up to do it, and what happens but you perp some old piece of crap like this, all messed up and everything.”
    Tony too looked at the nicks in the wood, the scratches, the worn neck.
    It cost more than my town house.  . . . 
    “Okay, son, it’s time to go.” He picked up thehandcuffs from the table. “We’ll get somebody from social services to take care of the kids.”
    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 ushere 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,