Twisted

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 andit 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.

L ESSER -I NCLUDED O FFENSE

    “Y ou’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,