Nocturne . . .
Five minutes later he was at Devon Williams’s tenement.
He turned down the receiver volume of his Motorola speaker/mike and pinned it to the shoulder of his leather jacket, where even if he was shot and down he could still maybe call in a 10–13 officer needs assistance. He clipped his shield to the pocket of the jacket and drew his Glock.
He crept into the lobby, read the directory. Williams lived in one of the first-floor apartments. Tony stepped outside again and climbed the fire escape. The window was open but the curtains were drawn. He couldn’t see inside clearly, though he caught a glimpse of Williams, walking into what seemed to be the kitchen. Bingo!
He was carrying the violin case and was still in the sweats. Which meant he’d probably still be armed.
A deep breath.
Okay, whatta we do? Backup or not?
No . . . Once-in-a-lifetime chance. I do it myself, I get the gold shield.
Or get killed.
Don’t think about it.
Just go!
Silently Tony climbed through the window into a small parlor. He smelled sour food and dirty clothes. He moved slowly into the hallway and paused just outside the kitchen. Wiped the sweat off his gun hand.
Okay, do it.
One . . .
Two . . .
Tony froze.
From inside the kitchen came music.
Violin music.
A little scratchy, a little squeaky. A rusty-door sound. But then, as the player worked on some scales, the tone became smooth and resonant. Tony, heart pounding, plastered against the wall, cocked his head as he heard the violinist break into some jazzy riffs.
So, there were two people inside, maybe more. Williams’s fence probably. Or maybe even the buyer of the Strad. Did that mean more weapons?
Now backup?
No, Tony thought. Too late. Nothing to do but go for the collar.
He spun around the corner, crouching. Gun up at eye level.
He shouted, “Freeze! Everybody!”
But there was no everybody.
There was only tall, chubby Devon Williams, holding the violin under his chin, the bow gripped in his right hand. Gasping in shock at Tony’s entrance, mouth open, eyes wide.
“Man, you scared the shit outa me.” Slowly his shoulders slumped and he let out a sigh. “Man, it’s you. The cop.”
“You’re Devon Williams?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Put it down.”
He slowly set the violin on a table.
“Empty your pockets.”
“Yo, man, keep the noise down. There’re kids in th’other room. They’re sleeping.”
Tony laughed to himself at the boy’s stern directive.
“Anybody else?”
“No, just the kids.”
“You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?”
“No, man.” He sighed in disgust. “I’m not lying.”
“Empty the pockets. I’m not going to tell you again.”
He did.
“Where’s the piece?” Tony snapped.
“Of what?”
“Don’t be cute. Your gun.”
“Gun? I don’t have one.”
“I saw it tonight. At the concert hall.”
Williams gestured at the table. “That’s what I used.” He pointed to a bubble-gum cigar, wrapped in cellophane. “I just held it in my pocket. I saw that in a movie one time.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not.” He turned his pockets and the pouch of the sweatshirt inside out. They were empty.
Tony cuffed him then eyed Williams carefully. “How old’re you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You live here?”
“Yeah.”
“Alone?”
“No, man, I told you, the kids.”
“They yours?”
He laughed. “They’re my brothers and sister.”
“Where’re your parents?”
Another laugh. “Wherever they be, they ain’t here.”
Tony read him his Miranda rights. Thinking: Got the perp, got the fiddle and nobody’s hurt. I’ll be Detective Vincenzo by the next cycle.
“Listen, Devon, you give me the name of your fence and I’ll tell the DA you cooperated.”
“I don’t have a fence.”
“Bullshit. How were you going to move the fiddle without a fence?”
“Wasn’t gonna sell it, man. I stole it for me.”
“You?”
“What I’m saying. To play. Make some money in the subways.”
“Bullshit.”
“’S’true.”
“Why risk hard time? Why didn’t you just buy one? It’s not like a Beemer. Could’ve picked one up in a pawnshop for two, three bills.”
“Oh, yeah, where’m I gonna get three hundred? My old man, he took off and my mama’s off with who the hell knows what boyfriend and I got left with the kids, need food and clothes and day care. So whatta I buy a violin with, man? I ain’t got no money.”
“Where’d you learn to play? In school?”
“Yeah, in school. I was pretty good too.” He gave a smile and Tony caught the glitter of a gold tooth.
“And you, what, dropped out to work?”
“When Daddy took off, yeah. Couple years ago.”
“And you just decided you’d take up violin again? ’Cause you can make more money at that than pool. Right?”
Williams blinked. Then sighed angrily, figuring out how he’d been made. “What they pay me stacking boxes at A&P—it just ain’t enough, man.” He closed his eyes and gave a bitter laugh. “So, I’m going into the system. . . . Hell. Never thought it’d happen to me. Man, I tried hard to stay out. I just wanted to make enough to get my aunt here. From North Carolina. To help take care of the kids. She said she’d move but she ain’t got the money. Cost a couple thousand.”
“You know what they say: Don’t do the crime, you can’t do the time.”
“Shit.” Williams was gazing at the violin, a curious look in his eyes, a longing almost.
Tony looked at the young man’s dark eyes. He said, “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take those cuffs off for a few minutes, you wanta play a little, one last time.”
A faint grin. “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 the handcuffs 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 o
ffice. 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.
LESSER-INCLUDED OFFENSE
“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.
The other one of the fivesome was Adele Viamonte, the assistant DA who’d been assigned to Tribow in the violent felonies division for the past year. She was almost ten years older than Tribow; she’d picked up her interest in law later in life after a successful first career: raising twin boys, now teenagers. Viamonte’s mind and tongue were as sharp as her confidenc
e was solid. She now looked over Hartman’s tanned skin, taut belly, silvery hair, broad shoulders and thick neck. She then turned to his lawyer and asked, “So can we assume that this meeting with Mr. Hartman and his ego is over with?”
Hartman gave a faint, embarrassed laugh, as if a student had said something awkward in class, the put-down motivated solely because, the prosecutor guessed, Viamonte was a woman.
The defense lawyer repeated what he’d been saying all along. “My client isn’t interested in a plea bargain that involves jail time.”
Tribow echoed his own litany. “But that’s all we’re offering.”
“Then he wants to go to trial. He’s confident he’ll be found innocent.”
Tribow didn’t know how that was going to happen. Ray Hartman had shot a man in the head one Sunday afternoon last March. There was physical evidence—ballistics, gunpowder residue on his hand. There were witnesses who placed him at the scene, searching for the victim just before the death. There were reports of earlier threats by Hartman and statements of intent to cause the victim harm. There was a motive. While Danny Tribow was always guarded about the outcomes of the cases he prosecuted, this was as solid as any he’d ever had.
And so he tried one last time. “If you accept murder two I’ll recommend fifteen years.”
“No way,” Hartman responded, laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion. “You didn’t hear my shyster here. No jail time. I’ll pay a fine. I’ll pay a big goddamn fine. I’ll do community service. But no jail time.”
Daniel Tribow was a slight man, unflappable and soft-spoken. He would have looked right at home in a bow tie and suspenders. “Sir,” he said now, speaking directly to Hartman, “you understand I’m going to prosecute you for premeditated murder. In this state that’s a special circumstances crime—meaning I can seek the death penalty.”
“What I understand is that I don’t see much point in continuing this little get-together. I’ve got a lunch date waiting and, if you ask me, you boys and girls better bone up on your law—you sure as hell need to if you think you’re getting me convicted.”
“If that’s what you want, sir.” Tribow stood. He shook the lawyer’s hand though not the suspect’s. Adele Viamonte glanced at both lawyer and client as if they were clerks who’d short-changed her and remained seated, apparently struggling to keep from saying what she really felt.
Twisted: The Collected Stories Page 21
