Twisted: The Collected Short Stories of Jeffery Deaver

And so, armed with his Glock and his backup revolver strapped to his ankle, Tony Vincenzo plunged into residential Harlem. The fog and air were heavy here, absorbing the sounds of the city. It was as if he were in a different time or a different place — maybe a forest or the mountains. Quiet, very quiet, and eerie. A word came to him. A term his father had used once, talking about music: nocturne. Tony wasn't sure what it meant but he knew it had to do with night. And he thought it had to do with something peaceful.

Which was pretty damn funny, he decided. Here he was on his way to collar an armed and dangerous perp by himself. And he was thinking about peaceful music.

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…