The Violin Conspiracy(75)

“Thank you, Officer. Come, my dear. Are you okay?” Dante asked his sister, and then smiled toothily at Ray.

He stood in the cold as the Marks siblings and their tall companion were coddled in the diner, probably ordering coffee and onion rings. Ray kept touching the violin case to make sure it was closed. Inside, Dante, Andrea, and the tall man were talking to the younger officer, pointing and glaring at Ray.

A few moments later, the police officer came out of the diner. “Those people claim you have their stolen property. What’s that on your back?” The officer stepped forward. Ray’s fingertips instinctively reached for the case.

“It’s my violin. I’m a musician. I was just on 60 Minutes—go google me. My name is—”

“Open it up. Let me see.”

“Take off these cuffs and I will.” He was trembling from rage and impotence. He kept saying to himself that one word over and over, his mantra: respect. No matter what. He’d gone overboard with the Markses. Right now he just had to get out of this situation before it escalated further, became Baton Rouge all over again.

“Officer, I’m a musician. I just played a recital at Jordan Hall. My violin is inside. I don’t want to take it out on the sidewalk. Exposure to this cold isn’t good for it. It’s very fragile and very valuable.”

“Got it,” said the fat cop. “Open up the case, sir, or we can do this down at the station.”

“Okay,” Ray said. “Take off these cuffs and I’ll open it right up. Let me just confirm, though, that you want me to open a ten-million-dollar instrument in the middle of a city street while it’s snowing?” A few fat flakes drifted down. “Are you sure that Boston wants this kind of lawsuit if something goes wrong? Not to mention the publicity? This violin costs more than your whole department. I just want you to confirm this first, chief.”

The cop eyed him, then the diner. “I guess we can go inside if you don’t interact with the individuals who are already there?”

“Sounds great,” Ray said. He stood, handcuffed, in front of the glass-and-metal door, waited for the cop to pull the door open. He waited again at the inner door.

Dante, Andrea, and the tall guy were standing near the counter, and they all stepped back as if terrified to be in the same space with Ray.

“Oh please,” Ray told them. “Spare us the dramatics. You’re not getting my violin. It took me a minute, but I figured out what you are trying to do. It’s not going to work.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” Andrea said, her accent suddenly thick and Southern and nothing like her usual voice.

Ray marched left, between a double row of maroon booths that ran the length of the restaurant. All the patrons were turning to look at him, handcuffed and flanked by three of Boston’s finest. At the far end, in front of a busing station where dirty plates poured from black plastic tubs, he said, “If you’ll remove these cuffs, I’ll show you the violin.”

The police officer grabbed Ray’s arm, fumbling with the cuffs, and one of the other officers strolled up. “This guy checks out. No warrants.”

“Looks like it’s your lucky day, chief.” The handcuffs fell away, and Ray ostentatiously massaged his wrists as if they’d cut off his circulation for hours. The cop was saying, “Now, these people say you have their property. Can you prove that instrument is yours?”

Ray looked at the cop like he had just grown an extra head. “Are you fucking kidding me? I literally just told you I played a recital at Jordan Hall.”

“And I just told you to prove it.”

Ray knew the look in the police officer’s eyes. The man was looking for any excuse to take him down to the police station.

“Well, it’s nice to know you guys are consistent. These people stalk me, accost me out in the cold, pretend I’m about to beat them up, and here you guys come to the rescue. The darkest one in the crowd has got to be the guilty one. I have to prove my innocence while they just sit inside and need protecting, right? That’s how this works?”

“You got it, chief,” the fat cop responded, to Ray’s surprise. “Right now they look far more credible than you do. Your next move better be showing me what’s in that case. Otherwise I’ll be confiscating it until you prove to a judge that it doesn’t belong to these nice people.”

Ray unclasped his case. As he took out the instrument and the bow, he asked the younger cop, “You have any requests?”

“Just play, smart-ass.”

“Right,” Ray said as he continued to stare daggers at the Markses and their accomplice.

Ray put his bow on the D string and looked as if he were preparing to launch into the most lavish concerto ever written. Instead, he played a two-octave D-major scale. It was nothing special, just a simple scale, but played beautifully. After his last note, he looked directly at the Markses and said, “You don’t deserve to hear another note from my fiddle.” Then he turned to the officer and said, “Satisfied? I can show you dozens of photos online of me playing this violin,” Ray said. “I can call dozens of people to vouch for me. Just google my name.”

This time the officers listened, pulled out their cell phones, read, glanced up at him, read again. “This is the Stradivarius?” the younger one said. “Holy shit.”