“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.”
“Yeah,” Ray said. “It’s mine. These nutjobs have come up with some crazy idea that it’s theirs, but they’re just lying.” He spoke loud enough to be heard at the counter.
Andrea rose to the bait. “We are not,” she yelled back. “It’s our family heirloom. Our niece is going to play it someday.” But she sounded hopeless and definitely crazy.
“Ma’am, sir, you’re going to have to take him to court for this one,” the older cop said. “I don’t think any of you are in any physical danger. If you have further issues, we can take this down to the station.” The Markses shook their heads, and soon the police officers left. The tall goon behind them still hadn’t said anything. The people in the diner and the people outside continued to hold up their phones, filming them.
As Ray packed up the violin, Andrea inched over to him, hissed, “Don’t think this is over. We tried to let you off easy.”
“Lady, go home. Stay out of my face. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
He was so angry that he left the diner without taking his tater tots, salad, and pie. Now the Boston hawk didn’t seem nearly as cold.
Chapter 23
Settlement
4 Months Ago
No phone call or high-res video could take the place of standing in front of Aunt Rochelle and talking to her. So that’s what Ray would do. Now he was half sitting, half leaning on the hood of her car, hands jammed into the pockets of his puffy coat. He’d been standing outside her Philadelphia condo waiting for her since 7:00 a.m.; he knew she sometimes left early for work.