chapter 9
Teddy was waiting outside the Sissokos’ apartment building, happy in his ’90s Orlando Magic jersey, black T-shirt and baggy sky-blue shorts.
“Ted . . . ,” Marley complained.
“My afternoon was free,” he shrugged. The jersey and the shorts were way too long: Both covered his dimply knees.
Marley walked on. “And you just happened to be on the opposite side of the park from your home . . . Standing outside Bassekou’s house.”
“In fact, yes.” He stopped. When Marley turned, he said, “Not really. No. I was thinking you would go to see Mahjoob next”—Teddy pointed sort of north, sort of west toward the Met—“and that you would like some company.”
She walked slowly until Teddy skittered next to her, passing her clanking book bag.
“No Mahjoob?”
“Bassekou doesn’t want stolen American instruments,” she explained. “He’s starting a collection to impress his dad.”
“Why would his dad be interest—”
“Because Bassekou doesn’t want to be an ambassador or in the Foreign Service or whatever,” she said, frustration in her voice. “He wants to be a musician. He’s very serious. He knows African music, American music, blues, and Bach, Tchaikovsky. . . .”
Teddy frowned. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, his words a tender apology.
“Oh, Teddy, I’m not upset with you.” Now Marley stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. New Yorkers hurrying their way home from work parted to pass around them, never missing a stride.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” she said. “I really suspected him and I had no reason to.”
They waited for a wheezing bus to pass and, when the light changed, they crossed Madison Avenue, watching for turning taxis.
“Did you suspect him?” Marley asked.
Though he wanted to comfort her, he said, “No. I never did.”
“Never?”
“Mahjoob, yes. But not Bassekou. Mahjoob steals.”
Marley’s father had said pretty much the same thing. “I warned Bassekou,” Marley said, recalling how she told him she saw them together in the museum.
“Still,” Teddy said, “Mahjoob may try to sell Bassekou instruments that were stolen.”
“If he does, Bassekou will tell me,” she said sharply, “and I’ll tell Sgt. Sampson.”
Teddy was smiling.
“What?” she asked.
“You are exasperated. It’s very funny.”
Marley pretended to pout. She rustled her big mop of black hair. “Yeah. Basically, I know nothing.”
“Except Tabakovic still uses his old instrument, and Bassekou isn’t interested in stolen goods,” Teddy said agreeably.
“And Marisol was an unwitting agent in the theft of the Habishaw violin. Which the police still don’t have.”
They turned west on sunny 59th Street. Up ahead on Fifth Avenue, crowds gathered around the beautiful fountain Joseph Pulitzer had contributed to the city a century ago. As usual, a gazillion pigeons flitted about, sparkly, gray and bold.
A new idea took root in Marley’s head. “Someone made her do it . . . ,” she said thoughtfully.
“Well, isn’t that how somebody becomes an unwitting agent?”
“And who do we know who says he has mystical powers?” Marley asked. “The kind that might trick people.”
Teddy thought for a moment. “Mahjoob.”
Marley nodded. “Mahjoob.”
This time they both stopped and stared at each other.
They entered in a rush, bolting past the mirror, raincoats and slickers and Skeeter’s folded-up stroller.
"Dad, I spoke to Bassekouandhe’sbuying instruments,” she said as she bounded toward the kitchen.
Trailing, Teddy slowed down to sniff the air. Mr. Zimmerman, he noticed, wasn’t cooking.
“We’re thinking maybe Mahjoob somehow—”
Skidding to a stop, Marley all but flew out of her flip-flops.
Sitting with her father at the kitchen island was Miss Otto, the vice principal. And Sgt. Sampson, who seemed as big, sour and impatient as he had two days earlier.
“Everything is fine, Marley,” Miss Otto said, as she stepped down from the stool. “Sgt. Sampson has some information he shared with me, and I thought you two should talk.”
Marley looked at the brawny policeman. His scowl and dark suit were in contrast to Miss Otto’s warm smile, periwinkle blouse and beige slacks.
Marley’s dad said, “Some iced tea while Sgt. Sampson plays the new video.”
New video? Marley thought as she squeezed past the policeman.
Miss Otto tapped the stool.
As she sat, Marley said, “Hey, Skeets.”
Her baby sister looked up from her playpen and lifted one of her see-through alphabet blocks. Marley couldn’t help notice it was the letter Z.
“All right . . . ,” Sgt. Sampson said, as he pressed ➙ for play and then stepped aside to let the other people watch the monitor.
“That’s the loading dock for Avery Fisher Hall,” Marley said as the security video began. “On 65th Street, across from Juilliard. ”
Black-and-white midday traffic headed east in an uneven flow. A taxi passed, then another, followed several seconds later by a little bread delivery truck. Next, a man on a bicycle sped by, a plastic bag full of take-out jiggling in his wire basket.
Then Marisol hurried into view.
“Your friend,” Sgt. Sampson said dryly.
“And she’s still carrying the violin wrong,” Marley replied.
Teddy agreed.
Suddenly, Marisol stopped rushing and stood completely still in the wash of bright sunlight.
“She looks like a zombie,” Marley added.
To her surprise, Sgt. Sampson said, “Yes. Yes, she does.”
Iced-tea pitcher in hand, Zeke Z said to the policeman, "You don’t think she’s responsible, do you?”
Sgt. Sampson replied, “I think your daughter is on to something. ”
On the monitor, Marisol continued to stand perfectly still.
“Not a care in the world,” Miss Otto said. “Would anyone guess she was holding a priceless violin?”
On the video, Marisol looked down, turned slowly and began walking west, the violin pressed string side against her ribs and belt. Soon, she left the frame, going beyond the area covered by the security camera.
“Strange . . . ,” Marley said. “She looked to the right and then started walking left. Usually if somebody calls you, you look at them, not away from them. Then you start walking. ”
Teddy scratched his head. Actually, Marisol looked down to her right side and then started west.
“On Tuesday, did Miss Poveda give any indication anything was wrong when she came to the coffee shop?” Sgt. Sampson asked.
Marley and Teddy answered at the same time. “She didn’t—”
They stopped and looked at each other.
Marley continued, “She didn’t come to the coffee shop. She has violin lessons on Tuesdays after school.”
Sgt. Sampson said, “She didn’t go to her violin lesson on Tuesday.”
“Yes, she did.” The diary she sent last night said so.
“Marley, I’m sorry,” said Sgt. Sampson with surprising sympathy. “Her teacher says no.”
Marley sank.
“Marley . . . ,” her father said softly, filling the silence.
“Does she know she didn’t go to her lesson?” she asked.
“No,” Sgt. Sampson replied. “She believes she went.”
Standing tall again, Marley said, “So that’s when it happened. . . .”
Teddy looked up at his friend.
“That’s when she became an unwitting agent,” she said. “That’s when he tricked her.”
Sgt. Sampson and Zeke Z exchanged a curious glance.
“Who?” the policeman asked.
“Tell Sgt. Sampson what you’ve been up to,” Miss Otto requested.
Marley looked at her father, and then she said, “We have a friend at Collegiate named Bassekou Sissoko and . . .” She ended by telling the policeman of her conversation with Teddy only moments ago as they crossed to the West Side.
“Mahjoob.” Sgt. Sampson sighed. “Mahjoob’s name is Edward Randolph Crum. He was born in Plattsburgh, New York, and as far as we know, he’s never been outside of the United States. Anywhere outside the United States, never mind Iraq or Mesopotamia or wherever he says he’s from.”
Teddy said, “Really?”
“Maybe people think his act is cute, but I see him as a petty thief,” said Zeke Z as he brought down glasses from the cabinet above the sink. “If he introduces Mr. Sissoko to people, it’s likely they’ll be thieves too.”
Showing a little flash of her famous temper, Miss Otto said, “He’ll try to hurt your friend.”
Teddy said, “So maybe he’s involved with the people who stole the Habishaw.”
Miss Otto replied, "I think the key word was ’petty.’ ”
"Oh. Right,” Teddy said. "What would he have to do with a priceless violin?”
Marley slumped again, her spirits on a rollercoaster. “Mahjoob doesn’t know how to put a spell on Marisol. . . .”
“No,” said Sgt. Sampson, “he doesn’t.”
Marley turned in the stool to look at Miss Otto and Teddy. “Where are we? We haven’t done anything, and we’ve got to get that violin back.”
“Yes,” said Sgt. Sampson, “and right now, the only person who may know where it is—”
“Marisol,” Marley said.
“—doesn’t remember a thing.”
“So,” Marley said, “you believe her. You believe she didn’t just rush in and steal the Habishaw.”
Sgt. Sampson didn’t reply.
“Yes,” Marley added, a faint touch of pride in her voice. “You believe her.”
As he began to fill glasses with iced tea, Zeke Z said, "Now what?”
“To cover the bases,” Sgt. Sampson said, “I’ll go talk to Mahjoob. Or I should say Eddie Crum.”
Teddy wanted to ask if he could tag along. So did Zeke Z.
“Marley,” the policeman said, “don’t tell Marisol about missing her violin lesson. Our forensic psychiatrist tells us it’s dangerous to interfere with a false memory.”
"She might forget what really happened,” Zeke Z said.
Sgt. Sampson nodded.
“I’ve got an idea,” Marley said. “Miss Otto, do you have some time this evening?”
“At some point, I have to help my father. But, yes, I’m free,” she replied.
“That’s perfect,” Marley said. “Antonio’s would be a good place to do it.” She held up a finger. “Just let me gather my thoughts. Sergeant, I can call you, or e-mail. . . .”
The policeman nodded. He would take help from any quarter to get back the Habishaw.
Teddy said, “What about me?”
"You can hang with me and Skeets,” Mr. Z said cheerfully. “I’m making cerkez tavugu. It’s a Turkish dish. A cold chicken salad with onions, walnuts, and paprika. Fresh parsley . . .”
Teddy groaned. In Turkey, it was probably very delicious. . . .
“You can come with us, Ted,” Marley said as she slid off the stool. “Dad, we’re eating out.”
As he collected his DVD, Sgt. Sampson wondered if it’d be okay to ask the Time Traveler’s creator for an autograph.
Maybe he’d get one for his son too.
Mr. Noonan was the last to arrive, and by then it was obvious Miss Otto’s little office near her father’s busy kitchen couldn’t contain the team Marley had assembled: In addition to Mr. Noonan, who seemed surprisingly spry in his sky-blue Oxford, khakis and boating shoes, Marley, Teddy and Miss Otto were joined by Marisol and her mother, who rushed over from the little storefront boutique where she worked, terribly worried but eager to help. She clasped her hands nervously on the lap of her long skirt, which was the color of a sunflower and ringed at the hem in ruby red that matched her cotton blouse and soft shoes.
Marisol, coincidentally, wore the same clothes she had on the security videos Sgt. Sampson had presented. Marley noted that her friend still seemed exhausted, as she had throughout the school day. The ordeal continued to weigh heavily on her mind.
“Pop,” Miss Otto protested now. “This isn’t necessary.”
“Not necessary!” he sang, with typical melodramatic flair. “My friend Marley is conducting an investigation. We cannot have six good people standing around a desk.”
Marley understood the vice principal’s point: Though it was a busy Friday night, her father had placed them at a prime space in his small dining room—the only table for six. This meant six customers would either have to wait outside or they’d just go off to another Italian restaurant. There were only about a million of them in New York City, and about half were on the Upper West Side.
To be honest, Marley knew Mr. Otto would do this if his daughter’s office couldn’t hold the team. She didn’t want to take advantage of his generosity, but she needed help from smart, well-meaning people who could look at things from different points of view. She’d try to make it a short meeting.
“Vivi!” Antonio said, as he tugged the bottom of his chef’s jacket. “You come with me.”
Five minutes later, the Ottos returned with two platters of Italian delicacies: mint frittatas that looked like slices of quiche; yellow peppers stuffed with anchovies and pine nuts; an octopus-and-potato salad; fried zucchini sprinkled with pecorino cheese; and more.
A tantalizing aroma rose to greet them.
“For our good neighbors!” Mr. Otto said, as he began to withdraw. “Tutti mangia! Everybody eat!”
“My father . . . ,” Miss Otto said, shaking her head.
“My word, Viv!” Mr. Noonan exclaimed. “Don’t you even think of apologizing for this.”
Marisol smiled uncomfortably. She couldn’t believe Mr. Noonan was showing such enthusiasm. I guess, she thought, you just never know about teachers. . . .
“I think,” Marley began, “we all agree that Marisol is not a thief.”
“An unwitting agent,” Teddy said. He was seated at Marley’s right elbow at the round table.
“Meaning somebody made her do it,” Marley continued. “Against her will.”
She waited until her algebra teacher finished a bruschetta made with fava-bean paste and flat-leaf parsley. “Mr. Noonan, we know you were interviewed by the NYPD and the FBI. Correct?”
“And the insurance company. They all told me they’re questioning dealers to see if there’s been any noise about the Habishaw. So far, no one has tried to sell it.”
“But don’t these dealers work with legitimate buyers?” Miss Otto asked. “How would they know—?”
“Oh, they know,” he said. “It’s their job to know what’s coming on the market, whether legally or not. It’s a fairly small community.”
“They would buy something from a thief?” Mrs. Poveda asked.
Marley noticed she had only taken a few thin breadsticks.
“They might, but at great risk,” Mr. Noonan replied. “That dealer’s reputation would be ruined if he were caught. The NYPD is being very aggressive.”
“After talking to the curator at the Met, I have the impression we’d be in worse shape if this wasn’t a professional job,” Marley said. “You know, if she just grabbed it and turned it over to a plain old thief.”
“Could be,” Mr. Noonan said. “Fifty years ago, a thief sold a Stradivarius to a violinist for only one hundred dollars. The violinist kept it out of public view for almost five decades.”
“One hundred dollars?” Miss Otto asked.
Mr. Noonan nodded. “Typically, they sell for one and a half million dollars or so.”
“Well, this scheme is too elaborate for that kind of block-head, ” Teddy said.
“The point is that the Stradivarius was missing for nearly fifty years,” Mr. Noonan said.
“At least it wasn’t destroyed,” Marley said.
Marisol moaned.
“If this is a well-organized plot conceived by a professional who wants to profit from the theft of the Habishaw, we’ll be fine,” Mr. Noonan said. “The police are looking over the shoulders of dealers who might be involved in that kind of scheme. They can intervene when a deal is struck. But if it’s some weirdo who likes to steal things for who knows what bizarre reason . . .”
“Going back to Marley’s earlier point,” Miss Otto said. “Since we agree someone made Marisol take the violin, I think the question we have to ask is: who? Whether he’s a professional thief or not.”
Marisol sighed in relief, pleased that Miss Otto, whom she had come to respect, believed she wasn’t a criminal.
“Or why, if it was not for the money?” Mrs. Poveda added.
“Who and why,” Mr. Noonan repeated. He lifted a paper-thin slice of prosciutto from the serving platter and placed it on his plate.
Marley edged her elbows onto the table. She nodded toward Mr. Noonan, who kept chewing as he put down his fork to reach beneath the table for his bag.
“Sgt. Sampson told us you remember nothing, Marisol,” Marley said while they waited.
“I don’t even remember not remembering,” she replied.
Teddy frowned in confusion.
“But I know what I did on Tuesday,” Marisol continued. “From the moment I woke up until the moment I went to sleep.”
“Even at 4:46?” Marley asked. That, according to the security videos, was the precise time the Habishaw was stolen.
“At 4:46, I was going from my violin lesson to the greengrocer, ” she replied. “I told Sgt. Sampson . . .”
“We know you did,” Miss Otto said gently, casting an eye across the table toward Marley.
Mr. Noonan passed a small manila envelope to Marisol. Her mother watched as she opened it
Carefully, she slid onto the table the photos of the Habishaw violin that Mr. Noonan had taken at the Fiske Museum and Juilliard.
Marisol studied the six photos, one at a time, spending almost a half minute with each. Then she looked at each one again, this time passing them one by one to her mother.
A waiter who had brought a bread basket to a table at the front of the restaurant stopped briefly to peer at the pictures too. So did Mr. Otto when he walked by with a bottle of red wine.
Her voice flat with resignation, Marisol said, “I know this is the Habishaw. I saw it online. It’s beautiful. Magnificent. And the bloodstain . . . But I don’t remember touching it.”
“Can you imagine it in your hands, Marisol?” Marley asked. “If you close your eyes . . .”
They all watched as Marisol closed her eyes. But rather than put her hands down near her belt when she held the Habishaw after taking it from the display case, she held them high, as if she were about to play it—violin in her left hand and nestled under her chin, bow in her right.
Her mother’s bottom lip trembled.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I just can’t remember.”
Marley said, “Maybe it doesn’t matter if you played it. . . .”
“It does if the man who made her take it wanted to hear her play it,” said Miss Otto.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Marisol,” Mr. Noonan said, “but as promising a musician as you may be, there are many violinists in New York more suited to an instrument of the Habishaw’s heritage. The police are considering the possibility that one would consort with a black marketer just to play it. I don’t agree, but . . .”
Marley said, “Well, that brings us to another question: Why Marisol?”
Mrs. Poveda said, “You mean why did this man . . . ?” She turned to her daughter and whispered, “Recluta.” When Marisol gave her the word in English, she continued. “Why did this man recruit my daughter?”
“Exactly,” Marley said.
“Oh,” Teddy groaned. “Now there’re three things we don’t know.” He counted on his fingers. “One: Who took the bloodstained violin? Two: Why did he take it? And three: Why did he involve Marisol Poveda?”
Marley looked beyond Marisol and her mother to the front of the restaurant. Even though it wasn’t yet seven o’clock, every table was filled. A crowd was waiting outside too, tempted by the scent of fresh seafood, garden-grown herbs and vegetables sautéed lightly with garlic.
Standing, she thanked Miss Otto and Mr. Noonan, who nodded as he continued to sample the scrumptious items on the platters. “I think we can continue this some other place,” she said.
Miss Otto stood too. “You’ve had enough, Ira, I hope.”
Mr. Noonan said, “Well, if you’re offering . . .”
With a simple flick of her wrist, she summoned a waitress who began to help her clear the table.
As the three students led Mrs. Poveda out of the restaurant, Marley heard a voice.
Antonio Otto’s, of course.
“Marley, wait.”
In his hand was a plastic bag, the kind used for take-out food.
“You were going to leave without saying good-bye?”
“You seemed awfully busy, Mr. Otto.”
His voice booming, he said, “Marley Zimmerman, I am never too busy for you!” He thrust his index finger toward the sky.
Marley and Teddy trailed the Povedas along Columbus Avenue. Their meeting would continue at their apartment, minus Miss Otto and Mr. Noonan.
“What’s in the bag?” Teddy asked. “Did you look?”
“Don’t have to. It’s stracciatella. Italian egg-drop soup. It’s fantastic.”
“Incredible,” he said, shaking his head, his mop of black hair reflecting the evening sun.
“What’s incredible,” Marley replied, “is every minute we spend coming up with more questions than answers—”
“—is another minute closer to when the Habishaw might be gone forever,” Teddy said.
“Gone forever,” Marley repeated, “and Marisol will be blamed.”