Linda Fairstein - Lethal Legacy

“Now that, Mike, is only a myth.” Hunt crossed her arms, and one side of her mouth lifted into a smile. She was practically nose to nose with him. “Just a myth.”

There was nothing about military history-from Roman mythology to real-life conflict-that Chapman didn’t know.

“The warrior part?” he asked, and Hunt laughed.

“We’ve got to talk about getting you some coverage,” Mercer said. “The lieutenant has someone standing by to take you home. And if you don’t mind, we’d like to give you a guard for tomorrow.”

The commissioner wouldn’t allow the same mistake the department had made, refusing my request to provide protection for Tina Barr.

“I’ve got my own security. Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need yours.”

“Security?” Mike asked.

“The gentleman who dropped me off at the apartment tonight and followed us here. Didn’t you make the tail, Detective? You’ve surprised me again.”

Mike chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“What’s that about?” Mercer asked. “Why have you got protection?”

“I’m a Hunt. And if you were thinking tomato sauce and ketchup, you’d be wrong.”

“I was thinking oil, actually,” Mike said. “Something thicker than tomato sauce.”

“Even better than that, Detective. Real estate. New York city real estate. My great-grandfather was a partner of John Jacob Astor’s. Jasper Hunt was his name. We still own more of Manhattan than it’s polite to talk about. Be careful where you walk, Detective. I wouldn’t want you stepping on me.”

“Well, what makes you Hunts so unpopular you need security 24/7?”

She looked at her watch as she answered. “We’re not unpopular in most circles, Mike. But my father made a point of teaching me early on to protect my assets. All of them.”

Mercer shook his head at me. He didn’t like the direction Mike was going any more than I did.

Minerva Hunt’s name was familiar to me from society columns and media coverage of philanthropic events. It made no sense that she, an heiress to a great family fortune, was micromanaging a basement apartment in Carnegie Hill.

“Going back a bit, Ms. Hunt. Perhaps I didn’t understand what you meant, but you own the apartment in which Tina Barr was living?” I asked.

“Not that dank little apartment,” she said, tsk-tsking at me without missing a beat. “We own the building, Ms. Cooper. The whole row of brownstones on that street.”

Then why didn’t Billy Schultz recognize her name when he saw it on the buzzer, as he claimed he had before Tina Barr moved in?

“And the tenants pay rent to-?” I asked.

“Not to me, Ms. Cooper. I don’t go around collecting with a tin cup on the first of the month. There’s a management company, of course.”

“Of course,” Mike said, taking Minerva’s part, as though the questions I was asking made no sense. “What’s that called?”

“Mad Hatter Realty.”

“ Alice in Wonderland?” Mike asked, laughing.

“Don’t laugh. My grandfather, Jasper the Second, was mad. Eccentric is what the rich like to call it, but mad is what he was. My father named one of the companies for him.”

“So you did have a special relationship with Tina Barr, then?” I asked. “It’s not just a coincidence that she lived in your apartment.”

“Tina worked for my father for a period of time.”

“Doing what?”

“He’s a collector, Ms. Cooper. Rare books. It’s an inherited trait in the male line of Hunts,” Minerva said, talking directly to me for the first time. I thought she was finally giving up her flippant attitude. But she went on. “For generations they’ve all seemed to love the same things-rare books, expensive wine, and cheap women.”

“And Barr?”

“She was cataloging the collection. My father’s an old man, Mike. He’s close to ninety, and quite incapacitated now. Changed his will more often than I change my shoes. I just made sure she had a place to live while she was working for him.”

“Did he fire her?”

“He’s not in a condition to fire anyone. Tina quit-that’s what Papa’s secretary told me.”

Minerva Hunt removed her BlackBerry from her pocketbook and dialed a number, pressing the digits with her long nails. Someone picked up on the first ring. “Carmine? Are you in front of the police station? I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Where did Barr go?”

“Why don’t you check with our management office? Perhaps she left forwarding information.”

Hunt was pulling on her short leather gloves-a fashion statement or a sign that she was through with us for the night, not protection against the mild weather.

“You have all my numbers,” she said. “I expect we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Were you looking for anything in particular in that basement apartment?” Mercer asked as she readied herself to leave. “Anything you sent Karla Vastasi to retrieve?”

Minerva Hunt backed up a step or two. “I thought I told you why she was there.”

“Just cleaning up, I think you said. Nothing of value you might be interested in?” Mercer said, talking as he walked into Peterson’s office, mimicking Hunt’s motion with a pair of latex gloves that he put on as she talked.

“I assume Ms. Barr took whatever belonged to her. The apartment was sublet to her furnished. We keep a few of our properties available for help who need temporary lodging. I wanted to make certain that none of the belongings was disturbed. You’ll allow me to do that later in the week, I’m sure.”

Mercer emerged with an object in the palm of his large hand. It was a small book that appeared to be covered with precious jewels.

Minerva Hunt’s eyes widened. Her calfskin-covered fingers reached out toward it.

“You know what this is?” he asked.

“It once belonged to my family,” she said, glaring at him while she kept her arm outstretched, in expectation that he’d turn it over. “Where did you get it?”

“The ME found it after you and Alex left the kitchen. It was on the floor, under Karla’s body, tucked inside the jacket of her suit.”

I could see dark stains on the surface of the gems that must have been Karla Vastasi’s blood.

“I want the book, Detective. Do you know how much it’s worth?” There was nothing playful about Minerva Hunt’s attitude.

“Your hand’s going to atrophy hanging out there like that,” Mercer said. “Right now, it’s evidence in a murder case.”

“What is it?” Mike asked.

“The Bay Psalm Book,” Hunt said, looking at all of us with disdain for our obvious ignorance. “This was the first book printed in North America, in 1640. Open it carefully, Detective. It will have my grandfather’s name inside. ‘ Ex Libris, Jasper Hunt Jr.’”

Mercer didn’t move.

“There weren’t a dozen copies that have survived over the centuries, gentlemen. Jasper’s wife had one bound this way when their first son was born. My grandfather treasured it,” she said. “Kept it by his bedside every night until shortly before he died. It’s part of the Hunt Collection at the New York Public Library now.”

Mike crossed his arms and whistled. “Guess I ought to renew my library card. Never saw anything close in my bookmobile.”

“It hasn’t been out of that building in almost forty years. Look at it, will you?”

Mercer placed his pinky on the lower corner of the book and gently lifted the cover.

Minerva Hunt stared at the bookplate and sneered.

EX LIBRIS TALBOT HUNT was written on the cream-colored label, decorated with a heraldic coat-of-arms poised above a globe.

“From the library of Talbot Hunt, my ass,” Minerva said, shaking a finger at Mercer.

“Is Talbot related to you?”