Linda Fairstein - Lethal Legacy

“He’s my brother, Mike. He’s the kind of man who would kill for a book like this.”

“You believe Carmine Rizzali’s got a gig like that?” Mike asked. “His own PI firm, doing security details for the rich and famous. Driving Miss Minerva, maybe even stopping in for dessert. Twenty years on the job, the guy couldn’t find a Jamaican on Jamaica Boulevard.”

Mike, Mercer, and I had walked Minerva Hunt out of the squad building and turned her over to the ex-cop who guarded her. We drove down Second Avenue for a midnight supper at Primola, one of our favorite restaurants in the East Sixties, not far from my home.

Giuliano, the owner of the upscale eatery, bought us a round of drinks as we waited for Adolfo, the maître d’, to take our order before the kitchen closed.

“Carmine looks like he’s enjoying the ride as much as Ms. Hunt,” Mercer said. “What did you get out of Battaglia, Alex?”

“Don’t you remember, Mercer? I give, Battaglia gets. I called to tell him what happened, so he wants me in his office first thing in the morning.”

“Was he surprised?”

“Seemed to be when I told him about the murder. Asked for all the details.”

“Did he react when he heard Minerva Hunt’s name?”

“Didn’t skip a beat.” I swirled the ice cubes around in the golden brown scotch before taking a long sip.

“Signorina,” Adolfo said, “the chef will do anything you’d like.”

“Just some soup.”

Murder had never been known to have an impact on Mike Chapman’s appetite. “Let me start with pasta. Rigatoni-then throw whatever’s left in the kitchen on top of it. Chicken parmigiana after that. And back up my vodka before Fenton falls asleep,” Mike said, pointing at the bartender. “Mercer?”

“Soup and a salad. That’s it for me.” He tasted his favorite red wine. “You think it’s a coincidence that Karla Vastasi was dressed just like her boss?”

“It’s possible,” Mike said, gnawing on a breadstick.

“Minerva Hunt sucked you in completely,” I said. “The way you were playing with her, I felt like a third wheel.”

“Sometimes you are, Coop. I was just trying to keep her loose till we sort out the facts.”

“Any looser and she’d have been on your lap. I’m with you, Mercer. The bit with the clothes is too much of a fluke to be unplanned.”

“Karla was dressed for success,” Mike said. “Just happened to be Minerva’s hand-me-downs.”

“The same exact shoes-flat grosgrain bow and brass hardware on the front. It’s a classic style, and the ones Karla was wearing weren’t even scuffed,” I said. “That black suit isn’t the least bit outdated. I’ll bet it’s exactly the same one that Minerva had on.”

“So we need to find out whether she bought that monogrammed tote herself,” Mercer said. “If it wasn’t a gift like she claimed, I’m thinking Karla was the canary in the coal mine, sent there to see if it was safe before Minvera went in herself.”

Mercer and I were on the same page. Maybe Hunt was supposed to meet someone in Tina Barr’s apartment earlier in the day. Maybe there was a dangerous purpose to the rendezvous, and she had sent her unwitting servant inside to keep the appointment.

“Very hot plate, Alessandra,” Adolfo said, setting the soup bowl in front of me.

“I suppose we’ll find out if that little bejeweled book is very hot, too,” Mike said. “Maybe it’s stolen and someone was trying to scam Minerva, tempt her to buy it back. I think I see a date with a librarian in my future.”

“Battaglia will be our matchmaker for that,” I said. There would be no overture to a major New York institution before he greased the wheels at the very highest levels. No point any of us going in through the back door when he could command the attention of the top dogs.

“Well, whoever committed the murder didn’t exactly come to the scene armed. Someone can make a good case that it wasn’t premeditated,” Mike said. “Never seen a garden ornament as a murder weapon before.”

“An armillary sphere.”

“It wasn’t a spear, Coop. Didn’t you see it? Her head was cratered by that big brass-and-iron thing, weighs a ton.”

“Sphere. I didn’t say spear. Probably a Hunt antique,” I said. “They were used centuries ago by astronomers, before telescopes.”

Mike’s cell phone vibrated on the table. He looked at the caller ID on the display and answered with a mouthful of pasta. “Excuse me, Mom. We’re just having our supper. No, no, no. I can’t talk about it now, ’cause I don’t want you to have any bad dreams. I’ll call you tomorrow. Yeah, I’ll say hello for you. Just tell me the question, okay?”

His widowed mother lived in a small condo in Bay Ridge, next door to one of his three sisters. Mike’s father, Brian, had been a legend in the NYPD-honored for his bravery on countless occasions, and enormously proud that his only son had shown such academic promise. He retired from the department while Mike was at Fordham, but died of a massive coronary two days after handing in his gun and shield. No one who knew Brian and how much his son admired him was surprised when Mike enrolled in the academy the day he got his college diploma.

“’Night, Ma. Talk to you tomorrow,” Mike said, putting down the phone. “The Final Jeopardy category is ‘Steel Wheels,’ got it?”

“Now, when did you have time to set this up?” Mercer said, laughing.

“I called her when we were in front of Barr’s house. I figured we might be outside there for hours. Didn’t want to miss my chance to make a score off Blondie. Pony up the money.”

Mike’s fondness for trivia was the other habit that rarely took a back seat to homicide. He liked to bet on the last Jeopardy! question of the night and found a way to be in front of the television whether in the squad room, the morgue, or a neighborhood pub.

“I’m glad you showed a little respect for Karla Vastasi tonight,” I said, smiling at him. “I was touched by your restraint when we were in the kitchen, even though it was showtime.”

“I like it when I please you, kid, but in all honesty, I didn’t see a TV there, did you?”

“Twenty bucks for the winning question,” Mercer said.

“I’m in,” I said.

“Double or nothing.”

“Well, damn, man. Seems to me you’ve heard the answer. And your enthusiasm suggests you’ve already got a good guess tucked away. So I’m holding at twenty,” Mercer said.

“Picture your boyfriend Trebek reading the answer, Coop. ‘Steel Wheels’ it is. Fastest speed at which New York City subway trains are designed to run.”

I held up my empty glass to signal to Fenton that I wanted a refill while I stalled. “What is…?”

“It helps if you ride underground every now and then, even though you act like you’re allergic to public transportation.” Mike hummed the Jeopardy! music to time me out. “Hurry it up.”

“What is forty-five miles an hour?” Mercer asked.

“Not a bad guess, Mr. Wallace, but not the right one. Don’t be thinking of that City Hall station, Coop. You got big curves like that and grade, the steel wheels go much slower.”

“Thanks for the reminder. An afternoon with you two on that platform was enough to keep me in taxis for a lifetime. I’m going with thirty-five.”

“And once again, you would be wrong, ma’am. What is fifty-five miles per hour, folks? I’ll trust you to pay up after we eat. It’s a speed rarely reached because it requires long, uninterrupted acceleration, but that’s what they’re made to do. My pop used to ride me up front on the trains when I was a kid. Loved all that stuff. No subways in the suburbs, kid. That’s one of your problems.”