Linda Fairstein - Lethal Legacy

“I think you’d be doing yourself a favor if you came up to the squad and sat down to go over all this a little more carefully, you know?”

“I’ll do you a bigger favor,” Schultz said, opening the vestibule door and shouting before he disappeared inside. “I’ll have my lawyer call you.”

A doorman admitted us at the entrance of the elegantly restored Gothic building on Central Park West and directed us to the concierge.

“We’re here to see Alger Herrick,” I said, taking in the opulence of the décor in the lobby. The architectural detail of the last century had been carefully preserved, but there were discreet signs pointing to an indoor lap pool and the spa.

“He’s expecting you?”

“Yes. I’m Alexandra Cooper.”

The concierge rang the apartment, and when someone answered, he announced me. “Take that elevator to your left.”

“And what floor do I press?”

“The lift only goes to Mr. Herrick’s home.”

I followed Mike into the small elevator and pressed the button that said Up. Seconds later, it came to a stop and the door opened.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Cooper. I’m Alger Herrick,” he said, extending his right hand to help me step off. His left hand was tucked into the pocket of a charcoal gray cashmere sweater, set off against a yellow ascot that framed his long, narrow face.

Mike introduced himself as I moved onto a small balcony that hung above the main room of the apartment. It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light, and then I looked around at the vaulted ceiling and the large stained-glass windows that ringed the cavernous space of the perfectly appointed room.

“I was in here years ago, but I’d never recognize the place,” Mike said, whistling softly as he moved in behind me. “This used to be the hospital’s chapel, wasn’t it?”

“Precisely, Detective. Did you know it in the old days-after the hospital closed-when these glorious rooms were filled with decay?” Alger Herrick asked. “This was indeed the chapel of St. Elizabeth of Hungary. Patron saint of the suffering.”

I felt a chill run down my spine.

“I had a rather long conversation with your colleague, Mr. McKinney, from my home in London late last week,” Herrick said. “Thursday evening, I believe.”

He led us down the winding staircase of the duplex and seated us in the living room, waiting for the butler to return with our ice water and his tea.

“Things have happened since then,” Mike said. “A woman’s been killed in the apartment Tina Barr was living in, and Barr herself has disappeared.”

“Yes, I got back to town on Sunday. Jill Gibson called yesterday, asking about Tina. Apparently she seemed to have left without a trace.”

“Were you surprised?”

“I was, Mr. Chapman. She’s been working with me for several weeks,” Herrick said, “and I thought we were getting on very well. I owe her quite a large amount of money, so I assume she’ll be in touch with me about that.”

“Do you know anything about her family, her next of kin?” I asked. “Any idea where she might have gone?”

“Her father died when she was very young. I know that. Tina spoke of her mother. I understand she lives in one of those artists’ colonies on the west coast of Mexico.”

“Would you have the mother’s name, or an address for her?”

“I’m afraid not. No reason for me to have it.”

Herrick was standing a few yards away from me, but I could barely see his face because of the lack of light in the room.

“You mind turning up the wattage?” Mike asked, also frustrated by not being able to gauge the expressions on Herrick’s face.

Herrick walked to a panel near the staircase and pushed the dimmer. The mountings on the wall, all in gilded frames, were maps-oceans and continents, familiar territories and foreign names.

“Sorry, Mr. Chapman. I’m so used to living at lamp level-that’s what we call it when you work with ancient documents-that I forget others aren’t accustomed to it. The objects in my collection, whether on parchment or vellum or paper, are better protected by low lighting. That’s why it’s so dark in here,” Herrick said. The dimness added to the solemnity of the room. “I’d only got to know Tina a little better about a month ago. We hadn’t worked out the details for her fees yet.”

“Hope you figure it out before next April,” Mike said. “She’ll have taxes to pay.”

“Frankly, Detective, Tina wanted to be paid off the books. Cash. I was quite uncomfortable with that. I gave her some money up-front, to get her going, but I hadn’t formalized our arrangement.”

The butler returned with our drinks and handed me water in a heavy crystal double-highball glass. While Mike questioned Herrick, I checked out the sumptuous fittings of the old chapel and admired the brilliant colors of the antique hand-drawn maps and charts.

“Where did you meet Tina?” Mike asked.

“At the New York Public Library. I’d seen her there over the years, exchanged pleasantries and such, and I was aware that she’d built up a good reputation for herself,” Herrick said, resting his teacup on the mantel above the fireplace. “It seemed the perfect opportunity for both of us, with my collection and her skill.”

“Wasn’t she already working for someone else?”

“Jasper Hunt. She’d been hired by someone to do some projects for the old man himself.”

“Not hired by him?”

“Jasper? Entirely gaga at this point, Detective. At least, that’s what I heard. It was probably one of his children, trying to get their greedy hands on his treasures,” Herrick said, taking a sip of his tea. “You’ve met them, have you?”

“Tell me what you know,” Mike said.

“Talbot’s a bookman. That’s how collectors are known. The father always favored him because Tally’s got the same nose for books as Jasper, the same appreciation-had it since he was a child. He’s probably close to fifty now, a bit younger than me. Been very involved in running the family property empire, expanding it to pass on to his children.”

“So they get on, father and son?”

Alger Herrick ran his finger along the edge of the mantel. “There are others closer to Jasper who could tell you more than I.”

“But you’ve heard rumblings. You must have had something in mind when you hired Tina Barr away.”

“Idle gossip around the library,” Herrick said. “Tally’s getting impatient, hoping to keep some of his father’s fortune in the family. Make sure it isn’t all given away. That sort of thing.”

“Even to the library?” Mike asked. “Even though he’s on the board?”

“I have the impression that Tally would like to have control of something substantial at this point in his life. Something of his very own. There’s a certain feeling of entitlement that comes over a man like that by the time he’s reached middle age. His grandfather was such an eccentric that no one’s quite sure how much of the fortune is still intact. A lot of the Hunt money has already been given away, and Jasper himself kept threatening to change the provisions of his will. Mind you, that’s just the talk.”

“And Minerva?”

Alger Herrick raised his teacup. “I’ll have to switch to something stronger than this, Detective, if we’re to talk about that viper. I have a bad taste in my mouth at just the mention of her name.”

“Why so?”

“You seem intrigued by that one, Ms. Cooper,” Herrick said. He caught me staring at a beautifully drawn map of the European coastline, the compass roses highlighted in gold paint. “By all means have a closer look.”

“Minerva Hunt,” Mike said, drawing Herrick back to the conversation. “Why do you dislike her?”