Linda Fairstein - Lethal Legacy

“No question about it.”

“Got the earring, Chapman?” Carmine said, his thick hand gripping Mike’s door.

“In my pocket. Let me get out,” Mike said, stepping onto the sidewalk as he fumbled with his jacket. “You waiting to get in to see the Monets?”

“Nah, she stops by to check on her father every couple of days,” Carmine said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Lemme see.”

“Minerva have you working last night? We could have taken you to the Yankees game with us, isn’t that right, Mercer?” Mike was checking Carmine’s whereabouts-maybe Minerva Hunt’s, too. “Here it is.”

“Had a breather last night. She didn’t want no company, and me and my goomada had a quiet night at home. No charity balls, no Thursday-night shopping spree. Like doing a day tour, back when I was in your shoes.”

Mercer got out of the car and opened my door.

“Whoa. You told me you weren’t looking for Minerva. Where you all going?” Carmine asked. “Hey, these ain’t hers. She don’t have anything without sparkles. Someone else dropped this. Check the projects, you jerk.”

“Could have fooled me,” Mike said. “I was sure it was Minerva’s. What number, Coop?”

“Right here-the one with the green awning.”

Mike straightened his blazer and adjusted his tie as he approached the doorman.

“Jasper Hunt,” Mike said, displaying his gold shield. “And no, he isn’t expecting us, but his daughter will be by the time her hired goon gets off the phone.”

Carmine’s face was red and his eyes bulging as he stood on the sidewalk with his phone in hand.

The doorman spoke to someone on the intercom and gestured to the elevator. “You want the penthouse.”

The three of us got in, and Mercer pressed the button while Mike sat on the red velvet bench behind. The mahogany paneling and brass trim were complemented by the small oil painting over Mike’s head. “This is decorated nicer than my apartment,” he said. “And I think it’s bigger.”

“You’ve refused all my offers to help you put your place together,” I said.

“I didn’t say I wanted it to look like a brothel, with all your fancy tassels and pillows and stuff.”

I remembered how his fiancée, Val, had transformed the small space of the dark walk-up he referred to as” the coffin,” and I bit my tongue rather than remind him of her.

There was only one apartment on the floor, and as the elevator door opened, we were greeted by a woman in a white uniform. Before she could say a word, Minerva Hunt stepped in front of her.

“Why don’t you go out for a walk, Martha. Father won’t need you while I’m here.”

“Yes, mum. I’ll just be getting my jacket.”

“So, Detective, Carmine tells me you’re a bit desperate to see me.”

“Actually, I stumbled into him while we were on our way to meet your father.”

“Oh, he can’t be talking to you, sir,” the woman, whom I assumed to be a nurse, said to Mike as she reached for a jacket in the hall closet.

“I’m dealing with this, Martha,” Minerva said, her long arm stretched across the door frame. “We’ve just finished lunch and he’s resting, Mr. Chapman.”

“I’m famished. Must be some leftovers. What do you feel like, Mercer?”

Minerva let down her arm so that the nurse could exit, and Mike stepped into the foyer of the apartment. “Cook has plenty of roast beef left, Miss Minerva.”

“So you’re in, Detective,” Minerva said, turning her back to us and following Mike into the living room. “Exactly what is it you want?”

Mike had crossed through to the living room, an enormous space flooded with early-afternoon light from the tall windows that provided a view over the top of the museum and the fall foliage of Central Park. The antique furniture and old masters paintings were extraordinary.

“I’m about to leave,” Minerva said, looking over her shoulder at Mercer and me. “You’ve got no business being here. If your issues are with me and about my housekeeper, then let’s go somewhere to talk.”

“We need to speak to your father. This is bigger than Karla Vastasi. It’s about the library now,” I said. She didn’t give any hint that she knew about the murder of Tina Barr. “I’d like you to stay until we’ve finished with him.”

Her navy turtleneck sweater and pencil skirt showed Minerva Hunt’s slim frame to advantage. She tugged at her collar and pulled it up against her chin. “He’s too weak to do this so unexpectedly. I’ll get you the number for his lawyer-Justin Feldman. Let him set the appointment for you.”

I smiled at Minerva. “I’ve got Mr. Feldman’s number on my phone,” I said. “He’s a great litigator and a powerful adversary, Ms. Hunt. I’ve worked with him often. I didn’t realize he did estate work, too.”

She practically slapped the phone out of my hand. “No, that’s right. He’s not-um-not handling those matters. You tell me right now what anything has to do with my father’s estate. The man isn’t dead yet.”

“Temper, temper, Minerva,” Mike said. “We’ll explain that to him ourselves.”

Sliding pocket doors opened and a butler appeared, summoning Ms. Hunt. “I’ll be right in. Why don’t you show my friends out?”

“We’ll take a couple of roast beefs on rye before we go, and I’ll stay with Minerva, if you don’t mind.”

The butler looked more perplexed than the nurse had been. Minerva pushed the doors wider apart and led us down a hallway, past the grand dining room and a parlor to a cheerful sunroom that caught the southern exposure.

Seated in a leather armchair was an elderly man dressed in a black jacquard smoking jacket, and perfectly groomed. A large yellow cat sat on his lap, stroked by the man’s trembling, liver-spotted hand. A second one, identical in color, was curled against his slipper.

“This is my father, Jasper Hunt. Father, these gentlemen are from the police department. Ms. Cropper-is that your name, dear?-works for Paul Battaglia. You remember Paul, don’t you?”

Jasper Hunt lifted his head and met us with a vacant stare.

“We’re having a family chat,” Minerva said. “I know you’ve met my brother, Tally. Perhaps you’d like to meet father’s favorite children.”

“Siblings?” Mike asked.

“Of course. They’re in the will-doesn’t that make it so?” she said, approaching her father. “That’s Patience, on his lap, and Fortitude, on the floor. Golden Maine coons. Longhairs. Have I got them right, Papa?”

The old man smiled and kept stroking.

“Little library lions, Detective. When Leona Helmsley kicked the bucket a few years ago,” Minerva said, referring to the hotel magnate known as the Queen of Mean, “she left twelve million dollars to her dog. Gave Father all kinds of bad ideas. I’ve done everything reasonable to change his mind, but for now I’m sweet as I can be to those pussies. I may have to adopt them one day.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt,” Mike said, getting on one knee to try to make eye contact with the patriarch of this unusual family. “Pleased to meet you.”

Hunt’s eyes followed the sound of Mike’s voice, but he made no response.

I turned at the sound of footsteps behind me as Talbot Hunt came into the room.

“I forgot to tell you we’ve got visitors, Tally,” Minerva said as her brother stopped in his tracks. “I think you’ve met them before.”

“And I forgot to tell you when I arrived that Tina Barr is dead,” Talbot Hunt said. “Murdered, of all things. In the library.”

It was obvious that Talbot Hunt had come to his father’s home after leaving us at the library this morning. I wondered whether it was a coincidence that he and Minerva met here.