Linda Fairstein - Lethal Legacy

We had secured the map room, arranged for rides home for Bea and her colleagues, and were walking from the side door of the library to Mike’s car, shortly after midnight.

“Not back in Minerva’s college days, when he tried to fix her up with Herrick,” I said, recalling his story. “And I’ve got no sense that any of them realize it now.”

“This might be the most unwelcome familial search since Dick Cheney found out he’s related to Barack Obama.”

“The only resemblance I see is greed,” Mercer said.

“The genetic Hunt predisposition you mentioned yesterday,” Mike said. “Meanwhile, they’re ready to rip each other’s throats out over old books and maps. I say Coop charms some drool out of Jasper, we firm this up, and sit them all down for a reality check.”

“Chapman!” a woman’s voice called from half a block away.

We all stopped and turned, and saw Teresa Retlin, a detective from the burglary squad, jogging after us.

“Don’t you answer your phone? Your voice mail box is full,” she said. “I’m too old to be chasing you down in the middle of the night.”

“Didn’t stop you ten years ago, Terry. I think the phone’s out of juice,” Mike said. “And so am I. What’s up?”

He pivoted and moved forward while Retlin tried to keep pace.

“Got a baby snitch for you.”

“For me? What’s he snitching about?”

“Name is Shalik Samson. Says you want what he’s got.”

The three of us stopped short to listen to Terry Retlin.

“That twelve-year-old?”

“Fourteen,” she said. “Just small for his age. Neighbor saw him breaking in to the back window of an apartment an hour ago and called 911. The kid starting throwing your name around before I could cuff him.”

“Where is he now?” Mike asked.

“In my care, Chapman. I have to take him to a juvenile facility till Monday morning,” she said, handing Mike a business card. “Says he found this in the garbage. That you gave your card to a guy named Travis Forbes-the vic in my burglary-and Forbes threw it out.”

Mike laughed and shook his head from side to side. “Piece of work. Where’s your car?”

“My partner’s over there,” she said pointing across Fortieth Street.

Mercer and I followed Mike to the parked RMP. “Shalik, my man,” Mike said, bracing himself against the roof of the car and leaning down to talk to the boy. “What brings you to the library tonight?”

“I got locked up for helping you, Detective. You give me twenty bucks and I’ll tell you.”

“You got that wrong, Shalik. I don’t pay guys to break the law.”

“I got you into that building, didn’t I? You paid me yesterday.”

“Tell it to the judge, Shalik. We’re outta here,” Mike said, tapping the car. “Take him away, Terry.”

“No! Mr. Mike!” Shalik shouted.

“What’s on your mind? It’s getting too late for nonsense.”

“I was going in there tonight for you, Mr. Mike. Tell you what he up to,” Shalik said. “Find out why he all dressed up like a cop.”

“What? Let him out of the car, Terry,” Mike said, as Mercer stepped up to open the door and stand beside the skinny kid to make sure he didn’t try to run. “Tell me about that, Shalik.”

The boy knew he had the attention of all the grown-ups. His jeans drooped so low, they barely covered his rear end; the pant legs crumpled on top of his sneakers. He pushed them even lower when he shoved his hands in his pockets as he considered what to say to us.

“You talk to the judge for me? It’s my third time.”

“I’ll sing to the judge, Shalik. You tell me about Travis.”

“I seen him before in all these different clothes,” he said. “Dressin’ stupid and stuff sometimes when he go out. But he always go out alone. And I never seen him in no police officer’s uniform. He ain’t no cop.”

I thought of Tina Barr’s attacker and the fireman’s gear. I remembered the man in a brown uniform who had broken in to Jane Eliot’s apartment.

“Travis Forbes’s coatrack, Mike,” I said. “All those jackets that were hanging in the hallway, remember? I’ll get a warrant to see what kind of stuff he’s got there.”

“You know real cops, Shalik,” Mercer said. “Did his uniform look real?”

“It do. It really do. Had a hat, too, and a shiny silver badge.”

“Did he see you?” Mike asked. “Or did he just keep on walking down the street?”

Shalik’s chest puffed up. “He didn’t walk nowhere.”

“What did he do?”

“He had a chauffeur, Mr. Mike. Big fat guy gets out of a limousine and opens the door for him. Travis, he like got in the back with his date.”

“His date?” Mike said. “You’re doing real good for me, Shalik. Tell me, did you see the woman?”

“Dark-haired lady. Skinny. Skinnier than her,” he said, tipping his elbow toward me. “Older than her, too. Long red fingernails. Smoking a cigarette.”

Travis Forbes dressed himself like an NYPD cop for a night on the town with Minerva Hunt. Now all we had to do was figure out where Carmine Rizzali had driven them.

Mercer had his arm around Shalik’s shoulder, trying to cut him a deal.

“We’re taking him from here, Terry,” Mike said.

“I could lose my shield for this, anything happens to the kid. Rules are different for juvies.”

“I’ll stay with him,” I said. “I’ll go to the judge myself.”

She walked back to her car, got inside, and slammed the door, while Mike and I followed Mercer and Shalik down the dark side street until we hit Fifth Avenue and went around the block.

“How are we going to raise the fat bastard?” Mike asked. “Yesterday he wouldn’t even take my call.”

“Let Alex do the talking. He won’t blow her off so fast,” Mercer said.

“You’d better script it for me.”

“Tell him you’ve got something urgent to discuss with Minerva,” Mike said. “He must have driven her to Jane Eliot’s apartment. Let him know the old lady’s talking about what she gave to Minerva. He’ll want to collect on that tidbit. Makes him look useful. Eliot’s safe, isn’t she, Mercer?”

“Cops are with her in the hospital room. Not a problem.”

“If TARU can find his cell phone pings, we’re in business,” Mike said, as he and I got into the front seat of the car. The Technical Assistance Response Unit had the latest gadgetry and technology to solve almost every communication and surveillance problem investigators needed.

“Who’s this? Hey, Sonny-Mike Chapman here. I got two known numbers; one’s going to place a call to the other. The caller’s in the car with me, midtown. If I give you both, can you pinpoint the other guy’s location for me?”

The answer was short and obviously positive.

“Ready for me? First one is Assistant District Attorney Alexandra Cooper,” Mike said, dictating my number. “The receiver is Carmine Rizzali. Yeah, used to be on the job. I need to find him pronto. The nearest cell phone tower would be great. Coop’ll dial him to see if he picks up. I’ll stay on with you.”

I punched Carmine’s number into my key pad. My caller ID would be blocked, so he’d have to answer in order to know who was calling at this late hour.

One ring and Carmine spoke into the phone. “Hullo?”

“Carmine? It’s Alex Cooper. I met you with Mike-”

“Is this more of his bullshit?”

“No, no. This is something urgent that I’m trying to speak to Ms. Hunt about, just between the two of us. I think Mike’s on his way to her home now-”

“What is he, nuts? It’s the middle of a Saturday night. She ain’t even there.”

“Look, there’s a woman who lives in the Village, on Bedford Street. She’s made a complaint that Minerva Hunt stole something from her. I…uh…I-” I held my hand out, palm upward, trying to figure a direction to go.