Lethal Legacy (33 page)

“It wouldn’t be the first time I got fooled by
someone who wasn’t what she appeared to be,” I said.

“Did you hear back from Minerva Hunt?” Mike asked.

I checked my cell for messages. “Nothing new.”

“You called her?”

“Twice since you told me to this morning. Why
don’t you try your magic? She seemed to like you.”

Mike didn’t answer.

“I get it,” I said, ruffling the hair at the nape
of his neck. “She hasn’t returned your calls either. That’s why you’re hounding
me.”

He flipped open his cell and dialed information.
“Yeah, operator. In Manhattan, Rizzali Investigations. Connect me.”

Someone answered the phone.

“Mike Chapman here. Homicide. Looking for my buddy
Carmine. You got his cell for me?”

Apparently, whoever was in charge didn’t want to
give that out.

“Okay, patch me through,” Mike said, waiting for
the receptionist to make the connection. “Yo, Carmine. How’s things? Someday
I’m going to have my own secretary, too. You’re living the good life, man. You
working with Ms. Hunt today?”

I could hear the gruff voice barking back at Mike.

“Where at? No, no. I don’t want to see
her
.
I want to make you a hero, Carmine. Ms. Hunt dropped an earring in the office
the other night. I’ll hand it off to you, you give it back to her,” Mike said.
“Why would I kid you? One high-maintenance broad on my hands is enough. Where
are you? Yeah, right now.”

Mike gassed the car and we were off.

“Where to?” I asked.

“He’s parked at the corner of Fifth Avenue and
Eighty-third Street. I tell you, Minerva may pay him a lot more than the City
of New York did, but Carmine is still one dumb schmuck. Take off one of your
earrings, kid.”

I instinctively clasped my hands to my ears and
covered the small gold hoops. “I like this pair. Way too simple for Minerva
Hunt. Can’t have it.”

“Once she tells him he’s crazy, Carmine’ll give it
back to me. I’m just trying to get to the broad.”

I unhooked one earring and passed it to Mike.

“What did you find out about that tote that Karla
Vastasi was carrying?” he asked.

“Oops, I dropped the ball on that. Didn’t think it
would be important until we saw her again.”

“You’re about to get your wish, if I know
Carmine.”

I dug my cell out of my handbag and it was my turn
to call information. “Bergdorf Goodman,” I said, and accepted the operator’s
request to dial the number of the department store that carried the distinctive
bag.

“I’m wondering if you can help me,” I told the
saleswoman when the switchboard connected me. “I was with a friend of mine last
week. She had one of those open totes with the geometrical pattern—that French
line that you’ve carried for the last couple of years.”

She mentioned the designer’s name, reminded me
that Bergdorf’s had the exclusive, told me the exorbitant price, and asked if I
wanted to purchase one.

“Yes, but before I make the trip over, I want to
be sure I can get exactly the same color, same monogram style. I’m not sure if
she got if from you, or while she was traveling.”

The woman groaned at my insistence. “Who’s your
friend?”

“Minerva Hunt.”

“Ms. Hunt?” I could envision the saleswoman
standing at attention at the sound of the name. “Yes, of course. She has that
bag in three colors. Would you like the black or the navy? We can stamp the
monogram on overnight. I don’t think we have the burgundy in stock.”

“Too bad. That’s the one I wanted.”

“Would you like me to special-order it for you?”

I had already disconnected the phone as I
announced to the guys, “Minvera lied. Remember when she said that tote was a
gift to her and that she didn’t like it? Well, she bought three of them
herself.”

“You think people go to their doctor and say
they’ve got a bellyache when their ears hurt? Or a sore throat when its
hemorrhoids?” Mike asked. “But they’ve got no problem lying to the prosecutor.
See how smart she is and whether she can figure out the truth.”

Mike squared the block in front of the
Metropolitan Museum of Art and pulled in on Fifth Avenue, behind Carmine’s
Mercedes S500. I looked through the list of library trustees and found Jasper
Hunt III. “I think Minerva may have dropped in on her father. He lives on this
block.”

“Twofers, kid. May be our first break.”

Carmine was wiping the side of the car with a
chamois until he looked up and saw Mike. He dropped the polishing cloth on the
hood and headed toward us.

“Coming at my bait,” Mike said, “faster and dumber
than a guppy swimming up for food. Maybe he thinks Minerva’ll give him a
reward.”

“Carmine’s looking pretty buff himself,” Mercer
said. “He could hoist a garden ornament over my head, don’t you think?”

“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.”

TWENTY-SEVEN