Lethal Legacy (36 page)

No wonder he hadn’t called the police. He’d first
have to explain the probable suspect to his wife.

“I’m really not sure. I must have mentioned it to
her.”

Minerva was more incredulous than I was. She
didn’t let the appearance of the butler interfere with her response. He stood
silently and waited for her order. “How could you not have known, Tally? I
don’t even spend time at the library, but I know that she’d lost their trust,
too.”

At my first meeting in Battaglia’s office with
Jill Gibson, Pat McKinney had called Tina Barr a forger—and a thief.

“A vodka gimlet,” Minerva said.

“Now, madam? At this hour?”

“Now, Bailey. Right now,” Minerva said. “If you
didn’t know it, Tally, then you’re the last one in town. The girl shared a bed
with the master thief, too, before he got caught. Tina Barr used to run with
Eddy Forbes.”

TWENTY-NINE

“If you don’t feed me,” Mike said, “I’m going
to put some mustard on my shoe and eat it. Then I might start on your toes.”

It was midafternoon, and the list of things we had
to do and people we had to find and interview continued to grow.

“That’s about as dysfunctional a family unit as I
can imagine,” Mercer said, shaking his head. “All the money in the world and
the two cats are probably the only living things Hunt can trust.”

“Coop’s starving me. I can’t even think, man.”

“Let’s not waste time on a meal. Pull up in front
of P. J. Bernstein’s,” I said, referring to my favorite Upper East Side deli.
“I’ll hop out and get sandwiches while you call the feds and get an address on
Eddy Forbes.”

“Make it two turkey clubs for me, a bag of chips,
a cream soda, and you got a deal. Mercer?”

“Ham and provolone on rye toast.”

We were less than five minutes away from the Third
Avenue classic deli. Mike double-parked while I ran in and placed my order with
the counterman.

“What do you know?” I asked as I climbed into the
back seat.

“The lieutenant just called. They had to let Billy
Schultz go. His alibi for last night held up just fine. Three other guys
working late with him. That’s the bad news.”

“What’s the good?”

“His office is less than ten blocks away from the
library. Think they need to work those alibi witnesses a little harder.”

“I still don’t like his DNA in the mask from the
first break-in at Barr’s apartment,” I said. “His explanation strikes me as
weird.”

“I told you the lab said it’s a mixture, Coop.
Enough saliva there to get another profile—it just doesn’t match anyone in the
databank.” Mike had spread a napkin across his lap, holding half a sandwich in
his right hand as he navigated uptown again with his left.

“Tell her what Peterson said about the phone
call,” Mercer said.

“Traces back to a booth on the corner of Sixth
Avenue and the Deuce.”

“So this creep lurked around the library and
watched until Tina’s body was found—and about to be bagged—and then dialed up
her cell?”

“We’re dealing with a freaky-deaky guy, in case
you hadn’t figured that,” Mike said, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“C’mon, girl, you still gotta eat.”

“The whole damn crew is freaky,” Mercer said. “You
got a sister-brother act that’s as ugly as anything in Greek mythology, a
too-nosy neighbor whose DNA winds up in an important piece of crime scene
evidence, a one-armed guy who lives in the chapel of an old cancer hospital, a
library executive who lied to Alex the first time they met, the most successful
map thief in recent times now on parole, and a young turk with books bound in
human skin who was so anxious to be wheels-up that—”

“I’ll be wheels-up his ass if he neglected to tell
us about his visit to Jasper Hunt,” Mike said. “And this dead girl—may she rest
in peace—gets more complicated by the hour. What was she doing in bed with
Talbot Hunt? And Eddy Forbes?”

“What did you learn about Forbes?”

“Sentenced to only three years, over the objection
of just about every library director in the galaxy. Got out seven months ago,
with some time off for good behavior. Reports to his parole officer in Maine
every week.”

“Didn’t he ever live in the city?”

“Yeah, in Chelsea, but he lost his lease when he
went to jail. The feds seized all his books, maps, papers. They’re still in the
process of trying to match up the stolen things with libraries that haven’t
even missed them yet.”

“Any family here?” I asked.

“A younger brother on the West Side. Chow down and
I’ll have you there in no time.”

I nibbled at the corner of my sandwich. “Who’s his
brother?”

“Name is Travis Forbes. That’s all I know at the
moment. Don’t get pushy.”

“Well, where?”

“First floor in a brownstone on West One Hundred
and Fourth Street, off the park.”

We had visited Alger Herrick in his opulent
apartment only one block away. “That’s close to where Herrick lives.”

“A universe apart, actually. This area’s still a
run-down bunch of tenements.” Mike had devoured the first sandwich before we
entered the transverse drive. He washed it down with a swig of soda and a
handful of chips before starting on the second one.

When we reached 104th Street, Mike turned in to
the block. School had let out for the day, and kids, most of them black and
Hispanic, had clustered on the sidewalk. The department Crown Vic—an obvious
intrusion in the ’hood—caught the attention of most of them, who watched with
interest as we got out of the unmarked car.

I climbed the steps and opened the vestibule door.
The name T. Forbes was next to a buzzer, and I pressed it. Several seconds
later, I heard a voice through the intercom.

Mike nudged me out of the way. “Travis Forbes?”

A man answered. “Yes.”

“Mike Chapman. NYPD. I’d like to talk with you.”

There was no response.

“You there, Forbes?”

A dark-skinned kid who appeared to be about twelve
years old had followed Mercer up the steps.

“He don’t let nobody in, dude. He real shy or
something.”

“You know him?” Mercer asked.

“I seed him around. Yo, you know his brother real
famous. Got locked up. Got took away in handcuffs. His picture was in the paper
and they even looks alike,” the kid said, totally animated. “You the man?”

Mike pressed the intercom again. “I am. But I
guess Mr. Forbes doesn’t think so.”

“You give me ten dollars if I get you inside?”

“Not by breaking in,” Mercer said. “You live
here?”

“Down the street.” The kid smiled and tsked at the
suggestion he might do something illegal. “Naw. Hit four-C. Ms. Jenkins.”

I pressed the buzzer.

It must have taken almost a minute for her to get
to the intercom. “Hello?”

“Give me the ten,” the kid said to Mercer, who
took a bill out of his pocket.

“Yo, Ms. Jenkins? It’s Shalik. You need anything
from the store?”

“Milk. I need milk and a loaf of bread, dear.”

“Let me in so’s I can get the money.”

The buzzer sounded and Shalik opened the door for
us. He pointed to a door behind the stairwell. “That his,” he said, starting
the climb to the fourth floor.

Mike went ahead of me and pounded on Travis
Forbes’s door. The three of us waited in the hallway, and Shalik stopped in
place.

“Police,” Mike said, banging again.

“Do you have a warrant?” the voice inside
responded.

“You watch too much television, Travis. Open up. I
just need some information about Eddy.”

“He’s not here.”

“That’s a good start. Now open the door.”

“You can’t come in. I’ve just got a robe on. I’m
dressing to go out.”

“As long as you’re not gonna expose yourself to
me, crack the door.”

I heard the lock disengage and the door opened
several inches, coming to a sharp stop as it strained against the small chain
that secured it. I could see a shock of brown hair, but the man’s face was
shadowed.

“We want to talk to you, and I’m not gonna do it
in the hallway,” Mike said.

“How many of you are there?”

“Three of us.”

Travis Forbes paused. “There isn’t room for you.
It’s a very small apartment.”

“I’ll send in my thinnest partner. She’d fit in a
closet,” Mike said. “Put some clothes on. I’m not moving till you do.”

“Give me a few minutes then,” Forbes said. He
closed the door and walked away from it.

Mercer backed up and turned around. “Let me check
out the building. Wouldn’t want to spook him out the window. There a fire
escape?” he asked Shalik.

“Yeah. Go through the back alley. You could climb
up it, see all the crazy shit he got piled in there.”

Mercer left as the kid came down the steps and
approached Forbes’s door, squeezing his wiry frame between Mike and me.

“Whoa, Shalik. Where’re you going?” Mike asked.

The kid turned the knob and gently pushed on the
door till it caught against the chain. He slipped his skinny arm through the
space—just several inches wide—twisting his body as he slid the metal catch out
of place.

“Future perps of America,” Mike said. “You can’t
do that, Shalik.”

“I be done,” he said, standing back from the door,
which swung open. “You look, Mr. Detective.”

From the floor to the ceiling of the entryway,
with only enough room for a single individual to pass through, were stacks upon
stacks of books, magazines, and yellowed newspapers, piled on top of one
another and towering over my head. They were so densely packed together that
although they gave the illusion of being about to tumble over, there wasn’t
anywhere for them to fall.

“Get on your way, Shalik. Scram,” Mike said. He
had one foot in the hallway and one over the threshold. “You call the
lieutenant, Coop. Tell him to stand by. Tell him we’ve got a Collyer
situation.”

THIRTY

I knew Mike well enough to do as he directed
before I asked why. He was on his cell to Mercer, asking if he’d seen any sign
of Travis Forbes from the alley behind the building.

“Well, he hasn’t come back out yet. Call if you
spot him.”

“What’s a Collyer?” I asked as we waited in the
quiet hallway, the door still ajar.

“Cops, firemen—all 911 responders—that’s the
designated expression for a house so full of junk it’s treacherous to get
inside, or back out,” Mike said, reaching up to pull newspapers off the top of
the nearest pile. “Look at this. Dated three years ago. You never heard of the Collyer
brothers?”

“No.”

“Two very rich guys who lived in Harlem in the
1930s. Well educated, from a prominent family, but really eccentric. They saved
every piece of junk they could find on the street. Hoarders, they were. Hermit
hoarders,” he said, reaching up to the second pile. “Here you go, catalogs from
rare book auctions in London.”