Free Lethal Legacy by Linda Fairstein

often sported last year’s fashions, handed down at the
end of the season. They carried home leftover food and goody-bag giveaways in
the instantly recognizable shopping bags tossed out by their employers: the
robin’s-egg blue of Tiffany, the bright orange of Hermès, the pale lavender of
Bergdorf Goodman, and the shiny black and white of Chanel.
    “The tote with your initials on it?”
    Hunt stood and crushed the cigarette with the ball
of her black patent pump.
    “I hate those logo bags, Ms. Cooper. One sees
oneself coming and going. It was a gift, and I passed it on to Karla.”
    “It’s a bit odd that she went to clean an
apartment without taking some work clothes to change into,” I said.
    “How do you know she didn’t?” Hunt snapped at me.
“Maybe she put them down on her way in, somewhere else in the apartment. Maybe
the thief took them.”
    “The police didn’t find any clothes.”
    “We’ll give the pad another look,” Mike said. He
wanted to be the good cop again. He would like the challenge that this arrogant
woman presented, perhaps as much as he liked her looks. “The ME was wrapping up
when we left to come back here. Taking Karla’s body to the morgue. We’ll go
over the place more carefully in the morning.”
    “Listen, Detective Chapman,” Hunt said, softening
as she talked. “I’ll try to get a number for her sister. If there’s any issue
about funeral expenses, I’ll take the bill.”
    “Thanks for that. We’ll be doing a lot of work
with you on this investigation, so you might as well get to know us. First
thing is, call me Mike.”
    “Okay, Mike. You do the same.”
    “Fair enough. Just tell me what you like. Min?
Minnie?”
    “Minnie’s a mouse, Detective. I’m Minerva.”
    “Minerva, the warrior goddess.”
    “Now that, Mike, is only a myth.” Hunt crossed her
arms, and one side of her mouth lifted into a smile. She was practically nose
to nose with him. “Just a myth.”
    There was nothing about military history—from
Roman mythology to real-life conflict—that Chapman didn’t know.
    “The warrior part?” he asked, and Hunt laughed.
    “We’ve got to talk about getting you some
coverage,” Mercer said. “The lieutenant has someone standing by to take you
home. And if you don’t mind, we’d like to give you a guard for tomorrow.”
    The commissioner wouldn’t allow the same mistake
the department had made, refusing my request to provide protection for Tina
Barr.
    “I’ve got my own security. Thanks for the offer,
but I don’t need yours.”
    “Security?” Mike asked.
    “The gentleman who dropped me off at the apartment
tonight and followed us here. Didn’t you make the tail, Detective? You’ve
surprised me again.”
    Mike chewed on the inside of his cheek.
    “What’s that about?” Mercer asked. “Why have you
got protection?”
    “I’m a Hunt. And if you were thinking tomato sauce
and ketchup, you’d be wrong.”
    “I was thinking oil, actually,” Mike said.
“Something thicker than tomato sauce.”
    “Even better than that, Detective. Real estate.
New York city real estate. My great-grandfather was a partner of John Jacob
Astor’s. Jasper Hunt was his name. We still own more of Manhattan than it’s
polite to talk about. Be careful where you walk, Detective. I wouldn’t want you
stepping on me.”
    “Well, what makes you Hunts so unpopular you need
security 24/7?”
    She looked at her watch as she answered. “We’re
not unpopular in most circles, Mike. But my father made a point of teaching me
early on to protect my assets. All of them.”
    Mercer shook his head at me. He didn’t like the
direction Mike was going any more than I did.
    Minerva Hunt’s name was familiar to me from
society columns and media coverage of philanthropic events. It made no sense
that she, an heiress to a great family fortune, was micromanaging a basement
apartment in Carnegie Hill.
    “Going back a bit, Ms. Hunt. Perhaps I didn’t understand
what you