Free Lethal Legacy by Linda Fairstein Page B

blood.
    “I want the book, Detective. Do you know how much
it’s worth?” There was nothing playful about Minerva Hunt’s attitude.
    “Your hand’s going to atrophy hanging out there
like that,” Mercer said. “Right now, it’s evidence in a murder case.”
    “What is it?” Mike asked.
    “The Bay Psalm Book,” Hunt said, looking at all of
us with disdain for our obvious ignorance. “This was the first book printed in
North America, in 1640. Open it carefully, Detective. It will have my
grandfather’s name inside. ‘ Ex Libris, Jasper Hunt Jr.’”
    Mercer didn’t move.
    “There weren’t a dozen copies that have survived
over the centuries, gentlemen. Jasper’s wife had one bound this way when their
first son was born. My grandfather treasured it,” she said. “Kept it by his
bedside every night until shortly before he died. It’s part of the Hunt
Collection at the New York Public Library now.”
    Mike crossed his arms and whistled. “Guess I ought
to renew my library card. Never saw anything close in my bookmobile.”
    “It hasn’t been out of that building in almost
forty years. Look at it, will you?”
    Mercer placed his pinky on the lower corner of the
book and gently lifted the cover.
    Minerva Hunt stared at the bookplate and sneered.
    EX LIBRIS TALBOT HUNT was written on the cream-colored label, decorated with a heraldic
coat-of-arms poised above a globe.
    “From the library of Talbot Hunt, my ass,” Minerva
said, shaking a finger at Mercer.
    “Is Talbot related to you?”
    “He’s my brother, Mike. He’s the kind of man who
would kill for a book like this.”
    EIGHT

    “You believe Carmine Rizzali’s got a gig like
that?” Mike asked. “His own PI firm, doing security details for the rich and
famous. Driving Miss Minerva, maybe even stopping in for dessert. Twenty years
on the job, the guy couldn’t find a Jamaican on Jamaica Boulevard.”
    Mike, Mercer, and I had walked Minerva Hunt out of
the squad building and turned her over to the ex-cop who guarded her. We drove
down Second Avenue for a midnight supper at Primola, one of our favorite
restaurants in the East Sixties, not far from my home.
    Giuliano, the owner of the upscale eatery, bought
us a round of drinks as we waited for Adolfo, the maître d’, to take our order
before the kitchen closed.
    “Carmine looks like he’s enjoying the ride as much
as Ms. Hunt,” Mercer said. “What did you get out of Battaglia, Alex?”
    “Don’t you remember, Mercer? I give, Battaglia
gets. I called to tell him what happened, so he wants me in his office first
thing in the morning.”
    “Was he surprised?”
    “Seemed to be when I told him about the murder.
Asked for all the details.”
    “Did he react when he heard Minerva Hunt’s name?”
    “Didn’t skip a beat.” I swirled the ice cubes
around in the golden brown scotch before taking a long sip.
    “Signorina,” Adolfo
said, “the chef will do anything you’d like.”
    “Just some soup.”
    Murder had never been known to have an impact on
Mike Chapman’s appetite. “Let me start with pasta. Rigatoni—then throw whatever’s
left in the kitchen on top of it. Chicken parmigiana after that. And back up my
vodka before Fenton falls asleep,” Mike said, pointing at the bartender.
“Mercer?”
    “Soup and a salad. That’s it for me.” He tasted
his favorite red wine. “You think it’s a coincidence that Karla Vastasi was
dressed just like her boss?”
    “It’s possible,” Mike said, gnawing on a
breadstick.
    “Minerva Hunt sucked you in completely,” I said.
“The way you were playing with her, I felt like a third wheel.”
    “Sometimes you are, Coop. I was just trying to
keep her loose till we sort out the facts.”
    “Any looser and she’d have been on your lap. I’m
with you, Mercer. The bit with the clothes is too much of a fluke to be
unplanned.”
    “Karla was dressed for success,” Mike said. “Just
happened to be Minerva’s