“Doing what?”

“He’s a collector, Ms. Cooper. Rare books. It’s an inherited trait in the male line of Hunts,” Minerva said, talking directly to me for the first time. I thought she was finally giving up her flippant attitude. But she went on. “For generations they’ve all seemed to love the same things-rare books, expensive wine, and cheap women.”

“And Barr?”

“She was cataloging the collection. My father’s an old man, Mike. He’s close to ninety, and quite incapacitated now. Changed his will more often than I change my shoes. I just made sure she had a place to live while she was working for him.”

“Did he fire her?”

“He’s not in a condition to fire anyone. Tina quit-that’s what Papa’s secretary told me.”

Minerva Hunt removed her BlackBerry from her pocketbook and dialed a number, pressing the digits with her long nails. Someone picked up on the first ring. “Carmine? Are you in front of the police station? I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Where did Barr go?”

“Why don’t you check with our management office? Perhaps she left forwarding information.”

Hunt was pulling on her short leather gloves-a fashion statement or a sign that she was through with us for the night, not protection against the mild weather.

“You have all my numbers,” she said. “I expect we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Were you looking for anything in particular in that basement apartment?” Mercer asked as she readied herself to leave. “Anything you sent Karla Vastasi to retrieve?”

Minerva Hunt backed up a step or two. “I thought I told you why she was there.”

“Just cleaning up, I think you said. Nothing of value you might be interested in?” Mercer said, talking as he walked into Peterson’s office, mimicking Hunt’s motion with a pair of latex gloves that he put on as she talked.

“I assume Ms. Barr took whatever belonged to her. The apartment was sublet to her furnished. We keep a few of our properties available for help who need temporary lodging. I wanted to make certain that none of the belongings was disturbed. You’ll allow me to do that later in the week, I’m sure.”

Mercer emerged with an object in the palm of his large hand. It was a small book that appeared to be covered with precious jewels.

Minerva Hunt’s eyes widened. Her calfskin-covered fingers reached out toward it.

“You know what this is?” he asked.

“It once belonged to my family,” she said, glaring at him while she kept her arm outstretched, in expectation that he’d turn it over. “Where did you get it?”

“The ME found it after you and Alex left the kitchen. It was on the floor, under Karla’s body, tucked inside the jacket of her suit.”

I could see dark stains on the surface of the gems that must have been Karla Vastasi’s 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 hand-me-downs.”

“The same exact shoes-flat grosgrain bow and brass hardware on the front. It’s a classic style, and the ones Karla was wearing weren’t even scuffed,” I said. “That black suit isn’t the least bit outdated. I’ll bet it’s exactly the same one that Minerva had on.”

“So we need to find out whether she bought that monogrammed tote herself,” Mercer said. “If it wasn’t a gift like she claimed, I’m thinking Karla was the canary in the coal mine, sent there to see if it was safe before Minvera went in herself.”

Mercer and I were on the same page. Maybe Hunt was supposed to meet someone in Tina Barr’s apartment earlier in the day. Maybe there was a dangerous purpose to the rendezvous, and she had sent her unwitting servant inside to keep the appointment.

“Very hot plate, Alessandra,” Adolfo said, setting the soup bowl in front of me.

“I suppose we’ll find out if that little bejeweled book is very hot, too,” Mike said. “Maybe it’s stolen and someone was trying to scam Minerva, tempt her to buy it back. I think I see a date with a librarian in my future.”

“Battaglia will be our matchmaker for that,” I said. There would be no overture to a major New York institution before he greased the wheels at the very highest levels. No point any of us going in through the back door when he could command the attention of the top dogs.