Then he asked Jill, “Do you know Minerva?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve seen her around from time to time, but we’ve never been introduced.”

“She’s not involved with the library?”

“Not in any major way. Her father’s still on the board, and she’s called in occasionally on matters that concern him. He was chair at one time, as you probably know. Jasper Hunt the Third. A hugely powerful force there for quite a while, in the 1980s and ’90s. And Tally, her brother, is also on the board. From what I understand, Minerva has other interests.”

The super rich have plenty of avenues for charitable giving, whether for causes about which they are passionate or for structuring the tax benefits of their estates. Art, ancient or avant-garde; dance, classical or modern; museums, paintings or extinct animals, cultures or ethnic heritage; and poverty, local or global, are among the competing enterprises that attract major donors.

“I think she’s disease,” Battaglia said, pointing at the coffeepot. “Used to be ballet, but I’m pretty sure Minerva Hunt is running the capital campaign for one of the hospitals.”

Naming opportunities at medical centers for pavilions and wings and research facilities were fast becoming ways for baby boomers to insure a jump to the head of the line when a family member needed a heart transplant or an experimental drug for an aggressive illness.

“Ms. Hunt told me her father was very ill,” I said. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

“He’s a recluse,” Gibson said. “Old and frail. That’s what I’ve been told.”

“I haven’t seen Jasper Hunt out and about for the better part of two years now,” Battaglia said, putting down the sheaf of papers. “Go back to the murder scene. Tell me exactly what went on. How did Minerva react when she arrived?”

I took Battaglia through the details of the entire evening, including the way Karla Vastasi and Minerva Hunt were dressed. I described the conversation at the squad with Mike and Mercer as I got up to pour coffee for the three of us.

There was only one thing I left out of the conversation. I didn’t mention the Bay Psalm Book. I didn’t know Jill Gibson or the reason the district attorney trusted her enough to include her in this meeting. The little jeweled treasure was a crucial piece of evidence, and I needed to figure out its connection to the institution where Gibson worked before I leaked its existence.

“Does Chapman have a hunch?” Mike had made arrests in some of the most high-profile murder cases in Manhattan, and Battaglia respected his unerring street sense.

“Nothing he was ready to let me in on, Paul. There was some discussion with Minerva about things that might have been in the apartment. I know Mike vouchered some property to be analyzed at the lab. At least one book, I’m pretty sure.”

Jill Gibson seemed more interested in that fact than did Battaglia.

“But no sign of the young woman who lived there?” he asked.

“Nothing. She’s a librarian, Jill. Her name is Tina Barr. I thought perhaps you might know her,” I said.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” she said, seemingly uninterested in the missing girl. “What kind of books did the detectives find?”

This was a no-win situation for me. If I withheld information that Battaglia wanted Jill Gibson to know, he would be furious with me. But if I disclosed something that was not going to be made public at this point in time, who knew what Gibson would do with the information?

“Is there an actual Hunt collection at the library?” I asked. “I heard Mike say it had something to do with that.”

Jill Gibson pulled her chair up to the table. “Their family helped establish the library, Alex, more than a century ago. The collection they’ve amassed is enormously valuable. We make it a practice not to do anything to disturb the Hunts,” she said, making her point to Battaglia.

“Well, I’m certainly going to have to meet with each of them,” I said.

“We’ll talk about that after Jill leaves, Alex. She and I have had a couple of meetings in the last two weeks about some problems they’ve been experiencing at the library. It may be that this case isn’t an isolated event.”

Now Battaglia had my complete attention. “What kind of problems?”

“Do you know the library?” Jill asked.

“I think it’s the most magnificent building in New York City,” I said, refilling our mugs. The Carrère and Hastings Beaux Art masterpiece, with its massive triple-arched portico, dominated Fifth Avenue at the corner of Forty-second Street.

“You’ve spent time there?”

“I majored in English literature when I was at college. I was fortunate enough to be admitted for a month between semesters to do research for my senior thesis.”

“You might want to know why the Hunts are so important to us, Alex. Why we try to tiptoe around them, keep them out of the headlines,” Jill Gibson said. “I’d also be happy to give you private access to their collection. It’s got some extraordinary pieces.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“ New York City came late to the idea of establishing a great library,” Jill said. “The French had the Bibliothèque nationale and in London the fabulous domed Reading Room was built at the British Museum.

“These institutions were symbols of civilized societies and cultures, founded in ancient seats of national government, with documents and books descended from kings and noblemen over the centuries. Americans, on the other hand, were struggling to emerge from the shadows of colonialism, with no comparable government funding for these purposes. By the 1890s, our domestic rivals for intellectual prestige- Boston and Chicago -had already built central libraries, and in Washington, the Library of Congress moved out of its home in the Capitol to the first of its own buildings.”

“We had no libraries here before that time?” Battaglia asked.

“There are two very different kinds of facilities, Paul. One is what’s called a circulating system.”

“Elevate the masses by giving the people books,” I said, recalling my nineteenth-century history. “Advancement through self-improvement. Weren’t they usually the work of well-to-do ladies in their communities, making sure that poor little girls had wholesome stories to read?”

“Exactly. They’re what led to the branch libraries, here and all over the country. The other type is the well-endowed reference library. That’s how the NYPL developed-as a research facility, in which the books are never allowed to leave the building. We were a gift to the city from some of the richest men in America.”

“Who founded it?” I asked.

“It began with private collections. The largest was put together by the first American millionaire, John Jacob Astor,” Jill said.

“Jasper Hunt’s business partner.”

“In some ventures, Alex, that’s correct. Astor loved literature and had many literary friends. In fact, Washington Irving was the first president of the Astor Library. By the 1890s, the collection John Jacob had bequeathed to his younger son, William Black-house Astor, had more than a quarter of a million books.”

“Where could they possibly have been housed?” Battaglia asked.

“ Lafayette Street, Paul. That wonderful redbrick brownstone where the Public Theater is today. That was the Astor Library,” Jill said. “And the city’s other devoted bibliophile was James Lenox, who was also a real estate mogul and a merchant. He built himself a palatial marble library on the Upper East Side -today it’s the Frick. From Lenox we got the first Gutenberg Bible brought to America, the original autographed manuscript of George Washington’s Farewell Address, and the most complete first editions of Bunyan and Milton.”

Jill Gibson was animated now, her eyes sparkling as she expressed her obvious joy for these treasures.

“What brought the Astors and Lenoxes together?” I asked.

“Samuel Tilden, actually, at the end of his life. A bachelor with an immense fortune that he wanted to leave for the public good.”