“Do you remember a young woman named Tina? Tina Barr?”

His eyes closed and he repeated the name several times, as though trying to locate it in a crumbling memory bank.

“Do we know her, Minerva?” he asked.

“Yes, Father. That nice girl who was helping you with your books. Cataloging the collection, restoring some of your Melvilles.”

“Then I know her, if my daughter says I do. Was that your question?” He looked at me again.

“Do you remember talking with her?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side two or three times.

“Did you know that she left you to go to work for Alger Herrick?”

“Herrick? There’s a lucky man,” Hunt said. “I once thought he’d be a fine match for my Minerva. She didn’t agree-did you, dear?”

Minerva Hunt cackled like a witch. “I’m glad you remembered that.”

“What became of Alger? Have I seen him about?”

“He’s got a wonderful apartment here in New York, Mr. Hunt,” I said. “Full of the most magnificent maps.”

“You can’t read maps, young lady,” he said, almost scolding me. “You can’t hold them, fondle the smooth bindings, finger the parchment and vellum, and caress them, as you can books. I don’t care for maps. Herrick’s folly, not mine.”

“Tally told me that your father had a map,” I said, checking with Talbot Hunt as I tried to get to the subject. The son looked grim, avoiding my eyes. “One of the rarest in the world. It had a dozen separate pieces, twelve panels.”

“Did you know my father was mad, young lady? Absolutely mad.”

“She wants to know about the Waldseemüller map, Father,” Tally said, his arms folded and his words sharp.

“They all want the map, boy. I wouldn’t have any visitors if it weren’t for that damn map, you know. How long has it been since you’ve been by to see me?”

“Don’t take it personally, Father. Tally’s afraid he might run into me if he came to call,” Minerva said, smoothing the front of her skirt. “Two hours together and it already seems like a month.”

The old man mumbled something under his breath. I thought I heard him say, “Even the Jew.”

I leaned closer to him. Had Jonah Krauss been to see him, too?

Minerva queried him. “Even a few what, Papa?”

Jasper Hunt’s chin rested on his chest and his eyes closed again. His short defense of bookmen-his ancestors and himself-and the troublesome questioning about the map had seemed to devour all his energy.

“My father’s a doctor, Mr. Hunt. He’s a brilliant man, and an especially kind one, too.”

Hunt’s glassy eyes fixed on me while I talked.

“It’s a remarkable legacy he’s set in place,” I said, looking back at Minerva and Tally to see if either of them reacted to the sound of that word. “Your father, sir-and your grandfather-their philanthropic giving has been a stunning gift to so many great institutions. What do you think the Hunt legacy is?”

“Still searching for that, are you? My father would find it amusing, I’m sure. Tried to take it all with him, in case there was no one left to care. He’d be so pleased that we’re sitting here today, trying to figure what he was all about, talking about him. That keeps him alive in a strange way, doesn’t it?”

“Searching for what, exactly?” I wanted to go back to that.

“‘The evil that men do lives after them,’” Jasper Hunt said. “That’s usually the case, isn’t it?”

I froze at the sound of the Shakespearean words that had been scrawled on the paper found with Tina Barr’s corpse.

“But what evil?” I asked. “Your father was good and generous to so many people.”

“He quoted that phrase all the time. Probably figured no one would long remember his good deeds. Just his madness,” Hunt said, his eyelids fluttering closed. “Is it time for a cocktail, Tally?”

Minerva answered. “Not yet, Father. You need your medications.”

I could see that the conversation was a strain, and I stood up, patting the hand that held the golden cat.

Minerva picked up a small silver bell and rang it until the butler appeared in the doorway. “Will you help me settle Father inside?”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Mind if we ask you a few more questions?” Mike said to Tally Hunt as he led us toward the living room.

“I should think you’d have your fill of answers by now.”

Mike showed that he wasn’t leaving by settling in to the deep pillows of a sofa covered in a silk damask print with birds and butterflies. “So, it looks like you shot up here for a surprise visit as soon as you saw the panel of the map that we found this morning.”

“Hardly seems to be illegal, Detective.”

“Who tipped you off to it?”

“It wasn’t Jill, if that’s where you’re going. The library is a closed world, a tight one. Word travels fast.”

“Your father’s trust and estate lawyer?” Mike asked. “Your sister doesn’t seem to know.”

Talbot stood by one of the windows that overlooked the museum. “It was that fellow Garrison. Francis X. Garrison.”

“The lawyer Brooke Astor’s son used to try to defraud his mother,” I said. “Battaglia indicted him.”

“I’ve been interviewing for a new lawyer, actually. Haven’t hired one yet. I’ve been my father’s business advisor for years. I’ve taken good care of his affairs.”

“I’d think you’d have a hard time convincing a surrogate’s court judge about any changes to the will that have been made in your favor lately, considering the condition of his health,” Mercer said.

“My father is not the least bit delusional, Mr. Wallace. He has occasional problems with his short-term memory, but he’s quite sound. He’s demonstrates solid comprehension of things he needs to know-just dangle a dollar sign in front of him. Mrs. Astor lived to be one hundred and five, you will recall, and made frequent amendments to her will in the last five years of her life.”

“That’s what tied her estate up in court for so long, isn’t it?” I asked. “Deciding whether her son had taken advantage of her deterioration to divert millions of dollars intended for the New York Public Library to his own pockets.”

“Despite her fortune, Ms. Cooper, she was living in squalor. Her apartment was looted and most of her servants were let go,” Talbot Hunt said. “Don’t lecture me about my father’s condition. There are enough millions to go around. Even for the damn cats.”

“Tell us about the Bay Psalm Book,” Mercer said, moving closer to Talbot Hunt. “We know its significance to your great-grandfather. But how did it come to be in your possession?”

He didn’t like answering our questions, but it was clear that he wanted to stake his claim to the valuable little book.

“Understand, Detective, that the moment my sister comes into the room, this conversation will cease,” Hunt said, fuming as he glanced at the hallway. “This is between my father and myself. It has nothing to do with Minerva.”

“All right.”

Talbot Hunt talked to Mercer. “My father’s instincts were good enough, just several years ago, for him to see the writing on the wall. Our fellow trustees had the gall to start deaccessioning several important objects-paintings, manuscripts, archives of writers who had fallen into obscurity-that kind of thing.”

“The Kindred Spirits sale.”

“Exactly.” Once again, Hunt raised his eyebrows, seemingly surprised that the NYPD was up to speed on art and literature.

“My grandfather kept that prayer book, which celebrated his birth, next to his bed-at home or abroad-for all of his life. He wanted the library to have it, to treasure it as he had. He never expected it would be warehoused or he wouldn’t have willed it to them. When Jonah and his allies wanted to put the book up for sale, my father wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Was that the person your father was referring to?” I asked. “Does he call Jonah ‘the Jew’?”

Talbot Hunt studied me as if to divine my genetic fingerprint.

“Yes, I’m Jewish. I can deal with it, Mr. Hunt. Jonah Krauss came here to discuss the lost map with your father?”