Krauss could lift that armillary sphere with two fingers. Smash the daylights out of Karla Vastasi. Good we got there in time so nobody skinned her to decorate his library.”
“There’s no middle ground with you,” I said. “It’s easy to dislike the guy, but what’s a motive for him to be snooping around Tina’s apartment? Killing Vastasi?”
“They’re all so greedy, Coop. The Hunts spend generations coveting and buying and preserving all these things, and this clown’s ready to discard them all.”
“Krauss is new to the ’hood, but he has surely learned fast,” Mercer said. “Those Hunts, though, I think it’s in their genes. I can’t figure how Tina Barr got caught up in this.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I got fooled by someone who wasn’t what she appeared to be,” I said.
“Did you hear back from Minerva Hunt?” Mike asked.
I checked my cell for messages. “Nothing new.”
“You called her?”
“Twice since you told me to this morning. Why don’t you try your magic? She seemed to like you.”
Mike didn’t answer.
“I get it,” I said, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck. “She hasn’t returned your calls either. That’s why you’re hounding me.”
He flipped open his cell and dialed information. “Yeah, operator. In Manhattan, Rizzali Investigations. Connect me.”
Someone answered the phone.
“Mike Chapman here. Homicide. Looking for my buddy Carmine. You got his cell for me?”
Apparently, whoever was in charge didn’t want to give that out.
“Okay, patch me through,” Mike said, waiting for the receptionist to make the connection. “Yo, Carmine. How’s things? Someday I’m going to have my own secretary, too. You’re living the good life, man. You working with Ms. Hunt today?”
I could hear the gruff voice barking back at Mike.
“Where at? No, no. I don’t want to see
Mike gassed the car and we were off.
“Where to?” I asked.
“He’s parked at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Eighty-third Street. I tell you, Minerva may pay him a lot more than the City of New York did, but Carmine is still one dumb schmuck. Take off one of your earrings, kid.”
I instinctively clasped my hands to my ears and covered the small gold hoops. “I like this pair. Way too simple for Minerva Hunt. Can’t have it.”
“Once she tells him he’s crazy, Carmine’ll give it back to me. I’m just trying to get to the broad.”
I unhooked one earring and passed it to Mike.
“What did you find out about that tote that Karla Vastasi was carrying?” he asked.
“Oops, I dropped the ball on that. Didn’t think it would be important until we saw her again.”
“You’re about to get your wish, if I know Carmine.”
I dug my cell out of my handbag and it was my turn to call information. “Bergdorf Goodman,” I said, and accepted the operator’s request to dial the number of the department store that carried the distinctive bag.
“I’m wondering if you can help me,” I told the saleswoman when the switchboard connected me. “I was with a friend of mine last week. She had one of those open totes with the geometrical pattern-that French line that you’ve carried for the last couple of years.”
She mentioned the designer’s name, reminded me that Bergdorf’s had the exclusive, told me the exorbitant price, and asked if I wanted to purchase one.
“Yes, but before I make the trip over, I want to be sure I can get exactly the same color, same monogram style. I’m not sure if she got if from you, or while she was traveling.”
The woman groaned at my insistence. “Who’s your friend?”
“Minerva Hunt.”
“Ms. Hunt?” I could envision the saleswoman standing at attention at the sound of the name. “Yes, of course. She has that bag in three colors. Would you like the black or the navy? We can stamp the monogram on overnight. I don’t think we have the burgundy in stock.”
“Too bad. That’s the one I wanted.”
“Would you like me to special-order it for you?”
I had already disconnected the phone as I announced to the guys, “Minvera lied. Remember when she said that tote was a gift to her and that she didn’t like it? Well, she bought three of them herself.”
“You think people go to their doctor and say they’ve got a bellyache when their ears hurt? Or a sore throat when its hemorrhoids?” Mike asked. “But they’ve got no problem lying to the prosecutor. See how smart she is and whether she can figure out the truth.”
Mike squared the block in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and pulled in on Fifth Avenue, behind Carmine’s Mercedes S500. I looked through the list of library trustees and found Jasper Hunt III. “I think Minerva may have dropped in on her father. He lives on this block.”
“Twofers, kid. May be our first break.”
Carmine was wiping the side of the car with a chamois until he looked up and saw Mike. He dropped the polishing cloth on the hood and headed toward us.
“Coming at my bait,” Mike said, “faster and dumber than a guppy swimming up for food. Maybe he thinks Minerva’ll give him a reward.”
“Carmine’s looking pretty buff himself,” Mercer said. “He could hoist a garden ornament over my head, don’t you think?”
“No question about it.”
“Got the earring, Chapman?” Carmine said, his thick hand gripping Mike’s door.
“In my pocket. Let me get out,” Mike said, stepping onto the sidewalk as he fumbled with his jacket. “You waiting to get in to see the Monets?”
“Nah, she stops by to check on her father every couple of days,” Carmine said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Lemme see.”
“Minerva have you working last night? We could have taken you to the Yankees game with us, isn’t that right, Mercer?” Mike was checking Carmine’s whereabouts-maybe Minerva Hunt’s, too. “Here it is.”
“Had a breather last night. She didn’t want no company, and me and my goomada had a quiet night at home. No charity balls, no Thursday-night shopping spree. Like doing a day tour, back when I was in your shoes.”
Mercer got out of the car and opened my door.
“Whoa. You told me you weren’t looking for Minerva. Where you all going?” Carmine asked. “Hey, these ain’t hers. She don’t have anything without sparkles. Someone else dropped this. Check the projects, you jerk.”
“Could have fooled me,” Mike said. “I was sure it was Minerva’s. What number, Coop?”
“Right here-the one with the green awning.”
Mike straightened his blazer and adjusted his tie as he approached the doorman.
“Jasper Hunt,” Mike said, displaying his gold shield. “And no, he isn’t expecting us, but his daughter will be by the time her hired goon gets off the phone.”
Carmine’s face was red and his eyes bulging as he stood on the sidewalk with his phone in hand.
The doorman spoke to someone on the intercom and gestured to the elevator. “You want the penthouse.”
The three of us got in, and Mercer pressed the button while Mike sat on the red velvet bench behind. The mahogany paneling and brass trim were complemented by the small oil painting over Mike’s head. “This is decorated nicer than my apartment,” he said. “And I think it’s bigger.”
“You’ve refused all my offers to help you put your place together,” I said.
“I didn’t say I wanted it to look like a brothel, with all your fancy tassels and pillows and stuff.”
I remembered how his fiancee, Val, had transformed the small space of the dark walk-up he referred to as” the coffin,” and I bit my tongue rather than remind him of her.
