“I’ll remember to argue that when I’m taking heat in the hearing.”

“Who else should we look at for DNA?” Mercer asked. “I’d like to go back into Forbes’s apartment. See what he’s got going on.”

“Ask Shalik to scoop up some Band-Aids for you while Travis is picking himself clean on the stoop,” Mike said. “I want Alger Herrick. The man with the golden arm.”

“Because you think he’s dirty?” Mercer asked.

“’Cause he likes maps so much.”

“We have Herrick’s DNA,” I said.

Mike’s head snapped in my direction. “Promise me you went back to his house and got your sample the old-fashioned way. None of this swabbing and drooling stuff.”

“Not my type, Mikey.”

“So what’d I miss?”

“Herrick told us he’d been stopped for drunk driving back in England,” I said.

“And the Brits do DNA on every infraction, no matter how minor,” Mike said. “So Scotland Yard has Herrick’s DNA profile in the hopper.”

“Frankly, I don’t see him playing dress-up,” I said. “And he certainly didn’t do Jane Eliot. She described a young man.”

Mercer stood by the window and dialed his phone. “Hey, Loo. Get on the horn with that deputy inspector in London who owes you. Alger Herrick-he’s got a genetic fingerprint on file there. Ask them to transmit it to the lab, stat, will you?”

Peterson must have assured him he would before Mercer thanked him and hung up.

“Jonah Krauss is another story,” Mike said. “Walked out of his office gym all pumped and ready to fly out of town. No question he’s strong enough to heave that garden ornament.”

“Kinky enough for the first night attack on Tina?” Mercer asked.

“Hey, his favorite display item is a book made out of human skin,” Mike said. “Plus he has access to all those subterranean spaces in the library.”

“Don’t forget his connection to Minerva Hunt,” I said.

“That’s a pretty slimy trio-Krauss, Minerva, and Forbes the map thief, all trying to figure out how to find the panels of the great treasure.”

Bea Dutton had been assembling the pieces of the photocopied map. It covered almost the entire top of the dining table. “Want to see what I’ve been up to?”

“Sure,” Mike said, throwing down the cards and walking toward her.

I stood and stretched, and we all took up positions on one side of the table, our backs to the window with the high, sweeping view over the city.

Bea stood in the center, flattening the enormous map with her small hands. “Okay. So we’ve talked about the twelve panels, right?”

She reached to a chair beside her and raised the image we had found earlier in the day. “You asked if this fake could fool anyone, Alex, and I’d have to say the answer is not anyone knowledgeable, and not for very long. The paper isn’t a fit, it’s probably been stained by tea-yes, just an ordinary tea bag-to discolor it a bit, age it some. The drawing itself is rather crude.”

Bea juxtaposed the parchment next to its copy on the map. It formed part of the border on the right, in the midsection.

Mike looked at the pieces side by side. “I kept thinking of Karla Vastasi when we found this thing in the apartment today,” he said, referring to Minerva Hunt’s housekeeper.

“Why Karla?” I asked.

“’Cause she was set up, Coop. No doubt in my mind that Minerva sent her in, dressed in the madam’s clothes, to meet someone who wouldn’t have a clue if she was Minerva Hunt or not.”

“Rules out Alger Herrick,” Mercer said. “And Jonah Krauss.”

“But rules in the possibility that she had brought that tote bag to carry something out-something just about the size of one of these panels,” Mike said, pointing to the map. “And she wouldn’t be expected to know if it was genuine or not.”

“She had the psalm book, too,” I said.

“Maybe she-or the killer-found it there. If Tina Barr is the one who stole it from Talbot Hunt’s apartment, she might have been hiding it on her own.”

“Waiting for the best offer,” Mercer said.

“I smell a cross,” Mike said. “Somebody double-teaming someone else. Mild-mannered Tina Barr, the pawn in a treacherous double cross, with stakes so high she couldn’t even imagine what a dangerous position she put herself in working with any of these greedy bastards.”

“So this document is a fake,” Mercer said, turning his attention back to Bea. “Let’s start with that. What else can you tell us?”

“Let’s take this puzzle piece by piece. There’s got to be a logic to the way Jasper Hunt broke it up and concealed the panels.”

“Like his son said, Bea, you can’t assume that with a complete eccentric.”

“Nonsense, Mike. Maybe what Hunt did won’t seem logical, but there had to be some kind of method to his madness, especially if he ever hoped to see these pieces reunited.”

And especially if Jasper Hunt ever hoped to leave this map as part of his legacy.

“What makes you think so?” I asked.

“So far, the two panels found weren’t hidden randomly,” she said. “What’s the most important feature of the piece you found yesterday morning in the library?”

Mike was quick to answer. “The inset about the New World as a separate continent, with the portrait of Amerigo Vespucci. Mr. America, himself.”

“And where did you find it, Mike?” Mercer said, following Bea’s lead. “Tucked inside a rare volume of Audubon’s Birds of America. Not all that crazy, is it?”

I thought of Jane Eliot’s story and looked at the photocopy of the large map, placing my finger on the lower right section that featured Ceylon and Madagascar. “Jasper put this one in the back of his very unique edition of Alice in Wonderland because it made him-the Mad Hatter of the family-think of Ceylonese tea.”

“Ten to go,” Mike said. “All we need is a list of the double-folio-size books that Jasper Hunt bequeathed to the library. Feeling lucky, Bea?”

“You get the commissioner to open the doors for us tonight, give me a handful of curators,” Bea said, “and maybe I’ll give you the world. Jasper Hunt’s world.”

The combined forces of Commissioner Keith Scully and District Attorney Paul Battaglia were enough to open the great doors of the New York Public Library on Saturday evening at seven p.m.

Jill Gibson, obviously not pleased to be in the dark about what had prompted the gathering of her senior curators and her own police escort, stepped out of a patrol car as we approached the side door.

Uniformed cops had been stationed at all the entrances for almost forty-eight hours now, as investigators continued to work on processing the vast spaces within the sub-basements of the library.

“Excuse me, Alex?” Jill called out. “May I talk with you a minute?”

“Whatcha got, Jill?” Mike said, stepping between us.

“I’d like to ask Alex a few questions.”

Mike tapped my shoulder to keep me moving. “She’s fresh out of answers, but we’re looking, Jill. We’re holding court in the map division.”

The sergeant in charge moved us through the doors of the old carriage entrance and down the twisting corridors until we could see our way to Bea’s department at the farthest end of the main floor.

Curators from the various private collections were seated at the trestle tables. Arents, Berg, Pforzheimer, and the rare books division were represented. A dozen young cops, at Mike’s request, stood around the room, ready to help.

Mike sat on the edge of one of the tables and started to explain what he wanted the librarians to do.

“How fast can you get together a list of the volumes donated to this institution by Jasper Hunt the Second?” Mike asked.

Jill Gibson didn’t wait to be acknowledged. “If you’ll allow me to go to my office, I can print that out for you immediately.”

Mike looked toward one of the rookie cops at the door and told him to take her there. Jill seemed shocked to be under guard in her professional home.