Scott continued, “I shouted his name, but…there was no answer and no movement…”
“How’d you know he was under there?”
“I could see…I wasn’t all the way up the stairs, so I could see under the bookcase…”
“Right. I thought you said you went all the way up the stairs.”
“I…I guess I didn’t. But then I did. I tried to move the bookcase, but I couldn’t. So I called 911 on my cell phone.”
“Good thinking.” I glanced at his statement and said, “Then you called Mrs. Parker.”
“Yeah.”
“How well do you know her?” He thought about that, then replied, “I’ve known her about three years. Since they started dating.”
“So they’re newlyweds.”
“Yeah.” He volunteered, “Married last June.”
“Previous marriage for him?”
“Yeah. Before my time.”
“How about her?”
“I think so.”
Recalling the photo on the deceased’s desk, I asked Scott, “How old is she?”
“I…guess about forty.”
Booksellers always get the young chicks.
I asked Scott, “Was she a nice lady?”
“I…guess. I didn’t see her much. She hardly ever comes to the store.”
By now Scott was wondering about my line of questioning, so I volunteered, “I like to get a feeling for the victim’s next of kin before I break the news to them.”
He seemed to buy that and nodded.
I asked Scott directly, “Did the Parkers have a happy marriage?”
He shrugged, then replied, “I don’t know. I guess.” He then asked me, “Why do you ask?”
“I just told you, Scott.”
Recalling that Scott told Tripani that Mrs. Parker worked at home, I asked him, “What does she do for a living?”
“She’s a decorator. Interior designer. Works at home.”
“Do you have any idea where she is this morning?”
“No. Maybe on a job.”
“Could she be out of town?”
“Could be.” He informed me, “She’s from LA. She has clients there.”
“Yeah?” LA. Who else do I know from LA? Ah! Jay Lawrence. Small world. I asked him, “Did she decorate this place?”
He hesitated, then replied, “No. I mean, not the store.”
“His office?”
“I don’t know. Yeah. I guess.”
“That’s three different answers to the same question. Did she decorate his office? Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Uh…I think about two years ago.”
“When they were dating?”
“Yeah.”
“So she put the bookcase up there?”
He didn’t reply immediately, then said, “I guess.”
Scott was a crappy witness. Typical of his generation, if I may be judgmental here. A little fuzzy in his thinking, his brain probably half-baked on controlled substances, educated far beyond his ambitions, marking time while he wrote the Great American Novel. But he did get to work early. So he had some ambition.
As for Mrs. Parker, I was concerned that she’d take it very badly if she was the person who bought that bookcase and failed to secure it to the wall. I mean, that would be hard to live with. Especially if she took those furniture wedges for another job…well, too early to speculate on that.
I asked Scott, “Was her business successful?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this bookstore successful?”
“I don’t know. I’m just a clerk.”
“Answer the question.”
“I…I think he makes ends meet.” He let me know, “I get paid.”
“Does the rent get paid?”
“He owns the building.”
“Yeah? Who’s on the top three floors?”
“Nothing. Nobody. Loft space. Unrented.”
“Why unrented?”
“Needs heat, a new fire escape, and the freight elevator doesn’t work.”
And there’s no money to do the work. I was wondering what Mr. Parker was thinking when he bought this building, but then Scott, reading my mind, volunteered, “He inherited the building.”
I nodded. And he should have sold it to a developer. But he wanted to own a bookstore. Otis Parker, bibliophile, was living his dream, which was actually a nightmare. And Mrs. Parker’s decorating career could be a hobby job—or she did okay and had to support her husband’s book habit.
Motive is tricky, and you can’t ascribe a motive and then try to make it fit the crime. I mean, even if Otis Parker was worth more dead than alive—this building, or at least the property, was worth a couple mil, even in this neighborhood—that didn’t mean that his young wife wanted him dead. She might just want him to sell the building and stop sinking time and money into this black hole—this Dead End Bookstore—and go get a real job. Or at least turn the place into a bar.
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. For all I knew, the Parkers were deeply in love and his death—caused by her bookcase—would cause the grief-stricken widow to enter a nunnery.
Meanwhile I made a mental note to check for a mortgage on the building, plus Mr. Parker’s life insurance policies, and if there was a prenup agreement. Money is motive. In fact, statistically, it is the main motive in most crimes.
I returned to the subject at hand and said, “So, after you called nine one one, you called her.”
He nodded.
“From upstairs or downstairs?”
“Downstairs. I ran down to unlock the door.”
“And you used your cell phone.”
“Yeah.”
“Her home number is in your cell phone?”
“Yeah…I have their home number to call if there’s a problem here.”
“Right. And you have her cell phone number in your cell phone in case…what?”
“In case I can’t get Mr. Parker on his cell phone.”
“Right.” And when I look at everyone’s phone records, I might see some interesting calls made and received.
The thing is, if a murder actually does appear to be an accident, there’s not much digging beyond the cause and manner of death. But when a cop thinks it looks fishy, then the digging gets deeper, and sometimes something gets dug up that doesn’t jibe with people’s statements.
It had taken me less than fifteen minutes to determine that I was most probably investigating a homicide, so I was already into the digging stage while everyone else—except maybe Officer Rourke—thought we were talking about a bizarre and tragic accident.
Scott—baked brains aside—was getting the drift of some of my questions. In fact, he was looking a bit nervous again, so I asked him bluntly, “Do you think this was something more than an accident?”
He replied quickly and firmly, “No. But that other officer did.”
I suggested, “He reads too many detective novels. Do you?”
“No. I don’t read this stuff.”
He seemed to have a low opinion of detective novels, and that annoyed me. On that subject, I asked him, “Is Jay Lawrence scheduled to come in today?”
He nodded. “Yeah. To sign his new book. He’s on a book tour. He’s supposed to come in sometime around ten a.m.”
I looked at my watch and said, “He’s late.”
“Yeah. Authors are usually late.”
“Where’s he staying in New York?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have his cell number?”
“Yeah…someplace.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yeah. A few times.”
“How well does he—did he—know Mr. Parker?”
“I guess they knew each other well. They see each other at publishing events.”
“And Mrs. Parker?”
“Yeah…I guess he knew her too.”
“From LA?”
&
nbsp; “Yeah…I think so.”
Out of curiosity, or maybe for some other reason, I asked Scott, “Is Jay Lawrence a big best seller?”
Scott replied with some professional authority, “He was. Not anymore.” He added, “We can hardly give his books away.”
“Yeah? But you bought five boxes of them for him to sign.”
Scott sort of sneered and replied, “That’s a courtesy. Like, a favor. Because they know each other and because he was coming to the store.”
“Right.” It could be awkward if there were only two books here for Jay Lawrence to sign.
Well, you learn something new every day on this job. Jay Lawrence, who I thought was a best-selling author, was not. Goes to show you. Maybe I make more money doing what I do than he makes writing about what I do.
I had more questions to ask Scott, but there was a knock on the door and Officer Simmons opened it and said, “There’s a guy here—a writer named Jay Lawrence, to see the deceased.” He added, “Rourke notified him that there had been an accident in the store, but not a fatality.”
I looked at my watch. It was 10:26, for the record, and I said to Simmons, “Keep Scott company.” I said to Scott, “Keep writing. You may have the beginning of a best seller.”
I went out into the bookstore where Mr. Jay K. Lawrence was sitting in a wingback chair, wearing a black cashmere topcoat, his legs crossed, looking impatient. He should be looking concerned—cops, accident, and all that—and maybe he was, but he hid it with feigned impatience. On the other hand, authors are all ego, and if they’re detained or inconvenienced by, say, an earthquake or a terrorist attack, they take it personally and get annoyed.
I identified myself to Mr. Lawrence and again pointed to my shield. I have to get that stupid movie scene out of my head or people will think I’m an idiot. Actually, it’s not a bad thing for a suspect to think that. Not that Jay Lawrence was a suspect. But he had some potential.
Before he could stand—if he intended to—I sat in the chair beside him.
He looked like his photo—coiffed and airbrushed—and I could see that under his open topcoat he wore a green suede sports jacket, a yellow silk shirt, and a gold-colored tie. His tan trousers were pressed and creased, and his brown loafers had tassels. I don’t like tassels.
Anyway, I got to the point and informed him, “I’m sorry to have to say this, but Otis Parker is dead.”
He seemed overly shocked—as though the police presence here gave him no clue that something bad had happened.
He composed himself, then asked me, “How did it happen?”
“How did what happen?”
“How did he die?”
“An accident. A bookcase fell on him.”
Mr. Lawrence glanced up at the loft, then said softly, “Oh my God.”
“Right. The bookcase in his office. Not the stockroom.”
Mr. Lawrence didn’t reply, so I continued, “Scott found the body.”
He nodded, then asked me, “Who’s Scott?”
“The clerk.” I said to him. “We left a message on Mrs. Parker’s cell phone and home phone, but we haven’t heard from her.” I asked, “Would you know where she is?”
“No…I don’t.”
“Were you close to the Parkers?”
“Yes…”
“Then it might be good if you stayed here until she arrives.”
“Oh…yes. That might be a good idea.” He added, “I can’t believe this…”
I had to keep in mind that this guy wrote about what I do, so I needed to be careful with my questions. I mean, I wouldn’t want him to get the idea that I suspected foul play. On that subject, there was no crime scene tape outside and no CSU team present, so he had no reason to believe that he’d walked into a homicide investigation. If he had nothing to do with that, it was a moot point. If he did have something to do with it, he was breathing easier than he’d been on his way here for his scheduled book signing. Also, I’d left my trench coat on, giving him, and anyone else, the impression that I wasn’t staying long.
To make him feel a little better, I said to him, “I read two of your books.”
He seemed to brighten a bit and asked, “Which ones?”
“The one about the writer who plotted to murder his literary agent.”
He informed me, “That was a labor of love.”
“Yeah? I guess that’s what all writers dream about.”
“Most. Some want to murder their editors.”
I smiled, then continued, “And I read Dead Marriage about the young woman who kills her older husband. Great book.”
He stayed silent a second, then said, “I didn’t write a book with that theme.”
“No? Oh…sorry. Sometimes I get the books confused.”
He didn’t reply, and in what may have been a Freudian slip, he asked me, “Does Mia know?”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Parker.”
“Oh, right. Mia. No. We never say that in a phone message.” I added, “We’ll wait another fifteen minutes or so, and then we have to get the body to the morgue.” I suggested, “Why don’t you call her?”
He hesitated, then said, “That’s not a call I want to make.”
“Right. I’ll call. Do you have her number?”
“Not with me.”
“Not in your cell phone?”
“Uh…I’m not sure.” He asked, “Don’t you have her number?”
“Not with me.” I suggested, “Take a look in your directory. I really want to get her here. That’s better than her having to go to the morgue.”
“All right…” He retrieved his cell phone, scrolled through his directory, and said, “Here’s their home phone…Otis’s cell phone…and yes, here’s Mia’s cell phone.”
“Good.” I put my hand out, and he reluctantly gave me his cell phone. If I was brazen, I’d have checked his call log, but I could do that later, if necessary. I speed-dialed Mia Parker’s cell phone, and she answered, “Jay, where are you?”
Sitting next to a detective at the Dead End Bookstore. She had a nice voice. I said to her, “This is Detective Corey, Mrs. Parker.”
“Who…?”
“Detective Corey. NYPD. I’m using Mr. Lawrence’s cell phone.”
Silence.
I continued, “I’m at the Dead End Bookstore, ma’am. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
“Accident?”
“Did you get the messages that were left on your cell phone?”
“No…what messages?”
“About the accident.”
“Where’s Jay?”
Who’s on first? I replied, “He’s here with me.”
“Why do you have his cell phone? Let me speak to him.”
She didn’t seem that interested in the accident, or who had the accident, so I handed the phone to Jay.
He said to her, “It’s me.”
Me, Mia. Mama mia, Mia. Otis is rigor mortis.
He informed her, again, “There’s been an accident at the bookstore. Otis is…” He looked at me and I shook my head. He said, “Badly hurt.”
She said something, and then he asked her, “Where are you? Can you get here quickly?” He listened, nodded to me, and then said to her, “I’ll be here.”
He hung up and said to me, “She’s in her apartment. She’ll be here in about ten or fifteen minutes.”
Thinking out loud, I said, “I wonder why we couldn’t reach her earlier?”
He explained, “She said she was writing a proposal. She has an office in the apartment, and she blots out the world when she’s working on a project.”
“Yeah? Do you do that?”
“I do.”
“I need a room like that.” Actually, I drink scotch whiskey to blot out the world, and any room will do. I said to him, “She took your call.”
“She just finished.”
“I see.” Again, thinking out loud, I said, “Most accident victims who are badly hurt wind up in the hospital. No
t the bookstore.”
He didn’t reply.
“And yet Mrs. Parker saw nothing odd about coming to the bookstore.”
We made eye contact, and he said to me, “I think she knows it’s more than an accident, Detective. I think, like most people who get a call like that, she’s very distraught and partly in denial.” He asked me, “You follow?”
“I do. Thank you.”
Two things here. First, I didn’t like Jay Lawrence and he didn’t like me. Loathing at first sight. And to think he glamorized the police in his novels. Rick Strong, LAPD. This was really a disappointment. But maybe he did like cops. It was me he didn’t like. I have that effect on pompous asses.
Which brought me to my second point. He was a smooth customer, and he had a quick reply to my somewhat leading questions. I’ve seen lots of guys like this—and they’re mostly guys—egotistical, self-absorbed, usually charming, and great liars, i.e., sociopaths. Not to mention narcissistic. Also, as a fiction writer, he bullshitted for a living.
But maybe I was judging Mr. Jay K. Lawrence too quickly and too harshly. And it didn’t matter what I thought of him. I’d never see him again—unless I locked him up for murder.
For sure, I wouldn’t read any more of his books. Well, maybe I’d take them out of the library to screw him out of the royalty.
I said to Jay Lawrence, “I noticed a pile of your books in Mr. Parker’s office.” I asked him, “Would you like to sign them while you’re waiting?”
He didn’t reply, perhaps actually considering this. I mean, a signed book is a sold book. And he needed the sales. Right? I assured him, “You don’t have to go upstairs. Unless you want to. I can have Scott bring the books down here.”
He replied, a bit coolly, “I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to sign books at this time, Detective.”
“Maybe you’re right. But…I hate to ask, but could you personalize one for me?” And leave your DNA and fingerprints on the book?
“Maybe later.”
“Okay.” I remained seated beside him and asked, “Where are you staying?”
“The Carlyle.”
“Nice hotel.”
“My publisher pays for it.”
“When did you get to New York?”
“Last night.”
“How long are you staying?”
“I leave tonight for Atlanta.”
“Do you think you can make it back for the funeral?”