“That’s for a jury to decide.”
Rourke had gotten Mrs. Parker into the wingback chair, and she looked awake enough, so I began, “You both have the right to remain silent—”
Jay Lawrence chose not to remain silent and interrupted, “I can prove conclusively that I came directly to the hotel from the airport and that I was in the Carlyle all evening and until ten this morning.”
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I needed to hear more, so I asked, “How can you prove that?”
He hesitated, then said, “I was with a woman. All night.”
Apparently he did better than I did last night. I watched Bonanza.
He continued, “I will give you her name and cell phone number and you can speak to her, and she will confirm that.”
Okay…so we have the nearly airtight in-bed-with-a-lady alibi. But sometimes this is not so airtight. Still, this was a problem.
I was about to ask him for the lady’s name and number, but Mrs. Parker, fully awake now, shouted, “You were where?” She stood and shouted again, “You said you had interviews to do. You bastard!”
I’ve been here, and so has Rourke, apparently, because we both stepped between Mrs. Parker and Mr. Lawrence to head off a physical assault.
Mrs. Parker was releasing a string of obscenities and expletives, which Jay Lawrence took well, knowing he deserved them. And knowing too that his lover’s wrath was a lot better than being charged with accessory to attempted murder—which was actually a successful attempt. But that was my secret.
Mia Parker was still screaming, and I had the thought that I should have left her on the floor. But my main concern was that I’d gotten this wrong. About Jay Lawrence, I mean. But not about Mia Parker, who confirmed my charge of attempted murder by shouting, “I did this for you, you cheating bastard! So we could be together! You knew what I was going to—”
Jay Lawrence jumped right in there and shouted back, “I did not know what you—”
“You did!”
“Did not!”
And so forth. Rourke was nodding, letting me know he was a witness to this, while at the same time he kept repositioning himself so that the wronged lady could not get at her two-timing lover. I kind of hoped that she got around Rourke and dug her nails into Jay’s pretty face. I certainly wasn’t going to get between them. Hell hath no fury and all that.
Well, I was sure that the Dead End Bookstore hadn’t seen so much excitement since the upstairs toilet backed up.
Meanwhile, neither of the now ex-lovers seemed to notice that over five minutes had passed and there was no ambulance pulling up to rush Otis Parker to the hospital.
By now I should have had Rourke slap the cuffs on Mia Parker, but, well…I was enjoying this. She was really pissed, and she shouted to her fellow Angelino, “We could have bought that house in Malibu…we could have been together again…”
Where’s Malibu? California? Why did she want to go back there? No one wants to leave New York. This annoyed me.
She broke down again, sobbing and wailing, then collapsed in the chair. She was babbling now. “I hate it here…I hate this store…I hate him…I hate the cold…I want to go home…”
Well, sorry, lady, but you’re going to be a guest of the State of New York for a while.
As much as I wanted to cuff Jay Lawrence, I wasn’t certain what his role, if any, was in this murder. Well, he knew about it, according to Mia Parker. But did he actually conspire in the murder? And assuming she had help, who helped her? Not Jay, who was in the sack with his alibi witness.
I motioned for him to follow me, and he did so without protest. I led him to the rear of the store, away from his pissed-off girlfriend, and I said to him, “You get one chance to assist in this investigation. After that, you get charged with conspiracy to commit murder and/or as an accessory. Understand?”
He didn’t respond verbally, and I didn’t even get a nod. Instead he just stood there with a blank expression on his face.
I glanced at my watch to indicate the clock was ticking. Then I said, “Okay, you’re under arrest as an accessory—”
“Wait! I…okay, I knew she wanted him…out of the way…and she asked me…like, how would you do this in a novel…but I didn’t think she was serious. So I just made a joke of it.”
I informed him, “I think Otis Parker will live, and he can tell us what happened up there and who was in the room at that time.”
“Good. Then you’ll know that I’m telling the truth.”
And he probably was. Mia Parker committed the actual murder herself. But, with all due respect to her apparent intelligence, she didn’t think of that bookcase and that plunger and those furniture wedges by herself. That was Jay Lawrence. And that’s what she’d say, and he would deny it. She said, he said. Not good in court.
I said to him, “She seemed to think she was going to be with you in…” Where was that place? “Malibu.”
He replied, “She’s…let’s say, mistaken. Actually, delusional. I made no such promise.” He made sure I understood: “It was just an affair. A long-distance affair.”
He was desperately trying to save his ass, and not doing a bad job of it. He was clever, but I am John Corey. Arrogant? No. Just a fact.
I said to him in a tone suggesting he was my cooperating witness, “That bookcase has been sitting there for over two years. Do you think she put it there—right behind his desk—knowing what she was going to do with it?”
He hesitated, then replied, “I don’t know. How would I know that?”
He was smart, and he didn’t want to admit to any preknowledge of premeditated murder—not even as speculation. But he was willing to throw his girlfriend under the bus if it kept him out of jail. He was walking the old tightrope without a balancing bar.
By now Jay Lawrence was thinking about exercising his right to remain silent and his right to an attorney. So I had to be careful I didn’t push him too far. On the other hand, time was ticking by and I needed to go in for the kill. I said, “Look, Jay—can I call you Jay? Look, someone removed those wedges from under the bookcase, and it wasn’t little Mia all by herself. Hell, I don’t think I could do that without help. Are you telling me there was someone else involved?”
He seemed to think about that, then said, “I haven’t been to New York in several months. And I can account for every minute of my time since my plane landed at five thirty-six last night.” He informed me, “I have a taxi receipt, a check-in time at the Carlyle, dinner in the hotel…with my lady friend, the hotel bar—”
“All right, I get it.” I didn’t want to hear about the adult movie he’d rented from his room. Basically Jay Lawrence had covered his ass, and he had the receipts to prove it. And he’d done this because he knew, in advance, what was going to happen early this morning. But maybe he didn’t know about an accomplice.
I asked him for the name and phone number of his lady friend, which he gave me. It was, in fact, his publicist in New York; the lady who booked his publicity tour and who could also provide an alibi for his free evening. Bang publicist: 7:00 p.m.–10:00 a.m. Dinner and breakfast in hotel.
Jay Lawrence was, as Mia Parker said, a two-timing bastard. And also a conniving coward who let his lover do the dirty work while he was establishing an alibi for the crime. He totally bullshitted her. And if it had gone right, he was onboard for the payoff, which I guess was his share of all the worldly possessions of the deceased Otis Parker—including his wife. The wife, I’m sure, thought it was all about love and being together. In Malibu. Wherever that was. And none of this would have happened, I’m sure, if Jay Lawrence had sold more books.
Meanwhile there was still the question of the furniture wedges. Who helped her with that? Jay didn’t seem to know, or he wasn’t saying. But Mia knew.
I said to him, “Stay right here.”
I walked to where Mia Parker was sitting in the wingback chair, looking a bit more composed, and without any preamble I asked her, “Who hel
ped you remove the furniture wedges?”
She replied, “Jay.”
I was fairly certain that was not true and not possible.
“When?”
“Last…early this morning.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Why would I lie?”
Well, because Jay was screwing a babe all night, and you are very pissed off.
Mrs. Parker needed less sympathy and understanding and more shock treatment, so I said to Rourke, “Cuff her.” But softie that I am, I instructed front cuffs instead of back—so she could dab her eyes and blow her nose.
Rourke told her to stand, gave her a quick but thorough pat down, and then cuffed her wrists in the front.
I said to Rourke, “Call for a car.” I added, “I’ll be riding with her to the precinct.”
Mia Parker, now cuffed, under arrest, and about to be taken to the station house for booking, was undergoing a transformation. Early this morning, she was a married lady with a boyfriend and an inconvenient husband. Now she had no boyfriend and no husband. And no future. I’ve seen this too many times, and if I said it didn’t get to me, I’d be lying.
The person I felt most sorry for, of course, was Otis Parker. He ran a crappy bookstore and he didn’t give service with a smile, but he didn’t deserve to die.
I asked Mrs. Parker, “If he dies, is all this yours?”
She looked around, then replied, “I hate this store.”
“Right. Answer the question.”
She nodded, then informed me, “We had a prenup…I didn’t get much in a divorce…but…”
“You got a lot under his will.” I asked, “Life insurance?”
She nodded again, then continued, “I also got the building and the…business.” She laughed and said, “The stupid business…he owes the publishers a fortune. The business is worth nothing.”
“Don’t forget the fixtures and the good will.”
She laughed again. “Good will? His customers hate him. I hate him.”
“Right.”
She continued, “This store was draining us dry…he was going to mortgage the building…I had to do something…”
“Of course.” I’ve heard every justification possible for spousal murder, and most of them are amazingly trivial. Like, “My wife thought cooking and fucking were two cities in China.” Or, “My husband watched sports all weekend, drank beer, and farted.” Sometimes I think being a cop is less dangerous than being married.
Anyway, Mrs. Parker forgot to mention that she’d planned this long before the marriage or that she had a boyfriend. But I never nitpick a confession.
I inquired, “Do you have a buyer for the building?”
She nodded.
I guessed, “Two million?”
“Two and a half.”
Not bad. Good motive.
She also let me know, “His stupid collector books are worth about fifty thousand.” She added, “He buys them, but can’t seem to sell them.”
“Has he tried the Internet?”
“That’s where he buys them.” She confided to me, “He’s an idiot.”
“Put that in your statement,” I suggested.
She seemed to notice that she was cuffed, and I guess it hit her all at once that the morning had not gone well, and she knew why. She let me know, “All men are idiots. And liars.”
“What’s your point?”
She also let me know, “Those books in his office are worth about ten thousand.”
“Really?” Poetic justice?
As I said, I’m not married, but I have considered it, so to learn something about that I asked her, “Why’d you marry him?”
She didn’t think the question was out of line, or too personal, and she replied, “I was divorced…lonely…”
“Broke?”
She nodded and said, “I met him at a party in LA…he said he was well off…he painted a rosy picture of life in New York…” She thought a moment, then said, “Men are deceitful.”
“Right. And when did you think about whacking him?”
She totally ignored my question and went off into space awhile. Then she looked at Jay in the back of the store and asked me, “Why isn’t he under arrest?”
I don’t normally answer questions like that, but I replied, “He has an alibi.” I reminded her, “The lady he spent the night with.” I shared with her, “His publicist, Samantha—”
“That whore!”
The plot thickens. But that might be irrelevant. More to the point, Mrs. Parker was getting worked up again, and I said to her, “If you can convince me—with facts—that he conspired with you in this attempt on your husband’s life, then I’ll arrest him.”
She replied, “We planned this together for over two years. And I can prove it.” She added, “It was his idea.” She let me know, “He’s nearly broke.”
“Right.” I confessed, “I didn’t like his last book.” I already knew the answer to my next question, but I asked for the record, “Why’d you wait so long?”
“Because,” she replied with some impatience, “it took Otis two years to marry me.”
“Right.” Guys just can’t commit. Meanwhile that bookcase is just waiting patiently to fall over. This was the most premeditation I’d ever seen. Cold, calculating, and creepy. I mean, when Otis Parker said, “I do,” his blushing bride was saying, “You’re done.”
The good news is that property values have gone up in the last two or three years. I don’t know about collectible books, though.
I tried to reconstruct the crime, to make sure I was getting it right. D-day for Otis Parker was the day after Jay Lawrence came to town to promote his new book. Today. Jay was supposed to help Mia last night to set up the bookcase for a tumble, then maybe a drink and a little boom-boom at the Carlyle, and some pillow talk about being together and psyching each other up for the actual murder. And this morning Jay would be here to comfort the widow.
But Jay, at some point, as the big day approached, got cold feet. All his Rick Strong books ended with the bad guy in jail, and Jay didn’t want that ending for himself. So he made a date with his publicist and ditched Mia, leaving Mia to do it all by herself. She had the balls. He had the shakes.
One of the things that bothered me was that Otis Parker was in his office early on the morning that he was going to be whacked. That wasn’t coincidence. Not if this was all planned in advance.
I went back to my original thought that Otis Parker had an appointment. And who was that appointment with? And why didn’t Scott know about it?
Maybe he did.
I said to Rourke, “I’ll be in the stockroom. Keep an eye on these two. Let me know when the car gets here.”
That made Mia think of something, and she asked me, “Where’s the ambulance?”
“I don’t know. Stuck in traffic.”
She stared at me and shouted, “You bastard! You lied to me!”
“You lied to me first.”
“You…you…”
I was glad she was cuffed. Rourke put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her into the chair.
Meanwhile Jay heard some of this, or figured it out, and he walked quickly toward me and asked, “Why isn’t the ambulance here?”
I confessed, “Otis Parker doesn’t need an ambulance.”
Jay looked as stunned as when I had pronounced Otis alive.
People don’t like to be tricked, and Mia let loose again. Sweet voice aside, she swore like a New Yorker. Good girl.
Jay Lawrence recovered from his shock and informed me, “You…that was not…that’s not admissible…”
“Hey, he looked like he was trying to stand. I’m not a doctor.”
“You…you said he spoke to you…”
“Right. Then he died. Look, Jay, here’s a tip for your next book. I am allowed to lie. You are allowed to remain silent.”
“I’m calling my attorney.”
“That’s your right. Meanwhile you’re under arr
est for conspiracy to commit murder.” I gave Rourke my cuffs and said, “Cuff him.”
I walked to the back of the store and into the stockroom.
Officer Simmons was talking on his cell phone, and Scott was still at the table, reading a book—How to Get Published for Dummies.
I sat opposite Scott and asked him, “Why was Mr. Parker here so early?”
He put down his book and said, “I don’t know. I guess to do paperwork.”
“Did he tell you he was coming in early?”
“No…I didn’t know he was going to be here.”
“But he asked you to come in early.”
“Yeah…”
“But never mentioned that he would be coming in early.”
“Uh…maybe he did.”
“That’s not what you said to me, or what you wrote in your statement.”
Officer Simmons was off the phone, and he took up a position behind Scott. This was getting interesting.
Scott, meanwhile, was unraveling fast, and he swallowed, then said in a weak voice, “I…guess I forgot.”
“Even after you saw the lights in his office?”
“Yeah…I mean…I remembered that he said he might be in.”
“Who put those five boxes of books in his office?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Why last night?”
“So…Jay Lawrence could sign them…Mr. Parker likes the authors to sign in his office.”
“Jay Lawrence wasn’t coming in until ten a.m.”
“Yeah…but…I don’t know. I do what I’m told.”
“What time did Mr. Parker think that Jay Lawrence would be in?”
“Ten—”
“No. Otis Parker thought that Jay Lawrence was coming in very early. About seven thirty or eight in the morning. That’s why he asked you to bring the books up last night, and that’s why he was here this morning.”
Scott didn’t reply, and I asked him, “Who wrote that note on the bulletin board that said ten a.m.?”
“Me. That’s when he was supposed to come in.”
My turn to lie. I said, “Mrs. Parker just told me that her husband said he had to get to the store early to meet Jay Lawrence.”
“Uh…I didn’t know that.”