The Book Case

by Nelson DeMille

He thought about that, then said, “I’ll have to check with my publicist.” He explained, “These tours are scheduled months in advance. I know it sounds callous, but…”

  “I understand. A busy life is scheduled—a sudden death is not.” I offered, “You can use that line in your next book.”

  He ignored my offer and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.” He explained, “I need to let my publicist know I can’t make my other bookstore appointments today, or my media interviews.”

  “Right.” I stood and said, “When Mrs. Parker arrives, I’ll let you break the news to her.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Well, Mr. Lawrence was sitting in the bookstore with Officer Rourke keeping him company, Scott was in the stockroom with Officer Simmons, writing his bestseller, and Otis Parker was alone in his office, reaching room temperature by now. Time for breakfast.

  I retrieved the brown paper bag from the counter and went outside. It was still cold and windy, and there weren’t many people on North Moore Street. I noticed now that in the store window was a copy of Death Knocks Once, by Jay K. Lawrence, and a small sign under the book announced, AUTOGRAPHED. Well, not yet.

  I got in the passenger seat of Rourke’s patrol car, unwrapped my ham and egg sandwich, and took a bite. Room temperature.

  I called Lieutenant Ruiz before he could call me. He answered, and I said, “I’m still at the Dead End Bookstore.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “Well…” I’m about to lie to you. No. Not a good idea. Ruiz, like me, is more interested in results and arrests than silly technicalities, so I said to him, “I have some reason to believe this was a homicide.”

  “Yeah?”

  “But I don’t want to announce that at this time.”

  No reply.

  I took another bite and said, “I think the bookcase was tipped over by a person or persons unknown.”

  “Are you eating?”

  “No. I’m chewing on my tie.”

  He ignored that and asked, “You need assistance?”

  “No. I need about thirty or forty minutes.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “Where it was found.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Looks like an inside job.”

  “I heard from Sergeant Tripani. He says it looks like an accident.”

  “No. It looks like he owes me breakfast.”

  Rule number one between cops who are making shit up is Get Your Stories Straight, and Lieutenant Ruiz said to me, “So you’re saying you believe it was an accident.”

  I replied, “At this time, I believe it was an accident.”

  “Call me in half an hour.”

  I hung up and got out of the car. I went back into the store and saw that Mr. Lawrence was on his cell phone at the back of the store, out of earshot of Rourke. I didn’t know who he was calling, but I’d know when I subpoenaed his phone records.

  I stood near the door and looked into the street as a taxi pulled up and discharged a lady who, based on the photo I saw, looked like Mrs. Parker.

  She glanced at the police car and strode quickly toward the door. The expression on her face showed some concern, but not exactly sick with worry over her husband’s accident. I mean, I’ve seen it all by now, and Mrs. Parker looked to me like someone who needed to get through some slightly unpleasant business.

  She opened the door, glanced at me, then at Officer Rourke, and then spotted Jay Lawrence in the rear of the store as he spotted her. They hurried toward one another and met at the Bargain Book table.

  It was an awkward moment as they vacillated between embracing, grasping each other’s hands, or high-fiving.

  He took both her hands in his, and I heard him say, “Mia, I am so sorry…Otis is…”

  Dead. Come on, Jay. I’ve got thirty minutes before I have to announce a suspected homicide.

  She got the drift and they embraced. He looked over her shoulder at me and caught me looking at my watch while I took another bite of my sandwich. I really felt like a turd.

  I mean, what if neither of them had anything to do with Otis Parker’s murder? I knew it had to be an inside job, but it could have been Scott or Otis’s ex-wife, or Jennifer the part-time clerk, or other persons not yet known who had off-hour access to the store and to Otis Parker. Right?

  On the subject of motive, there are, generally speaking, six major motives for murder. Ready? They are profit, revenge, jealousy, concealment of a crime, avoidance of humiliation or disgrace, and homicidal mania. There are variations, of course, and combinations, but if you focus on those and try to match them to a suspect—even to an unlikely suspect—then you can conduct an intelligent investigation.

  Sometimes, of course, you don’t need to go that route. Sometimes you have lots of forensic evidence—like someone’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. But that’s not my job. I’m a detective and I deal with the human condition first, then the clues I can see with my own eyes and the statements people make or don’t make. If I’m smart and lucky, I can wrap it up before the CSU people and the medical examiner are done.

  While I was thinking about all this, I was observing Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Parker. They were sitting side by side in the reading chairs now, he with his hand on her shoulder, she dabbing her eyes with his handkerchief.

  For the record, she was easy to look at. A little younger than Scott thought—maybe late thirties, long raven-black hair, Morticia makeup, and I’m sure a good figure under her black lambskin coat, which was open now revealing a dark gray knit dress that looked expensive. She also wore long black boots, a cashmere scarf, and gloves, which she’d taken off. A well-dressed lady, complete with a gold watch, wedding band, and a nice rock.

  I tried to picture her plodding away at her paperwork in her apartment in this outfit. Well, maybe she had an appointment later.

  I had let a respectable amount of time elapse, so I ditched my sandwich on the counter, and then I walked over to the grieving widow and her friend. I introduced myself to her without pointing to my shield.

  She looked up at me but did not respond.

  I said, “I’m very sorry about your husband.”

  She nodded.

  I spoke to her, in a soft and gentle voice, “Sometimes the bereaved wants to see the body. Sometimes it helps bring closure. Sometimes it’s too painful.” And sometimes the bereaved totally loses it and confesses on the spot. I assured her, “It’s your choice.”

  She didn’t think too long before replying, “I don’t want to…see him.”

  “I understand.” I said to her. “I’d like you to stay here until the body is removed.” I explained, “You may have to sign paperwork.”

  She replied in a weak voice, “I want to go home.”

  “All right. I’ll call for a police car to take you home.” Later.

  Jay Lawrence, without consulting the bereaved widow, said, “I will accompany her.”

  I really wanted to question Mia Parker, but I couldn’t keep her here. I also wanted to question Jay Lawrence, but he was latched onto the grieving widow, and you want to question suspects separately so that you can pick up inconsistencies in their stories. Also, the courts have ruled that a cop is allowed to lie to a suspect in order to draw out some information. Like, “Okay, Mr. Lawrence, you say A, but Mrs. Parker and Scott told me B. Who’s lying, Mr. Lawrence?” Actually, it would be me who was lying. But you can’t play one against the other if both suspects are sitting together. I did, however, have some info from Scott, though not a lot.

  Also, of course, this was not a homicide investigation, and therefore there were no suspects, and therefore I couldn’t pull these two off separately for questioning.

  I mean, I knew beyond a doubt that Otis Parker had been murdered, and I was fairly sure there were two people involved, and it was an inside job, and it was premeditated. And the two people sitting in front of me filled the bill as potential suspects. But I had to tread lightly and treat
them as a bereaved widow and a very upset friend who was also a crime writer with some savvy. Basically I was at a dead end at the Dead End Bookstore, and the clock was ticking.

  So maybe I should just say it. “Sorry to inform you, but I believe Otis Parker was murdered, and I’d like you both to come to the precinct with me to see if you can help the police with this investigation.”

  I was about to do that, but I had some time to kill before I had to call Ruiz, so I pulled up a chair, put on my sympathetic face, and asked Mrs. Parker, “Can I get you some water? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  I offered, “I can see if there’s something stronger in Mr. Parker’s office.”

  She shook her head.

  I said, conversationally, “I understand you decorated his office. It’s very nice.”

  Our eyes met, and she hesitated, then said to me, “I told him…I told him to have it fastened to the wall…and he said he’d done that.”

  “You mean the bookcase?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, unfortunately he didn’t.”

  “Oh…” She sobbed, “Oh, if only he’d listened to me.”

  Right. If men listened to their wives, they’d live longer and better lives. But married men, I think, have a death wish. That’s why they die before their wives. They want to. Okay, I’m getting off the subject.

  I said to her, “Please don’t blame yourself.” Let me do that.

  She put her hands over her face, sobbed again, and said, “I should have checked when I was in his office…but I always believed what Otis said to me.”

  Making you the first wife in the history of the world to do that. Sorry, I digress again.

  Actually, I could imagine that she did like her husband. Maybe he was a father figure. Despite her Morticia look, she seemed pleasant and she had a sweet voice. Maybe I was on the wrong track. But…my instincts said otherwise.

  Under the category of asking questions that you already know the answer to, I asked her, “Do you and Mr. Lawrence know each other from LA?”

  It was Mr. Lawrence who replied, “Yes, we do. But I don’t see what difference that makes.”

  Of course you do, Jay. This is the stuff you write about. Anyway, I winged a response and said, “I need to say in my accident report what your relationship is to the widow.”

  He didn’t say, “Bullshit!” but his face did. Good. Sweat, you pompous ass.

  Mia Parker, who seemed clueless from Los Angeles, said to me, “Jay and I have been friends for years. We saw each other socially with our former spouses.”

  I nodded, then said to her, “Scott tells me you were married last June.”

  At the mention of her June wedding, her eyes welled with tears, and she nodded and covered her face again.

  I let a few seconds pass, and then I said, “I’ve spoken to Scott and I think I have enough details for my accident report, but if not I’ll speak to him again and bother you as little as possible.”

  She nodded and blew here nose into her friend’s handkerchief.

  Her friend understood that I had a statement from the clerk and that I was, perhaps, a tiny bit suspicious.

  There wasn’t much more I could do or say to these two at this time, but I had at least hinted to Jay Lawrence that he probably wasn’t getting on that flight to Atlanta. I could see he was a bit concerned. I mean, if he’d plotted this—like one of his novels—he had fully expected it to be ruled an accident, and he’d hoped that the body would be gone when he got here half an hour late, and the sign on the door would say CLOSED. Or, if the cops were still here, they’d say, “Sorry, there’s been an accident. The store is closed.”

  Right. But Mr. Jay K. Lawrence did not imagine a Detective John Corey, called on the scene because a patrolman was suspicious. The ironic thing was that Jay Lawrence’s cop character, Rick Strong, was smarter than his creator. But neither Jay Lawrence nor Rick Strong were as smart as John Corey. I was, however, out of bright ideas.

  I stood and said to Mrs. Parker, “To let you know, the city requires an autopsy in cases…like this. So it may be two days before the body is released.” I added, “You should make plans accordingly.” I also added, “In the unlikely event that the medical examiner feels that he needs to…well, do further tests, then someone will notify you.”

  Mr. Lawrence stood and asked, “What do you mean by that?”

  I looked him in the eye and replied, “You understand what I mean.”

  He didn’t reply, but clearly he was getting a bit jumpy.

  I was now going to call Ruiz and advise him that I was officially making this a homicide investigation. I had two suspects, but no evidence to hold them. In fact, not enough evidence to even advise them that they were persons of interest—though I’d ask them to meet me later at the station house, to help in the investigation.

  But just when you think you’ve played your last card, you remember the card up your sleeve. The Joker.

  I said, “The medical examiner should be arriving shortly. Please remain here until then.” I assured them, “I’ll call for a police car to take you home after the ME arrives.”

  Mr. Lawrence reminded me, “You said we could leave now. And we can find our own transportation.”

  “I changed my mind. Remain on the premises until the ME arrives.”

  “Why?” asked Mr. Lawrence.

  I replied a bit curtly, “Because, Mr. Lawrence, the medical examiner may want a positive identification. Or he may need some information as to date of birth, place of residence, and so forth.” I said to him, “Actually, you may leave. Mrs. Parker cannot.”

  He didn’t reply, but sat again and took her hand. A real gentleman. Or maybe he didn’t want her alone with me.

  I went to Officer Rourke, who was still sitting behind the counter, apparently engrossed in his book, but undoubtedly listening to every word. I made eye contact with him and said, “Let me know when the ME arrives and send him up.” Wink.

  He nodded, and I could see his brain in high gear wondering what the brilliant detective was up to.

  I climbed the spiral staircase into Otis Parker’s office and looked at his body. Right. He could have survived. Then he could have told me what happened.

  But I already knew what happened. I needed Otis Parker to tell me who did it.

  Cops, as I said, are allowed to lie. Half the confessions you get are a result of lying to a suspect.

  I let a few more seconds pass, and then I shouted, “Get an ambulance!” I ran to the rail and shouted to Rourke, “He’s alive! He’s moving! Get an ambulance!”

  Rourke, thank God, didn’t shout back, “He’s dead as a doornail!” Instead he got on his hand radio and pretended—I hope—to call for an ambulance.

  I glanced at Mia Parker and Jay Lawrence. They didn’t seem overjoyed at this news. I shouted to them, “We’ll have an ambulance here in three or four minutes!” Great news. Right? Try to contain your feelings of hope and joy. I resisted shouting, “It’s a miracle!” I did say, “Mrs. Parker can ride in the ambulance.”

  They looked…well, stunned. And that wasn’t playacting. Also, I didn’t see Mrs. Parker running up the stairs to smother her awakening husband with kisses. If she did come upstairs, it might be to smack him in the head with a book. Well…that’s just me being cynical and suspicious again.

  I disappeared from the rail and let a minute pass, and then I walked slowly and deliberately down the spiral staircase and headed toward two worried-looking people. The expression on my face told them they were in deep doo-doo. Actually, if this didn’t work, I was in deep, deep doo-doo.

  I stopped in front of them and said, “He’s speaking.”

  No response.

  I looked them both in the eye and said, “He spoke to me.”

  Very smart people would have shouted in unison, “Bullshit!” But they were so unstrung—actually shaking—that all they could do was stare at me. Also, I’m a good liar. Ask the last guy I tricked into a confes
sion.

  I let a few seconds pass, then said, “I saw that someone had removed the furniture wedges from under the bookcase. I also saw that someone had used the toilet plunger to lever the bookcase away from the wall.” I paused for dramatic effect, then said, “And now I know who that was.” Actually, I didn’t. But they did.

  I would have bet money that it would be Mia Parker who cracked—but it was Jay Lawrence. He said, “Then you know I had nothing to do with it. I was in my hotel all morning, and I can prove it.”

  When someone says that, you assume they’re telling the truth, i.e., they’ve established their alibi for the time of death. Or they think they have. Meanwhile, Mia Parker was staring at her friend, who continued, “I had room service at six thirty, and then I had it cleared at seven thirty.”

  “All that proves is that you had breakfast.” And I didn’t.

  I looked at Mia Parker and said to her, “Mrs. Parker, based on the statement your husband just made, I am charging you with attempted murder.”

  I was about to go into my right-to-remain-silent spiel, but she fainted. Just like that. Crumpled to the floor. Ideally, a suspect should be awake when you read them Miranda, so I turned my attention to Jay Lawrence.

  He was just standing there, looking not too well himself. Hello? Jay? Your friend just fainted.

  I would have come to Mrs. Parker’s assistance, but Rourke was already coming toward us.

  I looked at Jay Lawrence, and I said, “I have reason to believe that you were an accomplice. That it was you who assisted Mrs. Parker in removing the two furniture wedges from under the bookcase. Probably last night after you arrived from LA.” I informed him, “So your alibi for this morning, even if it proves to be true, does not exclude you as an accessory to attempted murder.” He didn’t faint, but he did go pale.

  Rourke had run out to his squad car and returned with a first aid kit. He was now reviving Mrs. Parker with an ammonium nitrate capsule. This was good because now I only had to give the Miranda warning once. A small point, I know, but…anyway, I asked Jay Lawrence, “Do you have anything to say?”

  He did. He said, “You’re out of your mind.” He added, “I had nothing to do with this.”