Death Sentences

by Otto Penzler

  “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, 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’ 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 message?”

  “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, then he asked her, “Where are you? Can you get here quickly?” He listened, nodded to me, 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. Not 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?”

  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, 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’ 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, 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 like 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 Dea
d 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 L.A.?”

  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.”