by Otto Penzler
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, she nodded and covered her face again.
I let a few seconds pass, 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 M.E. 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 M.E. 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 M.E. 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, 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 play acting. 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, 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 confession.
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, 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. Crumbled 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 L.A.” 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.”
“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, a
nd 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 awhile.
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 pre-knowledge 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 P.M.-10 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 bullshited 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 helped 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, 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 who 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.