Nelson DeMille
The book case
Otis Parker was dead. Killed by a falling bookcase whose shelves were crammed with very heavy reading. Total weight about a thousand pounds, which flattened Mr. Parker’s slight, 160-pound body. A tragic accident. Or so it seemed.
To back up a bit, I’m Detective John Corey, working out of the First Precinct Detective Squad, which is located-if you ever need me-on Ericsson Place in Lower Manhattan, New York City.
It was a cold, blustery March morning, a Tuesday, and I was sitting in a coffee shop on Hudson Street, a few blocks from my precinct, trying to translate ham and eggs over easy into Spanish for my English-challenged waiter. “ Huevos flippo. Hambo and blanco toasto. Okay?”
My cell phone rang at 8:34, and it was my boss, Lieutenant Ed Ruiz, who said, “I notice you’re not at your desk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Where are you?”
I told him and he said, “Good. You’re up. We have a body at the Dead End Bookstore on North Moore. Discovered by a clerk reporting for work.”
I knew the bookstore, which specialized in crime and mystery novels, and I’d actually been a customer a few times. I love murder mysteries. I can always guess the killer-without peeking at the end. Well…hardly ever. My job should be so easy.
Ruiz continued, “The deceased is the store owner, a Mr. Otis Parker.”
“Oh…hey, I know him. Met him a few times.”
“Yeah? How?”
“I bought a book.”
“Really? Why?”
I ignored that and inquired, “Robbery?”
“No. Who robs a bookstore? You rob places that have money or goods you can sell.”
“Right. So? What?”
“Well,” replied Lieutenant Ruiz, “it looks like a ground ball,” cop talk for something easy. He explained about the falling bookcase, then added, “Appears to be an accident, but the responding officer, Rourke, says it might need another look before they clean up the mess.”
“Okay. Hey, how do you say fried egg on a roll to go in Spanish?”
“You say hasta la vista and get over to the bookstore.”
“Right.” I hung up and went out into the cold March morning. Lower Manhattan at this hour is jammed with people and vehicles, everyone on their way to work, and all thrilled to be doing that. Me too.
It was quicker to walk than to get my squad car at the precinct, so I began the four-block trek up Hudson, bucking into a strong north wind that roared down the avenue. A flasher on the corner opened his trench coat and got lifted into a holding pattern over the Western Union building. Just kidding.
I turned onto North Moore, a quiet cobblestoned street that runs west toward the river. Up ahead on the right I saw two RMPs and a bus, which if you read NYPD detective novels you’ll know is two radio cars and an ambulance. One car would be the sector car that responded and the other the patrol sergeant’s car.
As I approached the Dead End Bookstore I saw there was no crime scene tape, and the police activity hadn’t drawn much attention on the street; it hardly ever does in New York unless it’s something interesting or culturally significant like a mob hit. Even then, it’s not worth more than a minute of your time. Also, this was not a lively street-mostly older apartment and loft buildings with lots of vacancy signs. Mr. Otis Parker had located his bookstore badly, but named it well.
I clipped my shield on my trench coat and approached a cop whose name tag said Conner. I asked him, “Is the ME here?”
“Yeah. Dr. Hines. I think he’s waiting for you.”
Hines was an okay guy. Looked like an undertaker and didn’t try to play detective. I glanced at my cell phone clock. It was now 8:51 a.m. On the off chance that this was something more than an unfortunate example of Newton’s law of gravity, I’d need to fill out a DD-5 and begin a homicide file. Otherwise I was just stopping by.
I looked at the front of the bookstore, which took up the whole ground floor of an old five-story brick building, sandwiched between two equally old buildings. The glass door had a CLOSED sign hanging on it, along with a notice of store hours-open every day except Sundays, nine a.m. to six p.m. Basically banking hours that ensured the minimum number of customers. There were two display windows, one on each side of the door, and in the windows were…well, books. What this street really needed was a bar.
Anyway, in the left window were mostly classic crime novels-Chandler, Dorothy Sayers, Agatha Christie, Conan Doyle, and so forth. The window on the right featured contemporary bestselling authors like Brad Meltzer, James Patterson, David Baldacci, Nelson DeMille, and others who make more money writing about what I do than I make doing what I do.
I asked Officer Conner, “Who’s the boss?”
He replied, “Sergeant Tripani.” He added, “I’m his driver.”
You want to get the lay of the land before you burst on the scene, so I also asked, “Who else is in there?”
He replied, “The two paramedics, and the responding officers, Rourke and Simmons, and an employee named Scott who discovered the body when he came to work.”
“And Otis Parker,” I reminded him.
“Yeah. He’s still there.”
“Did you see the body?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think?”
Officer Conner replied, “My boss thinks it’s an accident.”
“And you think?”
“Whatever he thinks.”
“Right.” I advised him, “If anyone comes by and identifies themselves as a customer or a friend, show them in.”
“Will do.”
I entered the bookstore, which looked like it did the last time I was here-no customers, no staff, cobwebs on the cash register, and unfortunately no coffee bar. Lots of books.
The store had a two-story-high ceiling, and there was a wrought-iron spiral staircase toward the rear that led up to an open loft area where I could see Sergeant Tripani, whom I knew, standing near the railing. He saw me and said, “Up here.”
I walked to the staircase, which had a sign saying PRIVATE, and began the corkscrew climb. On the way, I tried to recall the two or three times I’d interacted with Mr. Otis Parker here in his store. He was a bearded guy in his early sixties, but could have looked younger if he’d bought a bottle of Grecian Formula. He dressed well, and I remember thinking-the way cops do-that he must have had another source of income. Maybe this store was a front for something. Or maybe I read too many crime novels.
I also recalled that Mr. Parker was a bit churlish-though I’d heard him once talking enthusiastically to a customer about collector’s editions, which he sold in the back of the store. I’d sized him up as a man who liked his books more than he liked the people who bought them. In short, a typical bookstore owner.
I reached the top of the stairs and stepped up into the open loft, which was a large, wood-paneled office. In the office were Officer Rourke, the two paramedics, Dr. Hines-wearing the same black suit he’d worn for twenty years-and Sergeant Tripani, who greeted me, “Good morning, Detective.”
“Good morning, Sergeant.”
There’s always a pecking order, and Sergeant Tripani, the patrol supervisor, was the head pecker until
