furniture wedges for another job…well, too early to speculate on that.
I asked Scott, “Was her business successful?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this bookstore successful?”
“I don’t know. I’m just a clerk.”
“Answer the question.”
“I…I think he makes ends meet.” He let me know, “I get paid.”
“Does the rent get paid?”
“He owns the building.”
“Yeah? Who’s on the top three floors?”
“Nothing. Nobody. Loft space. Unrented.”
“Why unrented?”
“Needs heat, a new fire escape, and the freight elevator doesn’t work.”
And there’s no money to do the work. I was wondering what Mr. Parker was thinking when he bought this building, but then Scott, reading my mind, volunteered, “He inherited the building.”
I nodded. And he should have sold it to a developer. But he wanted to own a bookstore. Otis Parker, bibliophile, was living his dream, which was actually a nightmare. And Mrs. Parker’s decorating career could be a hobby job-or she did okay and had to support her husband’s book habit.
Motive is tricky, and you can’t ascribe a motive and then try to make it fit the crime. I mean, even if Otis Parker was worth more dead than alive-this building, or at least the property, was worth a couple mil, even in this neighborhood-that didn’t mean that his young wife wanted him dead. She might just want him to sell the building and stop sinking time and money into this black hole-this Dead End Bookstore-and go get a real job. Or at least turn the place into a bar.
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. For all I knew, the Parkers were deeply in love and his death-caused by her bookcase-would cause the grief-stricken widow to enter a nunnery.
Meanwhile I made a mental note to check for a mortgage on the building, plus Mr. Parker’s life insurance policies, and if there was a prenup agreement. Money is motive. In fact, statistically, it is the main motive in most crimes.
I returned to the subject at hand and said, “So, after you called nine one one, you called her.”
He nodded.
“From upstairs or downstairs?”
“Downstairs. I ran down to unlock the door.”
“And you used your cell phone.”
“Yeah.”
“Her home number is in your cell phone?”
“Yeah…I have their home number to call if there’s a problem here.”
“Right. And you have her cell phone number in your cell phone in case…what?”
“In case I can’t get Mr. Parker on his cell phone.”
“Right.” And when I look at everyone’s phone records, I might see some interesting calls made and received.
The thing is, if a murder actually does appear to be an accident, there’s not much digging beyond the cause and manner of death. But when a cop thinks it looks fishy, then the digging gets deeper, and sometimes something gets dug up that doesn’t jibe with people’s statements.
It had taken me less than fifteen minutes to determine that I was most probably investigating a homicide, so I was already into the digging stage while everyone else-except maybe Officer Rourke-thought we were talking about a bizarre and tragic accident.
Scott-baked brains aside-was getting the drift of some of my questions. In fact, he was looking a bit nervous again, so I asked him bluntly, “Do you think this was something more than an accident?”
He replied quickly and firmly, “No. But that other officer did.”
I suggested, “He reads too many detective novels. Do you?”
“No. I don’t read this stuff.”
He seemed to have a low opinion of detective novels, and that annoyed me. On that subject, I asked him, “Is Jay Lawrence scheduled to come in today?”
He nodded. “Yeah. To sign his new book. He’s on a book tour. He’s supposed to come in sometime around ten a.m.”
I looked at my watch and said, “He’s late.”
“Yeah. Authors are usually late.”
“Where’s he staying in New York?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have his cell number?”
“Yeah…someplace.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yeah. A few times.”
“How well does he-did he-know Mr. Parker?”
“I guess they knew each other well. They see each other at publishing events.”
“And Mrs. Parker?”
“Yeah…I guess he knew her too.”
“From LA?”
“Yeah…I think so.”
Out of curiosity, or maybe for some other reason, I asked Scott, “Is Jay Lawrence a big best seller?”
Scott replied with some professional authority, “He was. Not anymore.” He added, “We can hardly give his books away.”
“Yeah? But you bought five boxes of them for him to sign.”
Scott sort of sneered and replied, “That’s a courtesy. Like, a favor. Because they know each other and because he was coming to the store.”
“Right.” It could be awkward if there were only two books here for Jay Lawrence to sign.
Well, you learn something new every day on this job. Jay Lawrence, who I thought was a best-selling author, was not. Goes to show you. Maybe I make more money doing what I do than he makes writing about what I do.
I had more questions to ask Scott, but there was a knock on the door and Officer Simmons opened it and said, “There’s a guy here-a writer named Jay Lawrence, to see the deceased.” He added, “Rourke notified him that there had been an accident in the store, but not a fatality.”
I looked at my watch. It was 10:26, for the record, and I said to Simmons, “Keep Scott company.” I said to Scott, “Keep writing. You may have the beginning of a best seller.”
I went out into the bookstore where Mr. Jay K. Lawrence was sitting in a wingback chair, wearing a black cashmere topcoat, his legs crossed, looking impatient. He should be looking concerned-cops, accident, and all that-and maybe he was, but he hid it with feigned impatience. On the other hand, authors are all ego, and if they’re detained or inconvenienced by, say, an earthquake or a terrorist attack, they take it personally and get annoyed.
I identified myself to Mr. Lawrence and again pointed to my shield. I have to get that stupid movie scene out of my head or people will think I’m an idiot. Actually, it’s not a bad thing for a suspect to think that. Not that Jay Lawrence was a suspect. But he had some potential.
Before he could stand-if he intended to-I sat in the chair beside him.
He looked like his photo-coiffed and airbrushed-and I could see that under his open topcoat he wore a green suede sports jacket, a yellow silk shirt, and a gold-colored tie. His tan trousers were pressed and creased, and his brown loafers had tassels. I don’t like tassels.
Anyway, I got to the point and informed him, “I’m sorry to have to say this, but Otis Parker is dead.”
He seemed overly shocked-as though the police presence here gave him no clue that something bad had happened.
