He composed himself, then asked me, “How did it happen?”
“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, and 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’s 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 messages?”
“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, and then he asked her, “Where are you? Can you get here quickly?” He listened, nodded to me, and 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
