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, and 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’s 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, and 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.”
