Nelson DeMille: The book case

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.

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?”