Nelson DeMille: The book case

“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 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.