I informed him, “I think Otis Parker will live, and he can tell us what happened up there and who was in the room at that time.”
“Good. Then you’ll know that I’m telling the truth.”
And he probably was. Mia Parker committed the actual murder herself. But, with all due respect to her apparent intelligence, she didn’t think of that bookcase and that plunger and those furniture wedges by herself. That was Jay Lawrence. And that’s what she’d say, and he would deny it. She said, he said. Not good in court.
I said to him, “She seemed to think she was going to be with you in…” Where was that place? “Malibu.”
He replied, “She’s…let’s say, mistaken. Actually, delusional. I made no such promise.” He made sure I understood: “It was just an affair. A long-distance affair.”
He was desperately trying to save his ass, and not doing a bad job of it. He was clever, but I am John Corey. Arrogant? No. Just a fact.
I said to him in a tone suggesting he was my cooperating witness, “That bookcase has been sitting there for over two years. Do you think she put it there-right behind his desk-knowing what she was going to do with it?”
He hesitated, then replied, “I don’t know. How would I know that?”
He was smart, and he didn’t want to admit to any preknowledge of premeditated murder-not even as speculation. But he was willing to throw his girlfriend under the bus if it kept him out of jail. He was walking the old tightrope without a balancing bar.
By now Jay Lawrence was thinking about exercising his right to remain silent and his right to an attorney. So I had to be careful I didn’t push him too far. On the other hand, time was ticking by and I needed to go in for the kill. I said, “Look, Jay-can I call you Jay? Look, someone removed those wedges from under the bookcase, and it wasn’t little Mia all by herself. Hell, I don’t think I could do that without help. Are you telling me there was someone else involved?”
He seemed to think about that, then said, “I haven’t been to New York in several months. And I can account for every minute of my time since my plane landed at five thirty-six last night.” He informed me, “I have a taxi receipt, a check-in time at the Carlyle, dinner in the hotel…with my lady friend, the hotel bar-”
“All right, I get it.” I didn’t want to hear about the adult movie he’d rented from his room. Basically Jay Lawrence had covered his ass, and he had the receipts to prove it. And he’d done this because he knew, in advance, what was going to happen early this morning. But maybe he didn’t know about an accomplice.
I asked him for the name and phone number of his lady friend, which he gave me. It was, in fact, his publicist in New York; the lady who booked his publicity tour and who could also provide an alibi for his free evening. Bang publicist: 7:00 p.m.-10:00 a.m. Dinner and breakfast in hotel.
Jay Lawrence was, as Mia Parker said, a two-timing bastard. And also a conniving coward who let his lover do the dirty work while he was establishing an alibi for the crime. He totally bullshitted her. And if it had gone right, he was onboard for the payoff, which I guess was his share of all the worldly possessions of the deceased Otis Parker-including his wife. The wife, I’m sure, thought it was all about love and being together. In Malibu. Wherever that was. And none of this would have happened, I’m sure, if Jay Lawrence had sold more books.
Meanwhile there was still the question of the furniture wedges. Who helped her with that? Jay didn’t seem to know, or he wasn’t saying. But Mia knew.
I said to him, “Stay right here.”
I walked to where Mia Parker was sitting in the wingback chair, looking a bit more composed, and without any preamble I asked her, “Who helped you remove the furniture wedges?”
She replied, “Jay.”
I was fairly certain that was not true and not possible.
“When?”
“Last…early this morning.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Why would I lie?”
Well, because Jay was screwing a babe all night, and you are very pissed off.
Mrs. Parker needed less sympathy and understanding and more shock treatment, so I said to Rourke, “Cuff her.” But softie that I am, I instructed front cuffs instead of back-so she could dab her eyes and blow her nose.
Rourke told her to stand, gave her a quick but thorough pat down, and then cuffed her wrists in the front.
I said to Rourke, “Call for a car.” I added, “I’ll be riding with her to the precinct.”
Mia Parker, now cuffed, under arrest, and about to be taken to the station house for booking, was undergoing a transformation. Early this morning, she was a married lady with a boyfriend and an inconvenient husband. Now she had no boyfriend and no husband. And no future. I’ve seen this too many times, and if I said it didn’t get to me, I’d be lying.
The person I felt most sorry for, of course, was Otis Parker. He ran a crappy bookstore and he didn’t give service with a smile, but he didn’t deserve to die.
I asked Mrs. Parker, “If he dies, is all this yours?”
She looked around, then replied, “I hate this store.”
“Right. Answer the question.”
She nodded, then informed me, “We had a prenup…I didn’t get much in a divorce…but…”
“You got a lot under his will.” I asked, “Life insurance?”
She nodded again, then continued, “I also got the building and the…business.” She laughed and said, “The stupid business…he owes the publishers a fortune. The business is worth nothing.”
“Don’t forget the fixtures and the good will.”
She laughed again. “Good will? His customers hate him. I hate him.”
“Right.”
She continued, “This store was draining us dry…he was going to mortgage the building…I had to do something…”
“Of course.” I’ve heard every justification possible for spousal murder, and most of them are amazingly trivial. Like, “My wife thought cooking and fucking were two cities in China.” Or, “My husband watched sports all weekend, drank beer, and farted.” Sometimes I think being a cop is less dangerous than being married.
Anyway, Mrs. Parker forgot to mention that she’d planned this long before the marriage or that she had a boyfriend. But I never nitpick a confession.
I inquired, “Do you have a buyer for the building?”
She nodded.
I guessed, “Two million?”
“Two and a half.”
Not bad. Good motive.
She also let me know, “His stupid collector books are worth about fifty thousand.” She added, “He buys them, but can’t seem to sell them.”
“Has he tried the Internet?”
“That’s where he buys them.” She confided to me, “He’s an idiot.”