Mia Parker was still screaming, and I had the thought that I should have left her on the floor. But my main concern was that I’d gotten this wrong. About Jay Lawrence, I mean. But not about Mia Parker, who confirmed my charge of attempted murder by shouting, “I did this for you, you cheating bastard! So we could be together! You knew what I was going to-”
Jay Lawrence jumped right in there and shouted back, “I did not know what you-”
“You did!”
“Did not!”
And so forth. Rourke was nodding, letting me know he was a witness to this, while at the same time he kept repositioning himself so that the wronged lady could not get at her two-timing lover. I kind of hoped that she got around Rourke and dug her nails into Jay’s pretty face. I certainly wasn’t going to get between them. Hell hath no fury and all that.
Well, I was sure that the Dead End Bookstore hadn’t seen so much excitement since the upstairs toilet backed up.
Meanwhile, neither of the now ex-lovers seemed to notice that over five minutes had passed and there was no ambulance pulling up to rush Otis Parker to the hospital.
By now I should have had Rourke slap the cuffs on Mia Parker, but, well…I was enjoying this. She was really pissed, and she shouted to her fellow Angelino, “We could have bought that house in Malibu…we could have been together again…”
Where’s Malibu? California? Why did she want to go back there? No one wants to leave New York. This annoyed me.
She broke down again, sobbing and wailing, then collapsed in the chair. She was babbling now. “I hate it here…I hate this store…I hate him…I hate the cold…I want to go home…”
Well, sorry, lady, but you’re going to be a guest of the State of New York for a while.
As much as I wanted to cuff Jay Lawrence, I wasn’t certain what his role, if any, was in this murder. Well, he knew about it, according to Mia Parker. But did he actually conspire in the murder? And assuming she had help, who helped her? Not Jay, who was in the sack with his alibi witness.
I motioned for him to follow me, and he did so without protest. I led him to the rear of the store, away from his pissed-off girlfriend, and I said to him, “You get one chance to assist in this investigation. After that, you get charged with conspiracy to commit murder and/or as an accessory. Understand?”
He didn’t respond verbally, and I didn’t even get a nod. Instead he just stood there with a blank expression on his face.
I glanced at my watch to indicate the clock was ticking. Then I said, “Okay, you’re under arrest as an accessory-”
“Wait! I…okay, I knew she wanted him…out of the way…and she asked me…like, how would you do this in a novel…but I didn’t think she was serious. So I just made a joke of it.”
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?”