Otis Parker was dead. Killed by a falling bookcase whose shelves were crammed with very heavy reading. Total weight about a thousand pounds, which flattened Mr. Parker’s slight, 160-pound body. A tragic accident. Or so it seemed.
To back up a bit, I’m Detective John Corey, working out of the First Precinct Detective Squad, which is located—if you ever need me—on Ericsson Place in Lower Manhattan, New York City.
It was a cold, blustery March morning, a Tuesday, and I was sitting in a coffee shop on Hudson Street, a few blocks from my precinct, trying to translate ham and eggs over easy into Spanish for my English-challenged waiter. “Huevos flippo. Hambo and blanco toasto. Okay?”
My cell phone rang at 8:34, and it was my boss, Lieutenant Ed Ruiz, who said, “I notice you’re not at your desk.”
I told him and he said, “Good. You’re up. We have a body at the Dead End Bookstore on North Moore. Discovered by a clerk reporting for work.”
I knew the bookstore, which specialized in crime and mystery novels, and I’d actually been a customer a few times. I love murder mysteries. I can always guess the killer—without peeking at the end. Well…hardly ever. My job should be so easy.
Ruiz continued, “The deceased is the store owner, a Mr. Otis Parker.”
