The book case

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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.”

“Are you sure?”

“Where are you?”

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.”

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