Eddie was curled up in a comer of the room, as if he had been trying to dig himself a hole. He had three slugs in him and his blood was working its way across the floor in small rivers.
“If I hadn’t spent so much damn time stalking a fucking wino …”
“Your mistake, Mr. Po,” Detective James Diver said, “was in not calling the precinct first. That’s why your friend is dead meat, now.”
Diver’s face had been the first thing I saw when I came to in the hall. It was florid, with gray hair and a gray mustache, a face that had been around for almost fifty years and had seen it all.
Apparently, the night clerk had called the cops after he had finished screaming. A radio car had responded, surveyed the scene and called Homicide.
Diver was Homicide, along with his partner, Detective Stapleton, who was about ten years younger. Both men were thick bodied and time hardened. I got no sympathy from either one, but then I hadn’t expected any.
I didn’t have any for myself, because the odds were that Diver was right. If I had called the cops, like Brandy had asked me to, Eddie Mapes might still be alive.
They had gone so far as to help me to my feet and into Mapes’ room, where the ambulance attendant pronounced Eddie dead and treated me for a scalp wound.
The body count was one in the hotel room two in the lobby. The mutt who had shot me, and apparently thought he had killed me, had split.
I was still dizzy, and all the activity — Forensic, the Medical Examiner, Crime Scene Unit, ambulance people, detectives, occupants of the hotel — wasn’t helping any.
“I want this man to go to the hospital for X-rays,” my ambulance attendant told Diver.
“Then hang around, you can have him when we’re done.” To me he said, “I have your gun. I’ll need it for a while.”
“Be my guest.”
“I don’t need this anymore,” he added, handing me my wallet, with my ID in it. “It looks good,” he said, referring to my identification.
Stapleton came in and Diver asked, “What’s the verdict?”
“The clerk’s story jibes with Po’s,” the blond detective told his partner. “He came running into the hotel and the other two guys were running down the stairs. The first shot was fired by one of them. After that, Po opened up and blew them both off the stairway. Then he saw Po run up the stairs, heard two shots, saw another guy go running down and take off out the door. That’s when he called 911.”
They were zipping Eddie Mapes into a body bag and getting ready to move him.
“Okay, Po, your story checks out,” Diver said. “I have one of your cards so I know where to reach you if I need you. What’s this N.Y.S.R.C.?”
“New York State Racing Club.”
“Oh, you mean like horse racing?” I nodded.
“Okay. Look, are you sure you played square with me as far as your story goes?”
I nodded again, then regretted the action.
“I just met Mapes a few days ago when I broke up a fight between him and another jockey,” I explained, wishing my head would stop pounding. “You can check that out yourself. I also got him out of a jam that night in the city, when two guys jumped him. You can check that part out in the bar where I met him — accidentally — that evening. My story will check out all around. I don’t need to jeopardize my license by being uncooperative in a homicide investigation. That kind of grief I don’t need.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I only hope you’re sincere.” He turned to his partner. “We got everything we need?”
“Yeah, for now.”
Diver waved the ambulance attendant over. “You can have him now. Keep him alive, huh?”
With the attendant’s help I walked down the stairs just behind the two guys who were carrying the body bag that contained what was once Eddie Mapes.
Sure, guy, I thought, just call me if you ever need help.
Shit!