I called Diver and Jackson from the security office, where I had two security men holding Spencer and Brinks.
Diver got there first and came in the office demanding, “What the fuck is going on, Po? You were supposed to stay in touch with me, remember?”
“I know, I know, but this was a hunch and I wanted to play it out first.”
“Okay, what have we got?” he asked. His partner, Stapleton, took a seat in the comer and Diver stood in front of the desk, behind which I was seated. I had sent the girl on a coffee break.
“Let’s wait for Jackson first. This is his territory.”
“Has this got anything to do with the Hopkins girl?” he asked.
“Mmm, probably more to do with the Mapes killing, I’d say, but you never know.”
As if on cue, Jackson walked in. His partner, whose name I never heard, was behind him.
“Po, I want to talk to you,” he almost shouted as he stormed in.
He cooled off a bit when he saw the two Manhattan South Detectives there.
“What’s going on, Diver?”
Pointing to me Diver said, “It’s his show.”
“Damn, Po — ” Jackson started again.
“Easy,” I told him, “take it easy. This is the man who shot me the other night and got away, the third man who killed Eddie Mapes.”
I was pointing at Gordon Brinks.
“What?” Diver said. Stapleton sat forward in his chair. Jackson gave Brinks an appraising look and said, “Who is he?”
“He says his name is Gordon Brinks. You could probably run his prints and find out who he really is. For the past few months he has been — or has been acting as — Woody Spencer’s assistant trainer.”
“Who is Woody Spencer?” Diver asked.
“That is,” I answered, pointing to Spencer, standing with the second security man. He hadn’t said a word since I threw him at Brinks. “He’s a top trainer in thoroughbred racing. I’ve recently learned that he trains horses for a man from Chicago, named DeLillo.”
“Angie DeLillo?” Stapleton asked.
“The same. It’s my guess DeLillo sent our friend, Brinks, here to set up a major ‘fixing’ operation. They were working on Eddie Mapes because he wouldn’t go along and, in fact, even started snooping around, trying to get something he could use to break up the operation. For that he got killed, by Brinks and the two out of towners.”
“Can you prove that?” Diver asked.
“I have a witness who heard him confess that he was at the scene of Mapes’ murder and did, in fact, shoot at me.”
“You’re crazy,” Brinks finally spoke up.
Stapleton got up and approached Brinks, then stomped on his right instep with the heel of his shoe. Brinks howled and hopped around for a few seconds, then maintained a seething silence.
“Go ahead,” Stapleton told me, and returned to his chair.
“Who’s the witness?” Diver asked.
I pointed to what was now just a hunk of aging flesh and bones.
“Spencer. He was in the room when Brinks told me that he was the one who shot me. I might add that Brinks was holding a gun on me at the time.” I opened the desk drawer and took out Spencer’s gun, a .45 automatic. “I think if you check this against the slugs you found in Mapes’ body you’ll find that they match nicely.”
Jackson walked over to face Spencer and asked him, “Is that true?”
Spencer raised his eyes and looked over at Brinks, who stared back coldly. Spencer’s career in racing was over, and he knew it. He looked over at me and I nodded, telling him that this was the only way to go.
He looked at Jackson, then at the floor and finally said, “Yes, I’m a witness.”
Stapleton got up again, approached Brinks and took out his cuffs.
“You’re under arrest,” he told Brinks, put the cuffs on him and started reading him his rights.
“You’re dead, old man,” Brinks told Spencer, and Stapleton, without pausing in his reading, again stomped on Brinks’ foot.
“Would you hold him outside, please?” he asked the security man.
Diver came over to me and asked, “Who was behind the whole thing, Hank?”
I shrugged. “It would seem to be DeLillo, but Donero has to be in on it.”
“Donero? He’s inside.”
“So, who’d expect him to start setting up a major operation while he was inside?” I asked him.
“I guess nobody would. How can we connect him, though?”
“We don’t, you do. I’m finished. As far as I’m concerned we’ve got the three guys who killed Eddie. You run this guy’s prints and come up with his name, maybe you can connect him with Donero.”
“What about the girl?”
“That one I’m not done with.” I looked at my watch and saw that it was twelve-fifteen. I had forty-five minutes to get to the track in Long Island for my meeting with Melendez.
“Got a date?” he asked.
He caught me and I jerked my arm down.
“No, a hot tip on a horse in the first race. I’ll see you later.”
“I need you to make a statement,” he told me.
“I’ll be along,” I promised.
“Sure,” I heard him behind me. “Sure you will.”