The drive from Staten Island to Long Island took thirty-five minutes.
The Long Island track, although no longer in use, was still the property of the N.Y.S.R.C., and they maintained a skeleton security crew on duty there. I showed them my ID and was admitted. Louie must have known another way to get in without being detected, which really wasn’t unusual. There are usually ways of getting into ballparks, racetracks and such without paying and without getting caught.
I walked into the clubhouse and climbed the steps of the unmoving escalator. Out of habit I used the one that would normally have been going up.
Louie hadn’t said what floor to meet him on, so I intended to wander around a bit. The second and third floors were much more spacious than the fourth. They were all enclosed in glass because winter racing had first been introduced here, and it was necessary to keep the bettors warm no matter how cold it was outside.
I made my way up to the fourth floor and looked out the windows at the track below.
He was on the track, obviously waiting for me to show myself in the window because as I did he began to wave. I waved back to show him that I saw him.
I worked my way back down to the track figuring that he had probably wanted to make sure I had come alone. He allowed me to go all the way to the top level, then put himself where I couldn’t miss him once I looked out.
Right at the finish line.
What if I hadn’t looked out the window? Then again, that’s a conditioned reflex in people. You see a window, you naturally look out.
I walked through the grandstand area and stopped at the rail at the finish line. He remained at the rail directly opposite.
“Meester Po?” he called out.
“That’s right.”
“You have identification?”
I reached into my pocket, took out my wallet and threw it across to him. He reached for it, but it struck him in the chest and fell to the ground. He picked it up, inspected my ID, then walked across the track and handed it back to me.
“I need help, Meester Po,” he told me.
“That’s the message I’ve been trying to get to you, Louis. You didn’t kill Penny, did you?”
He shook his head violently, so much so that I thought it might fall off.
“I am not kill Penny, Mr. Po. I am in love with her.”
My next question was delicate.
“Excuse me, Louis. I don’t wish to offend you, but aren’t you a homosexual?”
“I am a bisexual,” he corrected me, which made his relationship with Penny a bit more understandable. “Penny, she’s say that it’s no matter to her.”
“You slept with her?”
He nodded.
“Before she disappeared?”
He hesitated, then said, “Before she is die.”
“Louis, do you know who killed her?”
He didn’t answer.
“Louis,” I prompted.
“I am not kill her, Mr. Po. You will tell this to police, please?”
“I can tell them, Louis, but how do I prove it to them? If you know who killed her, you had better tell me.”
Again he wouldn’t answer.
“Louis, where is your gun?” I asked, switching tactics. “The thirty-eight?”
“Is gone.”
“Where? C’mon, Louis, you’re a marksman, you wouldn’t just throw your gun away. Where is it?”
He put his hand on his hip, over his jacket, and said, “Is here.”
“Is that the gun that killed Penny?”
He began to cry.
“Give it to me, Louis,” I told him, putting out my hand.
He took a step backward and put his hand inside his jacket. It was the second time that day I was sorry I had left my gun home.
I waited to see what he was going to do.
He brought his hand out slowly, holding the gun, and he stared at it.
“I am once think they are beautiful. Now, I am think they are ugly,” he finished, handing it to me.
“They kill,” he added.
“Not unless somebody pulls the trigger, Louis,” I told him. “Who pulled it, Louis? Tell me.”
He stayed quiet.
“I think I already know, Louis. Suppose I tell you what happened, and you tell me if I’m right. Okay?”
He was about to answer me when something he saw behind me surprised and frightened him.
“You lied!” he shouted at me. “You bring police!”
I turned around and sure enough, I saw Diver, Stapleton, Jackson and about four uniformed police officers approaching us.
I turned back to Louis to try and deny that I’d brought them.
“Louie, I swear, I didn’t — ”
“You lied!” he shouted again and lunged for the gun in my hand. I pulled it away in time and he missed. Instead of trying for it again he turned and started running up the track.
“Oh, shit, not again,” I said aloud.
“Melendez,” Diver yelled, “Melendez, this is the police! Stop right there!”
“Louie, come back!” I shouted.
Diver stopped alongside me and one of the uniformed officers came to my other side. The jerk had his gun out.
“Oh, shit, don’t shoot him,” I told the guy. “Where the hell can he go?”
The cop threw me a dirty look and kept his gun in his hand.
Diver saw what I was referring to and snapped, “Put that damned thing away. Go out there and catch him. The rest of you, c’mon, go get him and bring him back.”
Stapleton and Jackson stopped at the rail while the four officers vaulted it and took off after Louie.
“Thanks for keeping in touch,” Diver said sarcastically. “Was this another of your famous hunches?”
“I promised him I’d come alone,” I told him. I pointed to the six furlong pole and told Diver, “I’ll bet you he gets to that pole before they catch him.”
“How much?”
“Ten bucks.”
“Odds?”
I shook my head. “Even money.”
“That’s what gave you away, you know,” he told me.
“What?”
“When I asked you if you had a date, you said you had a hot tip on a horse. You don’t bet tips, that’s when I knew you were up to something.”
“We have a bet?” I asked.
“You don’t — ”
“We’re betting on people here, not horses. Bet?”
“Okay, you’ve got a bet.”
“Did you follow me here?” I asked.
“Nope.”
Louie was almost to the six furlong pole, but one of the cops who had very long legs was catching up to him fast. The other three were strung out behind them.
“Why’d you come here, then?”
“I sat down and thought like a detective for once,” he told me.
“Meaning?”
“I asked myself, where would a jockey hide out?” He waved his arm in a wide arc and said, “What better place than a track that was no longer in use?”
“Elementary,” I commented.
“Exactly.”
The cop caught Louie just shy of the pole.
“Ten bucks,” Diver told me.
“See why I don’t bet?” I asked him, paying off.
The cop cuffed Louie and started walking him back. The other three cops stopped and turned to stagger back.
New York’s finest.
“Your finest look out of shape, “I told him. Then I looked at him and was about to comment on his shape when he said, “Don’t say it.” He turned and called to his partner, “Hey, Bobby.”
“What?”
“Want to make sure he knows his rights? I don’t know if any of those guys can read any better than they can run.”
“Gotcha,” Stapleton answered, easing over the rail and walking out to meet them.
“Besides,” Diver continued, “those guys are Nassau cops. We radioed ahead for them to meet us here.”
“I see. What are you going to charge him with?” I asked.
“Homicide, what else?” Jackson answered.
I shook my head.
“He didn’t kill Penny Hopkins,” I told them.
Jackson took Melendez’s gun from my hand and said, “Well, we’ll run a check on this gun and see if it matches.”
“Even if it does, he still didn’t kill her. He didn’t pull the trigger.”
“Okay, hotshot,” Jackson asked, “who killed her?”
“Yeah, Hank, who?” Diver added.
I looked at them and, admittedly, I milked the moment for all it was worth.
“Nobody.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jackson demanded, angrily. “It’s his gun.”
“He didn’t kill her, Jackson,” I insisted.
Then I added, “He only buried her.”