Hate is Thicker Than Blood

by Brad Latham

  Gray nodded slowly, his mouth hanging slightly open as he tried to take it all in.

  Lockwood took another drag on the Camel and continued. “I can’t think of a safer place to keep Mr. Nuzzo than right here. No one would ever look for him here, and the executive apartment would be an excellent place to house him during the time that he can’t remain with you in your office. Of course the more time spent directly under your eye, the better for him—and the company.”

  Gray nodded uneasily.

  “I’m going to have to leave now. I still have a lot of work to do on this case,” Lockwood said, rising. He began moving to the door when a thought occurred to him, and he retraced his steps, then bent and whispered into Gray’s ear. “Just remember: be cautious. The man you’re going to have staying with you is almost certainly a murderer.”

  He left immediately, not looking at Gray’s face, content to let his imagination furnish him the look of profound dismay tinged with abject fear that was undoubtedly displayed on the features of the whiney-voiced mediocrity who headed the claims department of Transatlantic Underwriters.

  Lockwood was in the hall, nearing the bank of elevators, when he saw her. Evelyn Venable. Dr. Evelyn Venable.

  “Hello, doctor,” he said.

  She flushed, but tried to put up a front as a young secretary walked by. “Hello, Mr. Lockwood. Arm all healed?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Good. What brings you here?”

  “The usual. A case. The death of Maria Nuzzo.”

  The flush was replaced by something else, and an image suddenly flashed into his mind. A name he’d seen on Maria Nuzzo’s life insurance policy. He reached out and gripped her by the arm, hard.

  Her eyes went wide. “What’re you—?”

  She had no time to say anything more. He’d seen the sink closet and was pushing her in, his free hand grabbing for the light cord, then slamming the door behind him, holding it tight, the two of them wedged into the tiny room, her body half over the grimy sink.

  “You examined Maria Nuzzo, didn’t you? When she had her physical.”

  “Let me go!”

  His hand went over her mouth, hard, and angry. This time when he touched her there was no electricity, no sudden surge of sexual feeling, just anger, and disgust, deep, deep disgust. “Answer me,” he instructed her, and she saw she had to. There was no way out.

  “Yes,” she dropped her eyes. “I did.”

  “And her husband came with her.” She said nothing, and he shook her, violently, his mouth a snarl. “And her husband came with her,” he repeated.

  “Yes.” Her eyes were big now, round with fear.

  “And you found him attractive.” Leave me alone, her face seemed to be pleading, leave me alone. But he wouldn’t. “You found him attractive, didn’t you?”

  She nodded, her head dropping forward, hair falling over her face.

  He jerked her back up. “And you slept with him.”

  She was crying now. “And you slept with him!” he repeated, eyes wild.

  “I slept with him,” she said. “He was—it was the same as with you—I don’t know—something about the violence in him—in you—” she covered her face with her hand.

  “And you fell in love with him, and helped kill Maria Nuzzo.”

  The hand fell away, as she registered shock. “No!”

  “You were in love with Frankie Nuzzo. You wanted his wife dead, out of the way, so you could marry him.”

  “No!” she cried, “No—I—I’m engaged to another man. I wouldn’t want to marry Frank!”

  For the first time he saw the engagement ring on her hand. He let go of her. “What’s he like?” he sneered. “A cop? A killer? A rapist?”

  “No, no,” she sobbed. “He’s a quiet man. A college professor.”

  “No electricity there.”

  “No. No. Not like with you. With Frank. But I—I love him,” and again she looked away, ashamed.

  “If you did it. If you fired that second bullet into Maria Nuzzo, I’ll nail you,” he told her, and jerked the door open.

  In the hallway a tall, thin man stood waiting. He was wearing a tweed jacket, bakelite-rimmed glasses, hair a little thin at the top. He looked surprised, then alarmed, as first Bill Lockwood came out of the broom closet, and then, half-falling after him, Evelyn Venable.

  “Evelyn!” the tall man cried, then to the detective, “Hey! What did you—?”

  “You’re her fiancé?” Lockwood asked.

  “Y-Yes,” the tall man stammered, flustered by the situation, uncertain of what was going on.

  “She’ll have to explain to you. I’ve got things to do.” And he shouldered his way past, hit the down button, stepped into an arriving elevator and told the operator “Lobby,” as Venable’s fiancé stared after him in dismay and anger and fear.

  Gina was still there when he got back to the apartment. He tried to kiss her, to hold her, but she wouldn’t have any of it.

  “No,” she told him. “I made a mistake once. I won’t make it a second time.”

  “I’ve fallen in love with you,” he told her.

  Those big dark eyes softened, and her voice went breathy. “I think—I think I may have, too,” she said. “But I’m old-fashioned, I can’t help it. I won’t do it again, ever. Not till I’m married.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to that moment,” he told her, and kissed her softly on the forehead. She sank against him and sighed.

  “If only all this were over,” she said, and pushed away, anguish written on her face.

  “I think we’re coming near the end of it,” he told her. “Tonight I’m going out to Frankie’s house. I know you’re convinced he couldn’t have shot Maria, but I’m positive that he’s involved. He almost certainly hired Borowy to gun her down, and I think he may have shot her, too.”

  “But why would he do that? What’s the sense, if someone had already shot her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something went wrong, although according to the coroner, the .45 bullet alone was enough to kill her. Anyway, I think that’s the next step. If Frankie owned that .32 it could still be in the house somewhere. I know damn well he owns one, because the first time I met him, he tried to shoot me with it.”

  Gina sank down on the couch, head in her hands. “He loved Maria.”

  “You know what they say about love and hate.” He reached for the phone. “It’ll be a while yet till it’s dark. I’ll order up dinner.”

  “I’m coming with you. I’ll help you find the gun. To prove to you it’s not the gun that shot her.”

  “No. We met some of your brother’s boys after we left the hotel. They may have followed Frankie here. If they did, they probably spotted you, too. In all likelihood they’ve been in touch with your brother since. He knows you’ve been consorting with the enemy. Until this case is wrapped up, you’d better stay away from home. I have a friend—a detective who’ll take you in and keep an eye on you till then.” She looked up, frightened. “It’s okay—his wife will be there, too,” he reassured her. “Besides, detectives aren’t all animals—like me.”

  She reached out, and pulled her to him, gently, lovingly, but with a certain restraint. “You’re not an animal,” she said. “It was me. My fault. I was the animal.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “Next time we’ll just make sure the two animals are legally certified to live in the same cave together.” She relaxed then, laughing a little, and allowed him to hold her until dinner arrived.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  He took his time driving into Brooklyn, trying to think it all through. Once or twice he changed directions, turned abruptly, or stopped, but it soon became obvious he wasn’t being followed. He could relax, and try to figure out where the hell it was all going. Assuming it ever went anyplace.

  Borowy was certainly a murderer of Mrs. Nuzzo, but probably not just the murderer. It was unlikely he’d have fired the .32. A sudden, chilling thought struck The
Hook. Was it possible that his old girl friend, Helene, had fired the second gun? That she was not just Borowy’s paramour, but also his partner in crime? Not likely. Borowy was known to be a lone wolf. Why would he have brought along an amateur, someone who could queer his chances? If she still was an amateur … he pushed the idea aside, unwilling to consider it further. It was bad enough to think of her as he already knew her. How could he add anything more?

  Nuzzo. It had to be Nuzzo. But what if it weren’t? Who else? Evelyn Venable? She was too cultured, too respectable. And yet—she’d taken a tumble in the hay with Frankie. No question that when she loved, she loved fiercely. If you could call that loving. Still, she wasn’t stupid. She must have realized almost immediately what Frankie was. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could change scum like him. Or was she? Perhaps, if Frankie’s pistol didn’t check out, her apartment was next in order… .

  Could Red Agitino have killed her? Unlikely. At the end, there was no reason for him to tell anything but the truth. Agitino’s widow? Lockwood straightened up, and suddenly felt like a chump. If she’d known about Maria … but no, not likely. She didn’t seem to have known, didn’t seem the type either. Although, he knew, at bottom, there is no such thing as “the type.” All of us can kill, Lockwood mused. At bottom, we’re all the same. He wondered if he’d be traveling soon to Chicago.

  Then there was “Fish” Lorenzo. If he’d found out, he’d have been sure to put a bullet into Maria, or at least have considered it long and hard. But not likely. Lomenzo gave every indication of having learned about it after Maria’s death, and God knows he had no reason to conceal anything in front of The Hook or the Agitinos, people who he thought would be dead minutes after he drove away from them.

  Gina? After all, at bottom … He tried to shove the thought away, but the professionalism in him took over, and he began to play with it. Gina. But what reason would she have had? Even if she had known her sister was playing around, why would she have cared that much? And besides, why would she have teamed up with Borowy? That part didn’t make sense. When you came right down to it, that part didn’t make sense with just about all of them. With Borowy involved, there was no need for anyone else.

  A thought struck Lockwood. Unless … unless Borowy didn’t do it. Unless someone had taken his pistol … damn. There had to be an answer somewhere. And by God, he would find it, no matter how long it took. He grinned sourly to himself. With one hundred five thousand dollars riding on it, Gray would let him have every last bit of that time.

  Three blocks away from Nuzzo’s house he pulled up to the curb, and got out. No sense advertising his presence. Even if Frankie’s mob was wiped out, there was a good chance Fish’s people would be staking out the place, anxious to gain their boss’s favor by netting Frankie himself.

  It was oppressively hot, and all the windows on the block were open, fans droning in the more affluent homes, lights out everywhere. This was working-man’s territory. No late-nighters here, except for the occasional mother staggering off to a three A.M. feeding.

  The next two blocks were the same, Lockwood hanging in the shadows during the final stretch; then, three houses from Nuzzo’s, he eased into the backyard, then crossed over the two fences that separated him from his quarry, waiting till a big cloud drifted over the moon, turning everything ink-black.

  Once over the fence, he knelt, surveying the immediate vicinity. No sign of anyone. He pulled out adhesive tape and a glass cutter; then, keeping low, ran to the nearest window.

  It was part of a six-foot deep indentation in the house, and he worked in relative shelter, the two corners of the outcroppings obscuring him from sight.

  The cutter did its work, and he tapped out the panel, the rubber suction cup he’d attached held in one hand, keeping the tension as he tapped, and then pulling back. The glass came out almost intact. Carefully he placed it on the grass, then reached up through the hole it had left, and unlocked the window. A few seconds later he was over the windowsill, inside the house.

  He had to be careful with the flashlight. Most of the damned venetian blinds were up, and he was afraid pulling them down would draw attention. He started with the Nuzzo’s bedroom. Maria’s jewel chest was still there, but not the jewels. He stared at it for a moment, wondering, then shrugged. Once Frankie found out they were valuable, he’d probably sold them. He wasn’t exactly a sentimental type, and certainly not where those little beauties were concerned.

  He went through the closets, the chests, looked under the bed. Nothing. He shoved aside the garish prints that covered the walls, but there was nothing behind any one of them. Then he pulled up the carpet, checking out the floorboards. Nothing. Next, he unscrewed the two brass electric fixtures, but they were empty. The room seemed to be clean.

  The house had seven rooms and he went through them all the same way, carefully, completely. Nothing. The cellar came up empty, too, just dankness and a number of dusty bottles of homemade wine. The steamy, closed-up house had him perspiring, and by the time he went back up the stairs to the second floor, he was drenched. He held the flashlight up, screening it as well as he could, searching for an opening in the ceiling. Finally, in a small room opposite Nuzzo’s bedroom, he found it.

  He pushed a chair over, stood on it, pushed the panel in the ceiling aside, then hoisted himself up through the opening. The roof was low and he had to crouch as he played the searchlight up and down the length of the attic. And then finally he found it. It was in the far corner, wedged behind a rafter. He held the flashlight on it, hoping. It was a .32. He sank down on the attic floor for a moment, grateful, and then heard the sound.

  It was muffled, but there was no mistaking it. Footsteps. He remained where he was, not moving a muscle. If he had to, he could wait whoever it was out till they left.

  But they didn’t leave. He heard the footsteps come nearer, dwindle away, then come nearer again, then retreat as they went back down the stairs. He heard doors creak open, and then the padding sound, at times almost nonexistent, then clearer, as whoever it was moved out back into the hall.

  He heard the cellar door open, and was tempted to try to make a dash for it, but decided against it, and was glad he did, because the steps came back up almost immediately. And then again came nearer, up the stairs for a second time, prowling from one room to another. And then stopping in the small room below the attic opening, shining a shaft of light up through it. He cursed himself for not having replaced the panel.

  There was a creak as weight was placed on the chair below the opening. He braced himself, the .38 ready.

  “Bill?”

  It was Gina’s voice.

  “Jesus. What are you doing here?” He moved over to the opening.

  The flashlight shone full in his face. “Turn that off!” he told her. “Have you been shining it that way through the whole house?”

  “I’m sorry!” she told him, flicking it off. “I tried to let you go alone, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to have you risk your life without me. I couldn’t let you expose yourself to danger alone.”

  “Move out of the way.” He waited, heard her gain the floor, and lowered himself through the opening. When he reached the floor he put his arms out, and she pressed lovingly against him.

  “Did you find it?” she asked.

  “The .32? Yes.”

  “Is it the right one?”

  “I won’t know till it’s checked out by ballistics. You were crazy to come.”

  Her arms tightened around him. “I had to.”

  He patted her, and said nothing. No reason to point out that whatever risk she’d worried about had probably been increased tenfold by her turning up.

  The first rays of dawn were breaking as they reached the first floor. “I had no idea I’d been here this long,” he told her. “Your brother-in-law must have been great at hide-the-handkerchief.”

  They reached the room he’d originally entered. “Let me go out first,” he told her, and began to climb t
hrough the window. He was nearly halfway out when he saw the tiny movement, nothing more than a minute blurring, and shoved himself back in with lightning speed, crying out “duck,” and pushed her down a split second before the bullet arrived.

  Gina clutched at him, contrition in her face. “I’m sorry. I must have led them to you.”

  “Not necessarily,” he told her. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got enough to worry about as it is,” he added, as he heard shots coming from outside the front of the house. “They seem to have us surrounded.”

  He led her to the stairs, and then to the second floor. “We’re better off up here. We’ll be able to hear them if they come up the stairs.” A bullet whined over his head, and he broke through a pane, and fired down into the street. “This shouldn’t last long. All I’ve got to do is hold them off till someone calls the police.”

  Gina shuddered. “This isn’t New York. Not many people here have telephones. Possibly no one.”

  Another bullet whistled over them, but this time Lockwood didn’t return the fire. “You’re right,” was all he said, sinking down beside her. And then shrugged. “It’s our only chance. We’ll just have to hope,” and turned and fired down into the street, aiming at a shadow behind a parked car. A volley of shots answered his.

  “Must be a half-dozen of them out front. No telling how many around the rest of the house. Look. Maybe you’d better get into another room. If they do manage to get up here, they wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Me? A traitor to my blood? Consorting with the enemy? They probably want me even worse than they do you.” Her eyes were cool, her face unruffled. “Is Frankie’s gun loaded? I could protect your back.”