Hate is Thicker Than Blood (2 page)

Mr. Gray viewed him with some distaste, but then Gray looked at everyone of his employees with distaste. Particularly anyone
who was making more than a starvation wage, and The Hook’s salary was far beyond that. Time for him to start earning it, Gray
obviously thought. Every penny of it. At least.

“Well, then, let’s talk about why you’re here.” Gray picked out a file folder from the neat pile at the side of his desk.
“Ah, let’s see. Yes, here it is. Maria Nuzzo. Deceased.” He looked up at The Hook and thought he saw a little flicker of something
in the detective’s face.

When Lockwood said nothing, Gray shrugged and returned to the folder. “It’s just a little case, really. She had three policies
with us, but only two have been put through as claims.” He leaned back and laughed thinly. “Perhaps we’ll get lucky and they’ll
forget about the third.” He wasn’t really kidding.

“Who’s presenting the claims?”

“Um—ah—” Gray’s eyes flicked back to the folder. “Frank Nuzzo. 1513 Burris Avenue, Brooklyn.”

The Hook looked at Gray, then out the window, and reached into his breast pocket to pull out a Camel. “What’re the claims
for?” His black and silver Dunhill lighter flicked, and he drew in deeply. Cigarettes relaxed him, and he had a feeling, more
of a certainty, really, that it might be quite a while before he could relax again.

“Well, the two that we’ve been hit for—so far that is,” Gray sighed. “The first is for a necklace, a pearl necklace, valued
at five thousand dollars, and the second, and it’s a recent one, just six months old, is a $100,000 life insurance policy.”

“Beneficiary Frank Nuzzo?”

“Yes.”

“What about the unclaimed one? The one they haven’t hit us for?”

“Another jewelry policy, only this one’s for
several
articles of jewelry—a few necklaces, some rings, a bracelet —total of sixty thousand dollars.”

“So that stuff wasn’t missing.”

“I guess not.”

“Anything different about the third policy?”

“I think not. Wait a minute.” Gray studied the document, then looked at the other two. “Yes—the others were filed by Frank
Nuzzo. This one was signed by Maria Nuzzo.”

Lockwood paced the thick rug of the richly panelled room. “How’d she die?”

“Murder.”

“It wasn’t in the papers.”

“Many murders don’t make the newspapers, you know that.” Mr. Gray was fiddling with his gold pince-nez eyeglasses, a trait
of his that invariably drove Lockwood up the wall.

“Okay, so how’d she die?”

“Shot in the chest. Twice.”

“Where was Frank Nuzzo?”

“Hmm? Oh, well, let’s see.” Gray rummaged through the files. “Yes, here it is. He and his wife returned home from an evening
out. There was an intruder. Masked. He beat up Nuzzo, shot Mrs. Nuzzo, and stole the necklace she was wearing.”

“The cops didn’t catch the intruder, of course.”

“That’s right. Even worse, they didn’t retrieve the necklace. I hope you will.”

“Any word about its being fenced?”

“That’s your job, Lockwood. You know, the Board of Directors is going to be very unhappy about having to pay out the $100,000.
It’ll be an additional slap in his face if we have to hand over the extra five thousand.

“Plus, if it’s missing, the sixty thousand that could still turn up as a claim.”

“Oh my, yes,” Gray said, paling even beyond his usual pallid coloration.

“When was she killed?”

“Yesterday.”

“And the claims are already in?”

“That’s what I’m holding here in my hand.”

“Frank Nuzzo doesn’t sound like a sentimental type, does he?”

Mr. Gray looked hopefully up at Bill Lockwood. “That thought had occurred to me.”

“Anything else stolen? Money, whatever?”

“No.”

“You said this would be an easy case. No strain.”

“I think it should be.”

“You’ve never heard of Frankie Nuzzo.”

“Frankie Nuzzo? You mean,
Frank
Nuzzo?”

“Same thing.”

Mr. Gray’s fingers picked up speed as they scurried over his pince-nez. “Frankie Nuzzo doesn’t have quite the same ring to
it as Frank Nuzzo has. It suggests … perhaps a different kind of person.”

“Care to guess his occupation?”

Mr. Gray looked up at The Hook, and his watery blue eyes were filled with hope. “Someone a bit on the wrong side of the law?”

Lockwood took another drag on the Camel. “A bit. Well, more than a bit. He’s a snake—a thug. The lowest of the low. Vicious,
and head of one of the most dangerous gangs in the city. Exactly the kind of guy who’d kill his wife for the insurance money.”

As Lockwood left, Mr. Gray was tipped back in the chair behind his big desk, his face rosy with expectation. Perhaps neither
claim, the one for five thousand, or, better yet, the one for $100,000, would have to be honored.

Frankie Nuzzo was a mess: freshly-dried blood covered a third of his forehead, a chunk of flesh was missing from the bridge
of his nose, and when he spoke, you could tell he was having trouble moving his jaw.

Being cranky didn’t make Frankie look any better, either. “I don’t unnerstan’ why you havta come here. When you said you was
from the insurance compny, I figgered you was bringin’ me the money.”

“I’m a claims investigator, Mr. Nuzzo,” Bill Lockwood informed him. “Insurance companies can’t just pay out claims without
checking. That kind of policy might prove too tempting to those with criminal minds.”

Nuzzo looked back at him, dead-eyed, and said nothing.

“If you could tell me exactly what happened.”

Nuzzo exploded at him. “What! You want me to talk about that? You think I ain’t got no feelings?”

“Until we know exactly what happened, there’s no way we can put through your claim.”

“Oh.” Nuzzo shrugged. One more “oh” and all his grief seemed to fall away. “Okay, so what should 1 tell you?”

“The intruder. How’d he break in?”

“The back winder. He broke in through the back winder.”

“Your neighbors didn’t hear?”

“Them creeps? Naah. Besides, he taped the window first, so it didn’t make no noise when he broke it. The adhesive tapes ‘re
still on it, if you wanna see.”

“Maybe later. Where were you when he came in?”

“Out.”

“Both you and Mrs. Nuzzo?”

“Right.” Nuzzo rubbed his jaw carefully. “I took the missus out for a big night. Movies. A double feature at the Loew’s Kings,
then a real nice meal at George’s—langostura, the works, then dancin’.”

“That’s why she was wearing the necklace.”

Nuzzo stared at him. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“What happened when you got home?”

“He was waitin’ for us, behind the front door.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Who knows? He was wearin’ a mask.” Nuzzo’s voice took on an edge. “Look, I already told all this to the cops…”

Lockwood ignored him. “You couldn’t tell anything about him? His voice? His size?”

“He didn’t say nothin’. He hit me almost immediately. I had no chance to see how big he was.”

“Then what?”

“Then I dunno. Finally, I come to, the cops’ve arrived, and they’re pullin’ me out of the hall closet. An’ then I see Maria.”

“She was dead when you found her?”

“Yeah.” Nuzzo’s face pinched together. “The poor thing. Killed like that. In cold blood.”

“And the necklace was gone.”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing else.”

“What?”

“Nothing else was stolen?”

“No.” Nuzzo was looking edgy again. “No, nothin’ else.”

“Strange.”

“What?” The voice was sharp and angry.

“I said it’s strange, nothing else being taken.”

“What strange? Maria’s necklace was valuable. Five thousand dollars.”

“Mmm. But why nothing else?”

“Who the fuck knows?” Nuzzo’s anger had exploded. The left eyelid began to flicker. “How about wrappin’ it up, pal? I’m tired
of goin’ through this shit.”

“You’re going to have to go through a little more if you want this investigation to go anywhere.”

“Okay, big shot dick; look—” Nuzzo’s eyes were ice. “—there was nothin’ in this house to steal. I don’t keep no money here.
What’s the guy going to do? Grab my radio?” He pointed to a large floor model. “Look around. What’s he gonna take?”

“Your wife’s other jewels.”

“My wife’s—” Nuzzo looked genuinely surprised, then laughed a hard, rasping laugh. “My wife don’t got no other jewels.
Didn’t
have no other jewels,” he corrected himself.

“You’re sure?”

Nuzzzo’s left eyelid again began to flutter rapidly. “You callin’ me a liar?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, I don’t believe in crap like that for women. The only reason she had the necklace was she inherited it from
her grandmother. The rest was from the dimestore.”

“Your wife had a policy for her jewelry.”

“Right. That’s the claim I put in. Five thousand dollars.”

“That was another one. She had a second one in her name for sixty thousand.”

Nuzzo stared at Lockwood. The concept seemed to be too tough for him. “What you mean?”

“Just that. Your wife seems to have owned another sixty thousand dollars’ worth of jewels. Sixty thousand that you seem not
to have known about.”

Nuzzo’s lip curled, and Lockwood caught a flash of his crooked teeth. “That bitch!” He exploded out of his chair, then stopped.
“Naah, it ain’t possible. I know her stuff. All she had was costume jewelry, aside from that necklace.”

Lockwood nodded. “Costume jewelry. May I see it?”

Nuzzo’s features contorted angrily, but then he shrugged. “Sure. Waddo I care? Come on.”

The Hook followed the gangster into a bedroom that was overfurnished in the height of contemporary fashion—if you shopped
at Woolworth’s. Gewgaws abounded, garish, loud draperies and bedspread accented an air of sensual, if ill-conceived, decor.
Nuzzo opened a huge genuine imitation leather jewelry case. “Here,” he said with disinterest, his hand casually taking up
a few baubles. “This is all she had. I know it.”

The Hook took an offered necklace and slowly scrutinized it. Next, he plucked a ring from the box and strode over to a window,
where sunlight was flooding in. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a jeweler’s loupe, then fixed it in his eye.

“Now you know. Shit, right?” Nuzzo smiled, a little uncertainly.

Lockwood said nothing, then turned from studying the ring to the necklace he’d retained.

“Come on, I’m busy,” Nuzzo snapped, edgily.

After a moment, Lockwood dropped his hand, removed the loupe, and returned it to his pocket. “My guess is this stuff’s the
real thing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Lockwood handed him a sheaf of papers. “Here’s a copy of your wife’s policy. This necklace is listed in it along with this
ring. So, probably, is everything in this jewelry box. I’m no expert, but from what I see, this stuff’s far from paste.”

Again, Nuzzo seemed to have trouble comprehending.

“Everything listed in this policy is genuine. Our company wouldn’t insure something like this without checking it over first.
My looking over these two—” and he dropped them back into the box, “is enough to convince me that all of this is the real
stuff.”

Nuzzo sat down on the bed, stunned. “It don’t make no sense.”

“Come on, Nuzzo. You’re no kid. You know lots of wives don’t tell everything to their husbands.”

“She couldn’t have bought that stuff. She didn’t have that kind of money.” Nuzzo ran a hand through his inky black, oily hair.
“It don’t make no sense. Where could she get that kind of dough?”

Lockwood shrugged, and began moving from the bedroom. Immediately, Nuzzo followed him, looking now like a Doberman Pinscher
about to pounce. “Get outta here!” he yelled at the detective. “Get your filthy self outta here!”

“Not quite yet, Frankie. I think it’s best I tell you all you need to know before I leave.”

Nuzzo’s taut cheekbones were working. “What you mean?”

“Withdraw your claims.”

“What?”

“Withdraw your claims. Both of them.”

Nuzzo’s expression was pure menace. “Who you think you are tellin’ me what to do?”

“Better listen to me, Nuzzo. I’m not a cop. I don’t put people in jail. You withdraw the claims, and that’s the last you’ll
hear of me.”

“What’re you, crazy? I’m owed that money!”

“You’re not owed anything, Nuzzo. Those policies are void. A policyholder can’t collect if he’s the one who’s the cause of
the claim.”

“Whadda you mean?”

“Think about it, Frankie,” The Hook answered, calmly, taking out a pack of Camels, and offering one to the gangster. Nuzzo
shook his head, violently, and Lockwood shrugged, paused to light up, and took a good, long drag. “A burglar breaks into your
house, and waits for you and your wife to come home. When you do come home, he slugs you, and puts two bullets in your wife,
then takes off, with nothing but her necklace.”

“What do you mean, nothing? That’s five thousand dollars’ worth!”

“True. But it doesn’t add up. Jewel thieves aren’t dumb—at least not about jewels. They know the good stuff from the worthless.
So a burglar breaks in, no one’s home, there’s a jewel case in the bedroom, full of valuables —sixty thousand dollars worth,
and he doesn’t touch it—any of it. Just sits and waits for a five thousand dollar necklace and a better than even chance of
getting gunned down by you, caught by the cops if your wife screams, whatever, when all he’d have to do is take the jewel
box and run.”

“He coulda been an amateur.”

“Not likely. And then the two of you turn up. So who’s the more dangerous of the two of you to him? You or Maria? You, right?
So you he only slugs, and into your wife he pumps two bullets. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Get out of here.”

“Well, it does make sense, but only this way. You decide you’ve had it with your wife, and it’s time to dump her. But why
not make a profit on it, the way you do everything else? So you take out a policy on her life, then find yourself a hit man—not
one of your own, probably, because you want to keep this secret, apart from your everyday life—and you promise him he’ll be
paid with that necklace. You arrange a big evening out, so Maria will have the necklace on, tell him how to get into the house,
and when you come home, he holds a gun on you and your wife, belts you around a bit to make it look real, and then stuffs
your willing body in the closet. Two bullets later and your wife dead, he leaves with the necklace, and you’re sitting there
with a sore jaw and the prospects of a nice fat bundle of cash.”