Free Hate is Thicker Than Blood by Brad Latham

shining in the sun, a startling
     contrast to the dimness inside the warehouse. Then he saw the blood on the floor near the door, trailing into the warehouse,
     till it was lost in the murk. Halfway down the aisle to the right was another door, probably the warehouse office. Renza might
     be there. On the other hand, he might be a few steps to the left, in the middle aisle. Perhaps, Lockwood thought, if he got
     closer he could see the blood, see where it led.
    He moved up and edged along the front of the building, toward the center aisle. So far he saw nothing. Heard nothing.
    He froze for a second as he suddenly heard the door of the Cord slam shut. A moment later Junior Grosso staggered into view.
     “Help! Help me!” he cried. And then slumped to the ground, a red puddle spreading out around his pudgy body, the agony leaving
     his face as the life ebbed out of him.
    Again he waited, and again there was no sound. He moved on, and came near the intersection, middle aisle to left, office door
     to right. His eyes searched the floor, and now they could see it. Dark splatters leading to the office door. Renza was waiting
     there.
    He moved to the door, turned to face it.
    “Freeze, sucker.” It was Renza’s voice from behind him.
    “I figured that little trail of blood might attract your dumb cop instincts. Jerk! I walked up to that door, put a rag around
     my ankle, an’ came on back here. An’ waited to get the drop on you. Dumb flatfoot.”
    There was a lightswitch in front of Lockwood, and his hand went up to it as he leapt to the side. Light filled the place,
     and for an instant it blinded Renza, an instant too long.
    The .38 cracked and Renza crashed back against a crate, doubled over, with a slug in his midsection. It didn’t stop him. He
     got off a shot, then another, but his hand was unsteady, his aim wild, and a moment later he went to his knees, and an instant
     after that all the way to the floor as the third bullet from Lockwood’s pistol dropped him.
    The Hook walked over to Renza, and turned him over with his foot. He’d had it.
    He made the long walk down to the end of the warehouse, retrieved his shoes, and made his way outside. Russo and Grosso were
     still lying there, flies already feasting on the thick red ooze that covered them and the nearby ground, the blood warming
     and congealing in the intense summer sun. He got in the Cord and turned the engine over. Renza. Grosso. Russo. Moscowitz.
     Caminaro. Mao. Riordan. Frankie Nuzzo had a problem. If things continued the way they were going, soon Nuzzo would be a mobster
     without a mob.

CHAPTER
NINE
    This time the Brooklyn neighborhood was more attractive. The night was soft and people were out strolling and talking, sitting
     on their porches, playing cards, listening to the radio.
    The Hook turned up the short walk to the tiny wood house and pushed the buzzer. He heard no resultant sound, tried again,
     and when once more he heard nothing, knocked. Somewhere toward the back of the house he heard a stirring.
    A few moments later, the door opened. The woman from the funeral was standing there. “Yes?” she asked.
    “I wonder if I could trouble you for a few moments.” He flashed his wallet at her, showing her the badge. “I’m investigating
     a crime.”
    The woman looked bewildered.
    “Nothing to worry about. Nothing you’re involved in. It’s just that I have reason to believe that you may be able to contribute
     some evidence.”
    The woman still stood there, silent, disoriented. Something like this was never a part of her world.
    “May I come in?” It was a tone of assurance, a tone that nearly commanded because it was so in possession of itself, and almost
     involuntarily the woman opened the battered screen door.
    “Thank you,” he said, and removed his hat. “My name is Lockwood. I’m an investigator for Transatlantic Underwriters—the insurance
     company.”
    “Oh, ah, yes, Mr. Lockwood, won’t you sit down? Here, in