Coffee and croissants were served on the round, glass table in Mike's breakfast room. Still dressed in his bathrobe and slippers he took a seat and sipped his coffee. Just the way he liked it. A content smile appeared on his face. He picked up the paper and glanced over the headlines. There it was:
"Assistant D.A. brutally assaulted."
There was a clear picture of Joe Maxwell. He frowned. It said "assaulted," not "murdered."
Quickly he read the article. His cup tinkled in its saucer. His muscles tensed up.
"Milly!" he screamed. "Get Francis in here! Now!"
A few minutes later his employee, lanky and pale, showed up. His eyes glanced nervously toward the door.
"You wanted to see me, boss?" he asked.
"What's this?" Mike blared, throwing the paper in his face.
The man clumsily grabbed it and stared at the front page. He pretended to read the article, but Mike could tell he already knew what it said.
"I …"
The man looked at him and pulled up his shoulders.
"… I stabbed him four times. He was dying when I left."
"But he isn't dead, is he?" Mike insisted. "One blow to the head would have done the trick."
"I wanted it to look like a robbery gone bad," the man tried. "He was bleeding all over the pavement. I would've double-checked, but there was a witness, so I had to be quick."
"I know about the witness," Mike said. "Catherine Chandler. She's also an assistant D.A. Do you think that she believes it was a robbery gone bad?"
He stared at the man's face until he finally shook his head.
"No, so now we've got two living assistant D.A.'s on our trail. That doesn't look like taking care of business, does it?"
"No," the man reluctantly admitted. "I'm sorry, boss."
Suddenly Mike pulled a gun from under his bathrobe and shot the man in the head.
"Apology accepted," he mouthed.