The sun was barely over the horizon when John Morrison stepped off the elevator in the Davenport Star Hotel. He absently straightened his tie as he walked down the hallway to the penthouse suite. He quietly knocked twice on the door of the suite and waited. The door opened within a few seconds, and he smiled. "Good morning, Mr. Layfield."

"Mr. Morrison. Thank you for coming so early in the morning." John Bradshaw Layfield broadly smiled and stepped back so Morrison could enter. "You remember my associate, Ron Simmons?"

"Of course. Mr. Simmons." Morrison nodded at the large man who stood by the windows and made no effort to join them. He was rewarded by a slight nod in return.

"May I present Mr. Hunter Helmsley." Layfield shut the door behind him and indicated the man sitting at a table laden with various breakfast foods.

"Mr. Morrison." Hunter stood and held out his hand. "My condolences on the death of your partner."

"Thank you," Morrison calmly replied.

"Please sit." Hunter waved a hand at the table next to him then glanced at Layfield and Simmons. "Everyone. We can eat while we discuss matters."

Layfield and Simmons immediately began filling their plates with eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast while Hunter poured coffee for everyone.

Morrison chose a variety of fruit, plain yogurt, and a slice of toast. He saw Hunter raise an eyebrow in his direction. "I never eat much this early in the morning," he explained.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," Simmons rumbled as he began to eat.

Morrison smiled as he mixed some blueberries into his yogurt. "I agree. But my breakfast is usually later in the morning."

"As you know, Mr. Mizanin was very instrumental in obtaining the properties for both the Star Hotel and Diamond Casino," Hunter began. "Our plans include building another hotel nearby for those who have a more modest budget. We planned for Mr. Mizanin to obtain those properties."

Morrison slowly nodded. "Mike and I made sure we didn't come into unexpected competition with one another. I concentrated mainly on residential accounts while he handed commercial accounts. But we kept each other informed about what we were working on."

"What's going to happen to the business?" Hunter asked. "Or rather, Mr. Mizanin's part of the business?"

"Mike's share will go to his wife…his widow," Morrison explained. "We had a partnership life insurance policy that would stabilize the business in case…in case of what did happen." He sipped his coffee then continued. "I plan on transferring that over to Mike's widow."

Hunter leaned back in his chair. "Won't that put a crimp in the business?"

Morrison shrugged. "Perhaps for a little while," he admitted. "But I have no problem putting in the long hours to keep the business a success. And it will give Mike's widow a comfortable cushion so she can concentrate on her children."

The two men exchanged a level look for several seconds, then Hunter slowly smiled. "I assume the police know about this policy."

Morrison nodded. "It would have been easy for them to find out about it so there was no reason to keep it from them."

"So, you don't think Mr. Mizanin's widow will want to be a part of the business?" Hunter asked.

"I believe she'll see the wisdom of not having that burden."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Moxley paused in working the punching bag when his cell phone rang. Swearing under his breath, he removed the gloves and stalked to where his phone rested on a bench next to the wall. "Moxley," he snapped.

"Good morning, Mr. Moxley. William Regal here."

"Oh, morning." Mox wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all," Regal assured him. "I was just calling to inform you I've been notified the rest of your funds are available for transfer at your convenience."

Mox sat down on the bench. "That was kinda quick."

"Not at all," Regal assured him. "I wanted to make sure the city was prompt in living up to their end of this deal." He chuckled under his breath. "I'm still amazed what the word 'lawsuit' will do to motivate people to do their job correctly."

'I bet.' Mox had to grin.

"Are you available to meet in my office tomorrow at say 10am?"

"Sure. Not a problem."

"Excellent! Be sure to bring your bank account number, and we'll complete the transaction while you're here," Regal assured him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, 10am," Mox agreed.

The call completed, Mox leaned back against the wall. Roman had turned part of basement into a home gym available to whoever wanted to use it. This time of the day, however, Mox usually had the gym to himself.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The transfer of the rest of the money he was owed would be the end of that chapter of his life. But that meant he had to think about the next chapter in his life.

'But you've got a ton of cash sitting in the bank. With more to come. You can do whatever you want.'

Mox just wasn't sure what that was going to be.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Let's hope somebody remembers making a delivery to our victim," Styles sighed as Cena parked the car in in front of the business known as Truthful Eats. They'd found an empty bag with the deli's logo on it along with empty sandwich wrappers and salad container in the trash can in Miz' office. A half-full cup of lemonade had been sitting on his desk.

The two detectives got out of the car and walked to the front door. John Cena looked through the window and saw a young woman behind the counter. When his partner knocked on the door, she looked up and shook her head, obviously indicating they weren't open for business yet.

Styles showed his badge and the young woman's eyes widened momentarily. She turned her head and apparently called for someone to join her. Seconds later, a tall African-American man with dreadlocks and wide dark eyes joined her. She pointed to the door where Cena had joined Styles, both their badges visible.

The man quickly walked to the door and unlocked it. "Come on in," he cheerfully invited, holding the door open. "Welcome to Truthful Eats where we tell the truth about our ingredients."

The two detectives exchanged a quick look then Cena spoke. "I'm Detective John Cena, and this is my partner Detective A. J. Styles."

"I'm R-Truth, co-owner of this place. Call me Truth." He closed and locked the door behind them. "This is my partner, Carmella."

"Hey." Carmella stared at them for a few moments then returned her attention to where she was sorting receipts on the counter.

"What can we do for you gentlemen? We're not open yet, but I could probably whip together a sandwich for you. Our special today is egg salad sandwich with potato chips and a pickle spear." Truth smiled engagingly.

"Uh, no thanks," Styles quickly answered. "We're investigating a murder that occurred yesterday. Our victim apparently ordered delivery from you a lot when he was working late."

"Well, that depends on what you mean by late." Truth scratched his chin. "We close at seven, but we'll make deliveries to businesses as we're leaving."

Cena put a picture of Miz on the counter so Truth and Carmella could look at it. "Is he familiar?"

Carmella snorted. "Oh, yeah. Mr. Dollar Tipper, the cheapskate."

"Hey, 'Mella! Don't talk bad about the dead." Truth reproachfully shook his head at her. His partner ignored him.

"He'd call in a delivery order just about the time we close. Always ordered the daily special with a large lemonade," she explained, returning her attention to sorting receipts. "We'd tell him it would be close to eight before we'd get it to him, and he'd complain." She looked up at the two detectives and snorted again. "Then tip a dollar for the delivery."

"Did you make a delivery to him yesterday?" Cena asked.

"Nah," Truth answered. "Last delivery to him was last Thursday. Roast beef day."

Styles frowned. "A take out bag with an empty salad container and some lemonade was found in his office."

Carmella shrugged. "No delivery to him yesterday. And I didn't see him in here either."

"Me neither," Truth added.

"Would one of your other employees have seen him?" Cena asked.

"Ain't nobody but me and 'Mella," Truth grinned. "Keeps the overhead down."

Styles frowned then slowly spoke. "Would it be possible to find out if someone else came in and ordered exactly what he would've ordered?"

Truth nodded so fast his dreadlocks bounced. "Sure. We'd have the receipts. 'Mella's sortin' them now."

"Wouldn't have to if someone didn't just throw them in a box," Carmella grumbled under her breath.

"Chicken salad sandwich, side salad with Italian dressing, and large lemonade," Styles rattled off.

"No problem." Truth reached across the counter to one of the stacks of receipts and promptly got his hand slapped. "Ow!" He quickly pulled his hand back.

"Don't mess these up," Carmella ordered. "I just got them sorted by the hour."

"Start late and work back," Styles urged, leaning on the counter.

Carmella glared at him then began sorting through the receipts while the others waited with various degrees of impatience.

"Here you go." Carmella slapped a receipt onto the counter. "That exact order at 5:27pm yesterday."

"Told you she could find it," Truth proudly grinned. He was rewarded when Carmella smiled at him.

"Don't suppose either of you remembered who ordered it?" Cena asked.

Carmella shook her head. "That's a busy time what with people stopping in after work."

Truth also shook his head. "Sorry, no idea."

"Paid in cash," Styles muttered as he grabbed the receipt.

"Any chance someone else could've ordered the same thing?" Cena asked.

Truth shrugged. "Sandwich and side salad, sure. Maybe even with Italian dressing. But we don't got too many people wanting lemonade."

Both detectives looked at Carmella who sighed. "Look, we gotta get ready to open in a few hours. I'm gonna scan these into our computer now. Leave your card, and if I find another one like that, I'll let you know."

"Fair enough," Cena promptly nodded as he handed her his card. "We appreciate your help."

Carmella waved a hand in his direction and carefully stacked the rest of the receipts. As she walked away towards a small office, Truth grinned. "She's the best!"

Styles absently nodded as he put the receipt into an evidence bag and sealed it.

"Thank you both again." Cena shook Truth's hand as they walked to the door.

Truth unlocked the door and waved as they left. "Come back again!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Please do not stay very long. My daughter needs her rest. Her doctor is coming by shortly."

The sentences were spoken in rapid-fire succession in a heavily accented French voice. Morrison knew that Maryse was originally from Montreal, but her time in the United States had eroded some of her natural accent. Her mother, however, had been born and still lived in Montreal. Miz had once laughed and said he was pretty sure she could speak English perfectly but preferred everyone to think she didn't just so she could eavesdrop on them.

"Yes, ma'am. I won't be long," Morrison promised.

Maryse's mother shot him a warning look then led him into the formal living room. "Maryse, Michael's partner is here."

"John." Maryse rose and reached out a hand to him.

Morrison took note of her reddened eyes and the fact that black really the best good color for her. He gently hugged her then helped her sit back onto the sofa. He then sat in a nearby chair.

"Mother, people will be coming soon. Could you check on the food? And Dr. Maverick lives on strong coffee." Maryse stared at her mother who was hesitating to leave.

"Of course, ma petite." Maryse's mother gave Morrison another glare then walked out of the room.

"Thank God," Maryse muttered. "I love her, and she and Papa dropped everything to come to us. But I just need her to leave me alone sometimes."

"She just wants to help and nobody really knows how," Morrison quietly stated. After a moment, he handed Maryse a file folder. "This is a copy of the partners insurance that Mike and I had on each other. I figured you hadn't had the time or inclination to look for anything like that."

"Mother started, but I stopped her," Maryse murmured.

"I contacted the insurance agent yesterday about it," Morrison began. He saw a flash of anger in Maryse's dark eyes. "He's waiting for your call. I've arranged for it to be transferred to you." He saw the anger in her eyes transform to wariness.

"Why?"

"Because Mike was a good friend to me when I needed it," Morrison softly answered. He knew Maryse hadn't been all that happy that her husband hadn't cut him loose when he'd hit rock bottom. "And this is an offer to buy Mike's half of the business." He held out a sealed envelope to her. "You'd also receive the commission on anything Mike had in the works."

"Why?"

Morrison leaned closer. "I'm sure that, in your state, you'd prefer to be somewhere else. Tranquil. Calm. Free from all the stress that an investigation into what happened is going to cause. Somewhere safe…from all that. Where you, your daughter and your new child are protected."

Maryse stared at him in silence for several moments. "How long would this take to be completed?" she finally asked.

Morrison noted how both the file folder and envelope were gripped tightly in her hands. "That would depend, I suppose, on how fast the insurance company pays out and if there are any impediments to the sale of Mike's share of the business." He shrugged. "Of course, I'll do all I can to expedite those matters. For tax purposes, the money from the partners insurance policy would be paid out in a yearly annuity."

Morrison knew that it wasn't that Maryse was smarter than her late husband. But she wasn't as arrogant and was a lot more suspicious of people than he'd been.

Plus, she was a mother with the instinct to protect her children, both born and unborn. She knew exactly what Morrison was saying and not saying.

It wasn't a hard choice to make.

"I'm taking my daughter and going back to Montreal after the funeral," Maryse finally spoke. "My child will be born there. We will live there." She glanced around the impeccably decorated room. "I haven't told Mike's parents about that. I would never prevent them from seeing their grandchildren, but I despise this town!"

Morrison didn't blink an eye. Mike had occasionally moaned about Maryse's homesickness. That had been a big reason for providing her with everything she asked for.

"Once we are gone and matters are settled, I want you to sell this house. Including the furnishings," Maryse continued. "I'm only taking our personal belongings."

"Of course," Morrison nodded. "When are you leaving?"

"The fune…funeral is Friday." Maryse took a deep breath. "I have an appointment with Dr. Maverick on Monday. I plan to leave on Tuesday."

"I'll do whatever you want me to do to help you," Morrison promised. "Mike was a good friend to me. He'd want me to help you and help to take care of his family." He saw anger once again flash in Maryse's eyes, but knew she'd take the deal and keep her mouth shut.