Die Like a Dog

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There was a quizzical smile on Lucy Hamilton’s lips and a little dancing light in her brown eyes as she opened the door to her employer’s private office and announced demurely: “There is a lady to see you, Mr. Shayne.”

It was a warm Miami morning, and Michael Shayne was slumped in a swivel chair behind his wide desk in shirt-sleeves, with collar unbuttoned and tie awry. In front of him was an open checkbook, a pile of cancelled checks and the monthly bank statement. His left hand clawed through unruly red hair and his right hand reached out automatically for a pair of nested paper cups beside the bank statement as he arched ragged brows at his secretary and growled, “A lady?” in a tone of disbelief.

Lucy nodded firmly and drew the door shut behind her. She advanced toward him, saying in an altered tone, “Ditch that brandy, Michael, before I bring her in, and for heaven’s sake, straighten your tie. You might even slip on a jacket for once.”

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