CHAPTER 8
It was eleven in the evening, sixty-two-year-old Abraham Silverman, the President, and CEO of the Detroit Chemical Company was in his Royal Oak home. He was in the living room, sitting in a damask-upholstered chair, with his feet resting on a matching ottoman. Dressed in a silk maroon bathrobe and soft black slippers, he was looking through some papers. His token young bimbo-of-the-week was in the master bedroom lying naked on the Grand Teton king-sized bed, having passed out on drugs.
He heard a clicking noise at the front door and got up to see what was causing it. Abraham checked the door and saw that it was securely locked, shrugged and started back toward the living room. Then he’s struck on the head and slumps unconscious to the floor.
A few minutes later, he groggily wo
