Redstone Construction CEO Learns About Blue Envelope in Hospital Recovery Room
“I don’t want your money, and I don’t want your excuses,” she said.
Mia slamming her bedroom door, leaving me standing in the hallway feeling like a stranger in my own home.
The dawn came up grey over the interstate, the light flat and cold against the windshield of my sedan. I had not slept more than two hours on the couch in the study before Brandon called me at six.
He told me to meet him at a small diner off Colfax Avenue in Lakewood, a place with cracked green linoleum and the heavy smell of burnt lard.
Brandon was already sitting in a corner booth when I walked in, his heavy brass pen rolling back and forth between his thumb and forefinger on the Formica.
Across from him sat a stocky man in his late fifties, wearing a faded wool jacket that smelled of old tobacco.
“Robert, this is Frank Vance,” Brandon said, not looking up from his coffee. “He is with the Denver police, department of financial crimes.”
The detective did not offer his hand, which was busy holding a fork loaded with fried eggs and home fries.
