Chapter 11
Before I’d pressed the 9 in 911, Marla wrenched the phone from me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“This guy is bleeding—”
“Forget it. You can’t see that because you’re not here.” She closed my phone and handed it to me, nabbed her own cell from her big Vuitton bag, and punched buttons. As she did so, she leaned down over the injured man and shook his back. He groaned. Marla then held up a warning finger while informing Denver emergency response that a man had been beaten and left on the hood of her car. Yes, he was conscious. Yes, there was blood, lots of it, all over the place. No, it didn’t look like a gunshot or a stab wound … well, a wicked bloody nose, not something you could do to yourself. Marla gave an approximation of our street address, th
