ï»A green-eyed secretary nodded when I told her who I was. "Mr. Wyndham is expecting you." She stood up with a secretive little smile and led me toward the door.
I had no idea I was walking into an ambush.
The room was large and imposing. Paul Wyndham sat rigidly upright behind a big mahogany desk, his jaw jutting belligerently like a prizefighter. I recognized the smooth face and salon-cut hair from pictures I had seen in the Clarion. He wore a double-breasted black Italian suit and a yellow power tie.
Seated in a chair in front of Wyndham's desk, looking imperious and dominating in his two thousand dollar gray suit, was Walter C. Groves, the senior partner of Denver's oldest and most aggressive law firm. He regarded me disdainfully, in the way that only the lawyers from the big firms know how to do it. To his right sat was a pudgy man with a thin moustache, who began glaring at me the moment I entered the room. I learned later that he was Garrison, the security officer Mary Bryant had mentioned. Last--and certainly not least--was Sergeant Joe Stone, who stood posted like a sentry beside Wyndham's desk, with arms folded in front of his chest, his cold black eyes seething with hatred.
I paused for a moment just inside the doorway.
What the hell had I gotten myself into? The air was so thick with tension that I almost couldn't breathe.
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