Imposing, as big city halls should be. Phalanxes of windows reflected the clear blue of the desert sky. City Hall was sleek and shiny—there was nothing Rat Pack about it. This was the new Vegas, rising from the ashes of the older, romantic, seedier Vegas. The Las Vegas City Hall looked intimidating, as it should. Landry parked his rental sedan on the street west of the parking lot. His hair was now dishwater blond and cut short. The glasses he wore changed with the light—they turned darker in full sun. He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and an orange knit polo shirt he’d picked up at a secondhand store blocks away from the Strip. The knit shirt had a logo: Datatec Cable. This had been an amazing turn of fortune. The shirt gave him both legitimacy and anonymity. He sat in his car and consulted his to-do list. First on his list was research. He had looked up articles in the Los Angeles Times and learned the name of the detective in charge of the investigation—Detective Sergeant Joseph Ruckman.
