I just expected to find something a little snazzier when I stepped onto the sixteenth floor of one of the highest of high-rises in downtown Vegas and entered the front offices of Hucalak & Llewellyn, a top Vegas law firm. Instead, I found a lobby that looked as if Godzilla had used it for a piñata. The front window by the door had been smashed; shattered glass lay all over the floor. Chairs were upended; files were strewn everywhere. Almost every piece of furniture had been dented or damaged in one way or another. But the worst was the receptionist’s desk. It had a huge gash in the outside right corner; unless I was very much mistaken, the signature of the executioner’s axe. Attached to the leg of the desk, a dangling pair of handcuffs. And attached to the other end of the handcuffs—a severed arm, surrounded by a pool of blood. “What the hell happened in here?” I asked Granger, who as usual, was standing around the crime scene “supervising.” I guess once you’re promoted to head of the detective squad you can let your minions do all the work.
