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“What’s wrong?” I asked, following him.

“Did you notice the sash that young woman was wearing?” he said over his shoulder.

“I saw she was wearing a sash and figured she was a contestant, but I didn’t read it,” I replied, catching up next to him. “Why?”

He stopped and looked at me. “It read ‘Miss Boulder City.’ That’s the city Gretchen Swenson was representing for Nevada earlier in the week.”

It took me a second to understand. “Fuck…the murder victim in San Francisco?”

“Yeah,” he replied, taking a deep breath. “It just hit me weird.”

“Understandably so, babe. I’m sorry. That must be her runner-up taking her place.”

“Life goes on, right?” he murmured as we walked to the concierge desk.

We had to wait until the concierge finished with the guest ahead of us. Jonesy remained quiet, and I held the silence with him until the man behind the desk asked how he could help.

“Yes, hi. Could you direct us to the security office? I was told it’s in the center of the hotel?” Jonesy asked.

“You’re correct, sir. Follow the carpet strip once you leave the lobby. It will take you between the slot machines to the row of gaming tables, then turn left. Straight ahead, you’ll see a door labeled ‘Security,’” he said with a slight European accent.

Jonesy thanked him, and the sounds of video slots, jackpot alarms, and the happy cries of winning guests surrounded us as we followed the concierge’s instructions. I knew we were on business, but the excitement drew more of my attention than the task at hand.

Jonesy looked at me, and I knew by his expression that I needed to focus on why we were meeting the sheriff. “You with me here?” he asked, making me feel slightly chastised.

“Yes, it’s just…” was all I got out.

“A lot,” he said, finishing my sentence. I wrinkled my nose and nodded, but waved a hand so we could keep moving. “I’ll tell you what, let’s get something to eat after we talk to the sheriff, and then hit the tables for a bit. The crowning ceremony starts at seven o’clock, and I’m sure we can get last-minute tickets. They told me that when I booked the room.”

“Sounds good,” I replied as we walked up to the security door.

Jonesy knocked, and within seconds, the door pushed open, revealing a man in a sheriff’s uniform. The last name ‘Thompson’ was embroidered above his deputy star. Jonesy pulled out his detective badge.

“I’m San Francisco homicide detective Gabriel Jones, and this is my associate, Craig Bannon. We’re here to see⁠—.”

A booming voice from deeper in the room cut in, “Thompson. Let them in.”

The deputy stepped aside as we walked in. The room was dim, but the wall of monitors and surveillance stations cast enough light to cut through the darkness. I counted three people seated at banks of computer monitors, all looking like resort employees. Sheriff Landon came around from behind another bank of desks. I noticed Thompson remained by the door, as if guarding a secret treasure.

“Detective? I’m Landon, but call me Chet,” he announced, looking at me before putting a hand out to greet Jonesy. He wasn’t a tall man, more stocky than muscular, and had an intensity in his gaze.

“Okay, Chet. Call me Jonesy; everybody does,” he replied, shaking his hand. “This is Craig Bannon, the associate of mine I told you about.”

The sheriff shook my hand, but a look of recognition crossed his face as he continued to gaze at Jonesy. He glanced in my direction before saying, “Pleased to meet you.” He raised a hand, smiled, and shook an index finger at Jonesy.

“I think I remember you, Jonesy. Didn’t you play football for the University of Georgia back in the day? You were a star receiver for the Bulldogs, as I recall.”

My boyfriend was more shocked than I was by the sheriff’s declaration. He stared at the sheriff for a moment before saying, “Uh… yeah, I did. But how⁠—”

“I’m from Gainesville, and we watched the Bulldogs play while I was at the academy. I remember when you guys blew out Florida in that game that ended in a shutout.”

Jonesy threw his head back in laughter, drawing everyone’s eyes. The sheriff’s smile was just as wide. I stood there, looking back and forth between them, wondering what the odds were of that happening. Then I remembered we were in a casino and let out a quick chuckle.

“I’m sorry, but that takes me back. It was so many years ago,” Jonesy said to Chet. “How did you end up in Lake Tahoe?”

“Ha…I could ask you how you ended up in San Francisco,” Chet said, still amused by the circumstances. “Once I left Georgia—although Georgia never left me—I moved to Dallas, where I was a sheriff for a few years. Got married, divorced, and finally ended up in Nevada. I like this gamblin’ town… except when things like disappearing women happen.”

That last part was a mood breaker, but it got us to discuss why we were here. Smiles faded, and we got down to business.