Hotel rooms were plentiful in Las Vegas. Randall Lenz checked into Mandalay Bay, figuring it was as good a choice as anything else, then got out his laptop and attached his secure phone to it. A moment later, Agent Dawson’s face appeared on the screen. She looked both tired and cross, and he recalled that it was well past seven on the East Coast. Not that it really mattered; normal work hours were the exception at their agency, not the rule.
“Anything?” he asked, not bothering with a greeting.
Dawson tucked a stray strand of mousy hair behind one ear. “I don’t know.”
“You ‘don’t know’?” he repeated. He scowled at the screen. “Either you found something or you didn’t. Which is it?”
“I did get an image of a black Jeep Gladiator on an I-15 traffic cam passing the Cheyenne Avenue exit at a
