He stood outside the baggage claim at McCarren Airport waiting on his guest to arrive. He pulled in the sweet taste of tobacco and mused on the irony that while so many people in Vegas smoked, the most helpful metaphor he could come up with for the city was one of a circulatory system.

He was at the heart, pumping the newly oxygenated blood of conventioneers and gamblers down the aorta of the strip’s northbound lanes. Spent, they poured back through the capillaries of the town’s streets onto the main vein of the strip’s southbound lanes, back to the airport for the whole process to begin anew.

The other irony he often mused on was that for all of it’s emotion Vegas was a town ruled by the cold-hearted mathematical reality of odds.

Of course sometimes the odds get beat. Just imagine the odds of one the billionaire scion of one of the world’s wealthiest families deciding to ditch everything he knew back east to try to solve murders in the desert.

That thought always made him laugh a bit to himself.