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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I pull out my phone and log onto the internet. It takes me a couple moments to find what I'm looking for. I click play.

Connor Sullivan is standing behind a lectern on the White House steps. At the time of the press conference, he is still the POTUS.

“My fellow Americans,” he begins, “I come before you not as the President, but as your fellow man. A man wrongly and unjustly accused of a crime I did not commit. I have every faith in the United States judicial system and that I will be found unequivocally innocent of this heinous crime. I am not disenchanted but proud that we live in a democratic state where its highest powers are not above the law, and hold no ill will toward the FBI or any other institution. The truth will come out. God bless this great nation.”

Not bad.

I wonder how long he actually spent in a jail cell before they rushed him into a courtroom and posted bail.

Doesn’t matter.

What matters is in the background. His wife is there. His son isn't.

I put the phone down and force myself to the road. I've seen mountains before, but nothing as majestic as the snow-capped Rockies that loom under the full moon.

At 3:58, I pull the car over into a small dirt enclave and I nudge my father. We switch seats.

When I wake up, it will be the bright lights of Vegas.

:14

There are 122 casinos, 874 clubs, over 2,000 restaurants, and more than 50 strip clubs in Las Vegas. Nearly everything is open until four in the morning, if they close at all. And Ricky Sullivan could be in any one of them. That is, if the paparazzi and his father's arrest hasn’t sent him underground. It takes my dad six hours and five greased palms, but he finally tracks the President's son and his buddies to the XS Nightclub.

At 3:06, my dad pulls up to the massive Wynn hotel and I jump out. After a twenty-minute wait in line, and a fifty-dollar cover charge, I enter.

House music blares. Purple, orange, and green strobe lights threaten to give me a seizure. The air is sticky, a million tiny post-it notes. I feel like I've walked into a beehive. It's madness.

I push my way through the swarming bodies. A young woman wearing six square inches of fabric grabs my crotch and whispers something unintelligible in my ear.

She grabs my hand and yanks me toward the dance floor.

I shake her hand off. I measure women in minutes and she is worth about thirty seconds. Detective Ray flashes across my mind. I give her all sixty.

When I finally get to the bar, it is 3:34 a.m.

“Where's Ricky Sullivan?” I scream at the closest bartender.