The drive from Santa Teresa to Reno took nine hours, including two potty stops and a fifteen-minute lunch break. The first seven hours got me as far as Sacramento, where Highway 80 intersects the 5 and begins its slow climb toward the Donner Summit, 7,240 feet above sea level. Smoke from a series of brush fires in the Tahoe National Forest had saturated the air with a pale brown haze that followed me across the Nevada state line. I reached the Reno city limits at suppertime and cruised through town just to get a feel for the place.

Most of the buildings were two and three stories tall, dwarfed by the occasional chunky hotel. Aside from the casinos, businesses seemed to be devoted to making cash readily available. The working theme was cheap food and pawnshops, with the word "GUNS" writ large on two out of every seven signs.

I chose an unprepossessing two-story motel in the heart of town, its prime attraction being that it sat on a lot adjacent to a McDonald's. 1

checked in, found my second-floor room, and put my duffel bag on the bed. Before I left again, I picked up the Reno phone book I found in my bed-table drawer. I went downstairs, left the phone book in my car, and then proceeded to McDonald's, where I sat in a window seat and treated myself to a couple of QPs with Cheese.

According to the strip maps I'd picked up at the auto club, Carson City – the last known domicile of the erstwhile Robert Dietz – was only thirty miles away. Because of Cheney, I thought about Dietz without bitterness, but without much interest. While I munched fries doused in ketchup, I opened the Reno city map and looked for the street where Misty Raine was supposedly living these days. Wasn't far away and I thought my next order of business was to pay a visit to the place.

I dumped my trash and returned to my car. With the map propped against the steering wheel, I sketched out my course. The route took me through spartan neighborhoods of pines, chain-link fences, and ranch houses faced in stucco or brick. Even at seven in the evening, the light was good. The air was hot and dry and smelled of pine pitch and charred oak from the California fires. I knew the temperatures would drop as soon as the sun went down. The lawns I passed were parched, the grasses scorched to a soft yellow-brown. The trees, on the other hand, were surprisingly green, dense healthy foliage a relief in the relentless washed-out beige of the surrounding landscape. Maybe the whole of it was designed to keep all the gamblers indoors where gaudy colors dazzled the eye, the air temperature was constant, and lights were ablaze twenty-four hours a day.