Truck, interior. Jim sits in the passenger seat, Trash sitting on his lap because there's no room to sit somewhere over the other fourteen wheels somewhere. She asks Jim if he likes the pictures, and he explains that he saw them the last time his car broke down in the desert. As Hick vamps about how the heat "will kill a man," Jim's eyes wander around the dashboard and come to rest on a handwritten sheet of truck deliveries, followed by dollar figures. Each of the deliveries is listed to "Versailles." Oh, my God. Do you think it's possible the casino might be involved in this crazy, mixed-up plot somehow? Speechless!

Currying favor once more with the fine folks at local law enforcement, we find Jim banging his head up against the walls of justice, standing at the front desk of the sheriff's station and barking, "Oswald Wilkes!" Why would he even go back there? Sheriff Relaxo sits with his feet up, cross-examining where Jim could have come across this information. He doesn't think some tattoo artist is a reliable source of information, but Jim rather begs to differ: "You now have a witness to the murder and a positive identification of the murderer. It is a start." Sheriff Relaxo gets up and does that now-where-do-you-think-you're-going-in-such-a-hurry-junior fat-cop swagger around the room, passing behind Jim and explaining that the tattoo artist is "not really a central figure in the community," turning on Jim when he sees the tattoo sweating through his button-down. He vamps, "Laid some ink on you, did he?" Is that tattoo artist lingo? If so, they should probably confine their instances of using such expressions to their in-house newsletter, and maybe when they get together every year for TattooCon in Vegas. Me, I don't want to hear a thing more about it. Jim wants to know why such adventures in, uh, ink-laying should be germane to the investigation, and Sheriff Relaxo is temporarily not as dumb as he looks, asking, "He still use peyote to cut the pain?" Jim freaks that two people have been murdered and no one seems to care, and the fight with Sheriff Relaxo escalates to where the cop leans across the desk and bellows, "I have an eyewitness account from a known drug addict. That's you. And I have a name from one of the few miscreants we have here in this community." Ouch. Jim explains his job again and paints himself as a noble public servant, and he leaves in a huff as Liz Vassey gets off her one line: "Regis is on." Shut up, cross-pollinating free advertising. At least this channel doesn't have The Other Half.