They say Paris is the City of Lights, but I suspect that phrase was coined before the Strip arose in Las Vegas. We see a few shots of the Strip at night, then swoop across the globe to an English mansion. Oh, wait. Silly me -- I forgot that Las Vegas has apparently moved from a desert biome to the rainforest. Anyway: big mansion filled with revelers, all in cocktail-party garb. They alternate between grabbing the hors d'oeuvres and grabbing each other. Loud music plays in the background to signal to the CBS demographic that this is supposed to be a wretched excess. We zoom outside the mansion for a moment so we can get a view of a little girl staring out the window. She sadly watches a few couples lurching across the lawn on their way to assorted assignations. Then we're back inside, where a brunette party girl has just draped herself over a balding man someone checked out of the "Corrupt Authority Figure" locker over in Central Casting. "We should have these parties more than once a month," she coos. The fellow diverts his attention from the arm candy on his left to address her comment: "I wouldn't want Mina to be jealous." We get a better look at the brunette's face; it looks like someone's checked Kari Wuhrer out of the "Harlot" locker for the night as well. She's always given off a faintly tawdry vibe; even on Sliders, one got the sense she possessed a certain moral laxity coupled with a few hobbies best not discussed in polite company. Anyway, the women all simper and writhe; clearly, someone told them, "Now if you want to act sexy, remember how women looked in hair band videos from 1988. Preen and arch your backs a lot. It worked for Tawny Kitaen." There's a few seconds of this, and the chief notices a silhouetted figure standing in the doorway. "Who's that guy?" he asks. Kari replies, "Hey, Chief, I didn't know you were into guys too." He laughs -- because she's evidently the erotic equivalent of Dorothy Parker -- and the three commence doing things I'm sure you can see in Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle-Jerk.
Naturally, this is when the little girl decides to open the door. She peeks out to see a group of adults heading into a bedroom, then hops back into bed. The resigned expression on her face is pitiable. The clock reads 12:20 AM, and the child settles down for the night. The shot returns to the clock to establish that it's 3:45 AM. There are two gunshots; the little girl bolts upright, looking quite wary. "Daddy?" she calls. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, clearly psyching herself up to leave its relative safety and open her bedroom door. The door opens first, the door slowly squeaking open. The man in the doorway is backlit so we don't see his features. The little girl does. As the door opens wider, we see her face growing more fearful.
And then it's dawn, if the dim sky and mist wreathing the manse are anything to go by. We see the usual assortment of cop cars, then narrow in on Captain Exposition leading Gil and Catherine inside the mansion. Captain Exposition upholds his sworn duty: "Two days ago he had a party. High-end guest list, very private. And that was the last anyone saw of him. Housekeeper arrives twenty minutes ago, this is what she found." Before we get to that, let me comment on Gil's bold decision to forgo the usual charcoal-and-black palette for the positively spring-like butter-cream shirt and khaki windbreaker. Catherine, whose hair is looking fantastic, comes in behind him, looking fabulous in a charcoal suit and white johnny-collar shirt. Yes, this is a little fashion-oriented; I just read "Television's Clothes Captioning" in the style section of Friday's Washington Post and it stuck. Anyway, Gil and Catherine look fabulous. The Corrupt Authority Figure, who's naked, trussed, and sporting an apple in his mouth and a demiglace made from his own blood, looks considerably less fabulous. Catherine and Gil look appalled; they turn to look at Brass, who raises his eyebrows as if to say, Well, now I've seen everything. Catherine says faintly, "Ex-chief of detectives." Then, switching from personal mode into professional, her voice gets stronger as she continues, "Left to make the big bucks. Consultant for security at every major casino in town and couldn't even protect himself." Gil walks around to get a look at the rump roast. He says, "There's only one interpretation for this: Kill the pig." Catherine asks about the general health and whereabouts of the rest of the family. Brass says there's no sign of the wife. Catherine asks, "How about the daughter?" How does she know about the daughter? Did Corrupt Authority Figure used to hold parties for the police force? Or for strippers? Or does Catherine pick this up because -- wait for it -- she's a mother too? Brass tells Catherine uncomfortably, "The housekeeper assumed she spent the weekend with her grandmother." "'Assumed'?" says Catherine incredulously. Gil catches her look and ducks; he knows her well enough to know where this is going. Catherine practically sprints out of the room, her mommy sense tingling. She heads to the little girl's room and does an impromptu search. Gil and Brass comes in a moment later -- Gil's wearing bark-colored pants, so it really must be springtime in his world -- and Catherine turns to them, saying with some panic, "She's gone."
Then we go to The Who, who could have probably taken Corrupt Authority Figure to school on the finer points of debauchery.
Once we're back from the credits, Gil's meeting the Young Turks outside the mansion and leading them to the scene, explaining as he goes, "His wife and daughter are missing. His silver Cadillac DTS is also missing. We're looking for any signs of forced entry in the house, any signs of ransack that's not associated with the party." Sara's right on Grissom's heels, listening intently; Warrick and Nicky are not too far behind. The three are so coordinated as to suggest that they called each other to ask what they were wearing to work today. As they reach the stairs, Brass comes out and warns Gil that they're going to need to do some serious damage control, as the ensuing press could hurt morale. What, by inspiring police officers to leave the force so they too can make the big bucks and experience the wonder of Kari Wuhrer for a night? Brass cautions everyone to watch their step; Warrick says he'll take the downstairs, and Nicky shoots back that he'll be right above Warrick.
Inside, David the Variably Named Coroner is looking over the body. Either he wanted to get out more, or he's being brought onto the scene in this case to indicate the severity of the situation. Anyway, David's beginning with the obvious, i.e. the ex-chief was shot execution-style, and moving on to the details, i.e. the skin around his wrists is severely chafed by the handcuffs he's wearing, so he tried to fight back. Meanwhile, Catherine's found a shell casing; she notes that it looks like standard police issue. Gil and David corroborate that. "So where do you suppose the chief keeps his gun safe?"
We're about to find out, as a blond crime scene tech named Scott drills his way into the safe. We get the drill bit's perspective on the proceedings, and then the tech inserts a listening device so he can hear when the tumblers fall into place on the lock. As Scott opens up the safe, Catherine thanks him, then hunkers down. Catherine hands Brass assorted firearms as she finds them -- a .38, a pearl-handled .25 -- and a nice case. She opens it up, and there's a detective's badge, a brass plaque, and an empty spot where the gun should be. Catherine asks, "So you think the chief might have kept his signature piece someplace else?" Brass looks at the plaque and replies, "'For twenty-five years of distinguished service.' An honor like that, keep it in the case."
And then Catherine's in the driveway with Gil, advancing the theory that the wife may be in on the husband's killing. "Then why didn't she plan better?" Gil asks. Maybe she's the spontaneous type? Catherine does a double take. Gil clarifies: "Pack the kid's clothes. The nanny told me she only took one shirt, one the kid wouldn't even wear." The two of them stop talking, because Detective Lockwood is standing there with the estate's security guard. The guard doesn't have a list of party attendees, but he does have a record of every car that left. "Chief Rittle left at five AM...five-fourteen to be exact," the guard says in a no-nonsense tone. We get a flashback of a man in baseball cap and sunglasses driving a car past the guard. Gil asks incredulously, "You saw Chief Rittle leave?" The guard replies, "Yeah. He was with his wife and kid, and he had his baseball cap and sunglasses on, like he always does." "So you saw a baseball cap and sunglasses. Did you actually see the chief's face?" Catherine clarifies. The guard can't answer in the affirmative. Fortunately, he's saved from further embarrassment when Gil interrupts the conversation to tell Catherine that Brass has a report -- the chief's Cadillac has been found.
The two are then entering a parking garage. Brass tells Gil and Catherine that in-house security found the car. Catherine comes over and pops the trunk; we see a corpse in there. Brass catches a whiff and mutters, "Whoa. Excuse me," before exiting the scene. Catherine's immune to the odor and leans in for a closer look, murmuring, "Who is this?" As she's checking out the body, Brass gets a phone call. He stands, listening, as Catherine pulls out a baseball cap, and Gil says skeptically, "Chief Rittle?" He and Catherine ponder how this man could be connected to the murder. Before they can form a working hypothesis, Brass hangs up the phone and addresses them. "Florida Highway Patrol called. Several motorists saw a girl matching Sasha's exact physical description walking along an access road." Gil's incredulous: "In Florida?" Brass replies, "Chief was shot Friday night, it's a two-day drive if you don't stop. It's national news with national attention. I'm not surprised we're getting calls." Gil's over his surprise, and he replies, "Well, if it is our little girl, she's got evidence on her from two Vegas homicides." She's also got God knows what trauma, but never you mind that. He continues, "One of us should be down there to process." Catherine nods. Gil stares at her pointedly. Catherine looks up at him, understanding and apprehension crawling over her features, and Gil says guilelessly, "Take Warrick. I don't think he's ever been to Florida." And now is the time to send him? Are he and Catherine going to stop at Epcot afterward, maybe get a pass to the Magic Kingdom too? Can't you just see Warrick on the teacup ride, shrieking, "This is better than the body farm picnic!" Catherine gapes in protest -- for one thing, she's going to have to line up child care before she goes, and that means dealing with Eddie -- but that's it. She's going to Miami/Dade. Funny how that works out.
Cut to Miami, complete with synthesizer music. An entire generation of television watchers suffers an involuntary Don Johnson flashback.
And then we're at the site of a search party. A rather rotund man screams, "She's seven years old! She's wearing a pink shirt!" I wonder if the Miami/Dade police force employs a town crier, or if it's this guy's job to broadcast the fashion particulars in any given situation. Can you imagine how hoarse he'd be after J.Lo came to town? Anyway, much milling about, implying that Miami/Dade's finest are preparing to search a remote area. The camera pulls back to give us the Action Silhouette! shot of David Caruso peering around in troubled thought. My visiting mother -- who, incidentally, loves this show and is the target audience for all things CBS -- shouts in horror, "Oh, my God. That's that ugly guy who was on that terrible show." I'm laughing too hard to bother clarifying Mom's remarks. The camera wheels around to get a shot of him from the front; he looks as though he heard Mom and is taking that comment personally. Then he wheels around to go look for the little girl. Suddenly, the deus ex machina justifying his presence on this show goes rumbling by. Oh, no, wait -- my bad. It's only a Mack truck.
After the truck drives off, David Caruso dons his sunglasses and begins walking toward the vegetation. Beside me, my mother mutters, "Why would you have a redhead in Florida? You should have Jimmy Smits instead." "You do know Jimmy Smits replaced David Caruso on NYPD Blue?" I ask. "Really?" Mom replies. I realize that if I play my cards right, I can use my mother as a sort of clairvoyant casting agent, since the logic she employs is apparently one and the same as Steven Bochco's. Anyway -- back to the show. He walks down a lonesome dirt road, stopping only to let a black pig pass by. He keeps walking, the wind kicking up dust; then, employing the special X-ray vision all CSIs seem to share, he notices a faded pink plastic barrette in the road. David Caruso sees this as a signal to turn left into the vegetation. We then see him walking in what looks to be some sort of plantation; there are row upon row of palm-type trees, separated by irrigation gullies. David Caruso walks with a purpose, and eventually spots the little girl sitting with her back against the tree. He takes off his sunglasses -- which he doesn't need, as the sun has dramatically and precipitously dropped since he found the barrette, and I hope that's supposed to indicate that he was walking for a while and not that the continuity editor got sloppy -- hunkers down at the end of the row, far from the girl, and yells, "Sasha?" Sasha looks at him, and he begins walking slowly toward her. As he slowly sits down, he introduces himself: "My name is Horatio Caine. I'm head of the crime unit." In unison, Sasha and my mom ask, "Horatio?" Horatio takes this in stride: "That's a funny name, isn't it? My mother named me after a famous writer named Horatio Alger. Ever hear of him?" Sasha has not. Then again, with who she's got as parents, I wouldn't be surprised if the only authors with which she'd be familiar were Henry Miller and the Marquis de Sade. Sasha asks if Horatio's badge is real; Horatio hands it over for her inspection. She then says, "My daddy's a policeman." "I know that. I knew that," he says. The piano begins tinkling as if to indicate that these two are having a special moment. Sasha then informs Horatio that "they" are looking for her. Horatio knows that too: "What do you say, we sit here and get found together, huh? Good." He moves closer, and the two assume nearly identical postures. "What a day," he says. Sasha looks like she couldn't agree more.
We get another shot of Miami, and then we get a knot of police-looking types. I suspect they sent the town crier home to drink some hot water with lemon in it. We establish that everyone is now looking for a burgundy sedan with a thirty-two-year-old female and a male of indeterminate age. There are helicopters whirring in the background, so Horatio screams, "I got a female in distress. I want the APB to extend to the whole state." The other guy -- in case we're not familiar with Florida -- echoes, "Panhandle to the Keys, yes, sir!" He takes off, and Catherine and Warrick land in the spot he recently vacated. Catherine and Warrick exit the helicopter, both looking incredibly cool. Horatio walks over to meet them and shakes Catherine's hand, saying, "Horatio Caine." "Catherine Willows." He then shakes Warrick's hand and they have the exchange, "Caine," "Brown." Hee.
Horatio tries to get things off on the right foot, noting that social services has sent a doctor out; Catherine wants to make sure Horatio understands how things work on Planet Willows. "Let's just get one thing clear. This is a Las Vegas case, this is our victim, and we do the processing." Horatio says, "I didn't say he processed her, I just said he was here." Catherine dials it down a notch: "I appreciate the respect." Horatio gets in one little dig with, "You sure about that?" Horatio, count your blessings. You don't want to see what Catherine's like with people she disrespects. Warrick asks if Sasha's been apprised of her father's condition yet. That's a no. Warrick says, "Well, I'd like to get started processing. Can you tell me what you found?" He sounds irritable; I'm thinking Warrick's just discovered the difference between the dry kind of heat (Vegas) and the humid kind (Miami). Caine directs Warrick to the trees and Catherine to the back of the ambulance where Sasha's hanging out.
Catherine heads on over and introduces herself. She shows Sasha her kit to put her at ease, reflexively smoothes down Sasha's hair, then asks, "Did the man touch you?' "He hit my mommy," Sasha replies. Catherine takes a moment to look sympathetic, then asks, "Did he hit you? Did he hurt you in any way?" Sasha replies, "He acted like I wasn't there." Catherine's been using tape to lift anything she can off Sasha's clothes as they talk, and now she's explaining to Sasha, "Well, you know what always happens to bad people? They leave behind a part of themselves, and that's how you can help us find your mommy. Now, I need to look under your fingernails." She takes Sasha's right hand, but the child's fingers are closed tightly around something. Horatio comes over and stands to Catherine; she asks evenly, "You want to show me what's in your hand?" Sasha looks to Horatio for guidance in this situation. Horatio assures her it'll be okay. Sasha opens her hand, and there's a shell casing inside. Keeping her voice calm, steady, and interested, Catherine asks, "Where did you get that?" We flash back to Sash being pushed out of the car by her mother and running off, her mother shouting frantically, "Run! Run! Run, Sasha, run!" We then see a gun firing, and Sasha turning back to look at her mom, then continuing to run. Back in the present, Sasha tells Catherine and Horatio, "I ran out after they drove off. I picked that up." Horatio says casually, "I bet it felt cold when you picked it up." Sasha says, "No, hot." She studies Horatio's face, then concludes, "You're tricking me." He says, "You're too smart for that." She smiles. I bet Catherine would be swooning too, if she were within camera range; after working with Gil (who regards children the same way other people regard bugs), this must be quite heady.
And then we cut to the cartridge being held aloft by Emily Procter, who rattles off, "You can spot a Glock cartridge a block away. Rectangular firing pin impression, breach face sheer. This casing's no Glock. This isn't your chief's weapon." My mom looks up from her book to comment, "Oh, my gosh, it's that irritating girl from The West Wing!" I'm thinking my mom isn't going to be warming to CSI: Miami in the fall. Warrick looks down at Emily there, probably thanking his lucky stars he works with a different West Wing refugee. We establish that the shooter was a lousy shot. Then Emily does the usual dithering-charming thing: "Oh! By the way, I'm Calleigh Buchanan. Don't ask me how to spell it. Southern." Catherine, who's looking distinctly uncharmed, deadpans, "Catherine Willows. Southern...Nevada." Behind her, Horatio cracks up. Calleigh asks, "You got a theory how the mother and daughter ended up in Miami from Las Vegas?" Catherine, still looking distinctly unimpressed, says, "We don't actually work theories, do we, Warrick?" Warrick, who may be many things -- among them this season: silent, absent, chained to a wall in the subplot subbasement, beleaguered -- is not stupid. He backs Catherine up with, "No, just evidence." Calleigh is undeterred. Lowering her eyes coquettishly -- or perhaps they've collapsed under the weight of the mascara she's got on -- she trills, "We're much more fanciful down here. Aren't we, Horatio?" The camera swings back around to Catherine (who's wearing a strangely Grissomian look here) and Horatio (who's not looking at Calleigh at all). Horatio deadpans, "I think that's a fair description." Calleigh then plows on, "My guess is that this is a Taurus 9, made in Brazil. It's a cheap Baretta knock-off, and you may not see many of them in Vegas, but we get them down here all the time, which makes me think this guy wasn't fleeing Las Vegas." "He was coming home to Miami," Horatio fills in.
And speaking of coming home, we are in one sense; we're finally back in a familiar setting. I feel so grateful. The setting is the morgue, and David and Gil are standing over Trunk Man. Trunk Man has a name: Jason Doyle, dead for three days, no GSR. Therefore, he didn't shoot Rittle. David says he recovered one slug from Doyle's cranium, and recovered a second fragment from Doyle's lower back. Gil's all, "His lower back? I thought he was shot twice in the head." David explains: "Vascular embolization. The bullet got into his arterial system." "That's rare," Gil breathes. David continues, "Well, it took a full-body x-ray for me to find the thing. The bullet entered here" -- David points to a spot near the carotid artery -- "fragmenting at the neck, and losing velocity upon penetration of the carotid artery. Tubed down the aorta, continually losing momentum. As it exited the aorta, it struck the vertebral column, and then was swept down to the base of the aorta, where I recovered it here at the lumbar region." As David's been taking us on Mr. Bullet's wild ride, we get the visual effects, courtesy of the TMICam. It doesn't help that, because we're supposed to see this thing speeding along the artery, it appears to be riding on blood; the overall effect is of a particularly hemolytic waterslide. Gil's impressed. David whips out the shell, noting that the bullet used was from a 9MM, much like they found in the chief. Gil decides to share the news with Catherine.
Cut to the most baffling scene of the evening. Sara and Nicky are dusting the liquor bottles from the party, and Sara asks, "Hey, Nick." "Mmm-hmm?" he replies. "You ever been to a swingers' party?" she asks. Nicky looks up, frowning, then replies, "If it's the same thing as a frat party, yeah. Lots of 'em. You get enough booze going, things can get pretty wild." Sara quirks a judgmental eyebrow before saying, "Frat party, huh? I wouldn't know anything like that." No, but you could probably give him the Airplane Sex 101 lecture, so judge not, Miss Sidle. There's a quiet moment, and Nicky returns to dusting his bottle. Sara's curiosity gets the better of her, and she finally asks, "How wild?" Nicky readily says, "Multiple partner wild." This is the point where I bellow, "NICKY!" in a shocked voice. Since he's on the television, he continues, "It's no big deal to have two, maybe three girls --" Fortunately, we're all interrupted by a beeping sound. They've got a hit on the fingerprints, based on a Las Vegas work card -- Tiffany Langer, a showgirl at the Orpheus Hotel.
We see Kari Wuhrer -- well, if she's that kind of showgirl, it's a wonder she isn't performing at the Stardust with Cristal and Nomi -- saying yes, she was at the party, and no, she's not telling Gil anything else. Yeah, that'll work. "These people are important," she says. Gil replies, "Well, a very important police officer was murdered there." "I don't care! It took me a long time to get into the circle, and I plan on staying there," Kari-who-is-Tiffany snits. She crosses her legs; Nicky looks distinctly unimpressed. That's a hopeful sign. Perhaps his taste in women is improving. He asks, "Was there anybody there you didn't know?" "Anybody who wasn't in 'the circle'?" Gil asks. Again -- only William Peterson can deliver lines in such a fashion as to imply the quotation marks. As it turns out, Tiffany's date is the one. Nicky asks if Tiffany can tell us where he is; Tiffany says, "I haven't seen him since that night. He sent me home with a judge and his wife." This is, like, the least surprising sentence she's ever uttered. In fact, if she followed up with intimations of live video and domestic animals, I wouldn't even blink. Gil also looks not terribly surprised. Nicky asks if the date stayed after she left for the evening. Tiffany can't give any pertinent information: "I've known him for five days." Gil says snidely, "Well, that's a hundred and twenty hours. There must be something you know about him that you could share with us." I hope he was making that remark for his own amusement, because I have a feeling Tiffany's not one of the world's great conversationalists. Contortionists, perhaps, but not conversationalists. Tiffany rattles off what she does know: "Right-handed, a Libra, circumcised, rich. Back-east rich. Which kind of surprised me, because he wore really cheap cologne." This piques Gil's interest, and he asks Tiffany to get more specific about "cheap." She does: "Smelled funny. Sweet." Gil asks if she's sure it was cologne and not, say, the festering of her immortal soul made manifest. Tiffany says, "All I know is, it smelled sickly sweet. To be honest, I thought he could have used a little help in that department." Beside her, Nicky nods, grateful that his Drakkar Noir-wearing fraternity days are over. Gil asks if Tiffany happens to have any articles of her date's clothing; she replies, "The only thing he gave me was a good time." Gil finally snaps, saying, "Hey, guess what? This isn't about you. This is about a missing seven-year-old girl." Tiffany looks contemplative. Perhaps she's trying to remember what empathy is like. Nicky plays good CSI and asks gently for the name of her date. Tiffany says, "Adam Van der Welk." She then rolls her eyes as if expecting flights of angels to descend, singing hosannas for her exemplary act of courage.
Catherine and Warrick have managed to shake those annoying Floridians, and they're back at the drop-off locale. Catherine's checking in by phone; Warrick is hunkered over on the ground, looking unhappy to be there. Perhaps he's just impatient to hit the road and get to Sea World. Warrick shouts that he's found a pill and -- dammit! -- Calleigh rushes over, her hair about five minutes behind her. It's a sedative, diazepam. They try to force-feed it to Calleigh. Calleigh says, "That could explain why the mother didn't escape with the daughter. She was incapacitated." She then looks over at Horatio, who has his back to her and is staring off broodily into the distance. If they're trying to set up the Gil-and-Sara dynamic here, they're failing; this comes off as Calleigh flinging herself with gale force against an indifferent Horatio. Now that's amusing. Horatio imagines the scenario, then asks, "How'd the little girl get away?" "We've got some tire treads on the shoulder." "Which everybody walking on the crime scene has obliterated," my mom cracks. "And why did he pick such a secluded area?" Horatio wonders. "It's a great place to ice someone," says Warrick, who looks as though he's contemplating that now. I'm not clear on who he'd kill first: Calleigh, for being annoying, or Gil, for putting him in Calleigh's path in the first place. Anyway, Horatio offers up Theory B -- or should I say Theory Pee? The shooter pulled over the car to go to the bathroom, and while he was indisposed, the mother pushed Sasha toward freedom. Horatio's on a roll: "Let me ask you another question -- when you're home alone, do you close the bathroom door?" "No. Who's going to walk in?" Mom asks rhetorically, at about the same time I say, "No. The cats would be offended." Catherine says slowly, "I don't even know you." Horatio replies fervently, "Sure you do! It's human nature to avoid being vulnerable, isn't it? So if that's the case, then he would look for a tree to shield himself, wouldn't he? So then the question becomes, how far along the path does he go before he loses sight of them?" Well, he walked to about the point in the scene where everyone stands around looking at a pair of footprints and a puddle of urine. Catherine quips, "If you're lucky, urethral cells will slough off with urine." Horatio's thrilled: "If we get his DNA, there's a chance we'll get him." Just then, a cell phone chirps; Horatio answers it, then says, "What do you mean, FBI?"
Another scenic Miami shot, then a slo-mo shot of a woman getting out of a swimming pool; then we switch to Catherine, who's saying to Gil over the phone, "So you're saying the guy has B.O.?" Switch to Nevada, where Gil's saying, "Body odor, bad breath, there's something about Adam Van der Welk that makes him smell." This is the point where my mom says, "Maybe they'll test the urine and find [insert major plot point here]." I'm telling you -- she's a television clairvoyant. Catherine's wondering if this is Gil being odd. He assures her he isn't: "Smells can be like fingerprints, my dear. Hey? What's going on there?" What, indeed. What is this "my dear" business? Anyway, we watch Horatio watching Madama Swimming Pool, and Catherine explains that the FBI picked the place. She hangs up on Gil and asks Horatio what's taking so long. "That is a good question," he answers. He's good with people, I'll give him that. Just then, someone who's stretched the definition of "dress casual" about as far as it can go comes sauntering in and tells Calleigh and Warrick, "Hey, I just ran into a Fed? In the lobby?" Cue Horatio's head swiveling around as his coworker continues, "He told me that apparently the Vegas case? Fits the profile of a serial the FBI's been tracking." Warrick, who's sporting sunglasses and looking so cool as to immediately lower the temperature in the vicinity by ten degrees, looks over at the guy. He pays homage: "You're from Vegas? Speedle." "Brown," Warrick replies.
Calleigh stomps all over this introduction -- and so long as I'm being completely irrational here, why is she running around in a wife-beater? Even Sara dresses better than that -- and asks, "Where was the Fed?" Speedle replies, "He's right there in the lobby. He's got his little -- you know? -- headphone, his tie." We establish that the FBI has no ID, but they have an M.O. -- the perp targets wealthy couples in the usual wealthy-couple places. Flip open a typical issue of Vanity Fair for a list. Speedle continues, "Evidently the husbands get murdered, then the wives later -- after they've enjoyed forty-eight hours of fun and games." "Forty-eight?" Catherine asks in horror. Speedle repeats the homage: "Vegas? Speedle." We then find out from Speedle the Exposition Lad that there's also a link to Miami. Horatio grumbles, "Of course there is," and stomps off. Catherine says with some irritation, "I don't understand -- why didn't the Feds put this out on NCIC?" "Because they're Feds," Calleigh says, then rushes off after Horatio. I wonder if the Feds line was supposed to be a shout-out to Emily Procter's old gig?
Horatio catches up with the Fed: "Dennis, Dennis. Tick-tock, Dennis. While you're waiting to get your ducks in a row, the Miami link just slipped through your hands." Dennis -- checked out of the "smarmy and suspiciously clean-cut" drawer at Central Casting -- blusters, and Horatio mows him like a lawn: "I need answers for this little girl. Her father's been killed, maybe her mother too. And that's your fault. You understand that." Miffed, Dennis huffs, "You're making this personal." Horatio leans in and says in the I'm-all-quiet-and-intense-because-I'm-filled-with-the-wrath-of-the-righteous voice, "If you don't give me this link, I will make this very personal." The link? The hotel where this scene is taking place. Just then, Calleigh comes up and says something in Spanish far too fast for me to catch (the closed-captioning is no help, as it only reads "speaks Spanish"). I do, however, catch Horatio's reply, which is, "Yes. Let's go." He then turns to Dennis and says, "I had a bad feeling about this." Dennis says angrily, "What'd she just say to you?" Horatio replies, "She just said that you need to learn the language." Our man Horatio has a point; Miami's got a thriving Spanish-speaking population, and anyone who wants to work in the public sector needs to be able to communicate with the public, not just the English-speaking portion thereof. In fact, it wouldn't kill schoolchildren to become bilingual, period; name me one other industrialized country where the educated citizens don't have a working grasp of at least one language other than their own. It's embarrassing to be so poorly spoken from a global perspective, and appalling to assume that everyone who's in America comes to the country with a working grasp of English. Telling people to learn the language is no panacea; in many cases, immigrants are barely literate in their own language, so they're not exactly Berlitz candidates for another.
So I'm thinking that Calleigh told Horatio about the car, because they're all on the edge of an estuary now. Warrick is talking to another futureCSI: Miamiregular -- this one in a neoprene diving suit and gear -- and figuring out how they know the car's here. I suppose the tire tracks leading into the water are a fair clue. Warrick wants to know how they found the disturbance at the edge of the water; the other guy replies, "The thing about Miami is the entire city's watched from above. Coast Guard choppers." Then he raises his voice and asks, "Someone going to cover me?" Horatio, who's brandishing a shotgun, replies, "I got you." Catherine wants to know, "Cover you for what?" "Alligators," the other guy replies. Speedle and Calleigh join the Vegas crew at the edge of the water, and Speedle says, "The only way to outrun a gator is to swim faster than the guy to you. Isn't that right, Delko?" The scuba guy -- whose name is apparently Delko -- quips, "Used to have a partner." Horatio reins them all in, which is fortunate, because I feel myself spiraling into another tirade, namely that this is Miami, not Queensland, Australia, and they're talking alligators, not crocodiles. The two species are quite different, especially in temperament; alligators typically only attack if they're really hungry, or if they perceive a threat. And it'd have to be a hell of a threat too -- I once spent a collegiate spring break canoeing through the Okeefenokee, logging data on alligators during mating season, and though I was frequently the only thing getting between an alligator and a good time, no alligator ever did anything more than watch me float by. I'm sure alligators attack; I just don't think it's fair or accurate to imply that one can barely get one's toes wet for fear of reptilian amputation. Of course, it's entirely possible that all the alligators in Miami are all cocaine-fueled monsters, but I somehow doubt it. Anyway. Delko in the water; everyone else on the edge, watching the water. A minute later, he surfaces and gives a thumbs-up, then a thumbs-down.
Cut to a crane dragging the vehicle out of the water. Everyone stands around until Horatio opens the door to the back seat. Good thing it wasn't locked. A lot of water pours out, and then we see the limp body of a woman with duct tape over her mouth and plastic wrap around the parts that network censors require. Catherine and Warrick give a positive ID. Calleigh immediately hefts a camera that dwarfs her little arms and starts snapping pictures. Everybody else stands around looking somber. Naturally, Horatio walks off and broods at a picturesque angle. Then he looks out at the estuary -- which is gorgeous, by the way -- and prods the troops to action with, "Our killer's still in the wind, folks. Still in the wind."
And now, at the world's plushest morgue, Khandi Alexander's looking down at Mina Rittle's body, stroking her hair, and asking, "Who wrapped you, Mina?" Okay. So the Vegas crew sees dead bodies; this crew makes small talk with them. Or, to be more accurate, at them. Khandi's sporting a beehive and big craft-fair-looking earrings. I wonder if she's the free-spirited New Age coroner. I hope not. Khandi begins speaking: "Plastic's not for transport. Covering her intimates -- most likely sexual. Two gunshot wounds, left temple. One shot through and through." She peels off the duct tape and directs Horatio, "Trace ASAP, along with the plastic. My preliminary probe shows water in the lungs, which indicates she was still alive when she was put in the canal." Both Horatio and Catherine look disgusted by this. Khandi leans down and says happily, "Looks like the eyes are glued shut. Gold, crusty substance underneath. What is that, Mina?" Horatio swabs around Mina's eyes and notes that the substance is water-soluble. Catherine counters that somehow it got preserved in the water; she guesses that the plastic was wrapped around Mina's eyes at some point, but came off underwater. Khandi leans down and looks in Mina's ear, warning, "Wait a minute -- there's a lot more of it." We take a TMICam tour of the inner ear, coated in the gold substance. Khandi makes a bet that the gold substance is in every orifice; a quick visit down to Mina's nether regions confirms it. She looks up and tells Catherine, "You guys got a sick one." You think?
Back on the waterfront, Speedle is walking back and forth on the dock, singing Otis Redding covers. No, not the singing. Anyway, he has the general attitude of someone who's impatient; the reason for this emerges when Delko does. Speedle's a giant germophobe: "Delko, you've been down there for forty-five minutes! You know the level of bacteria in that water? You can get all kinds of infections" -- this is when he notices the item in Delko's hand -- "what you got?" Delko's got one water-logged Baretta knock-off. It's established that this is the killer's personal weapon, and letting people know they have it might be a good idea.
Back in Las Vegas, Tiffany and the police sketch artist are having a meeting of the minds; I suspect that for one party, it's like sitting in an empty room. She's wailing, "Ask me if he was good in bed, just don't ask me how close together his eyes were?" Nicky, who's supervising this sorry exercise, looks as though he's regretting his career choice at the moment. He queries, "You said he kind of looked like Ricky Martin, right?" Tiffany replies, "Yeah -- with a touch of Jude Law." The sketch artist tries again: "Try not to just picture him -- try to think of an event." She does: "Three-way kiss. His lower lip was kind of pouty and he had this Michael Douglas thing working, you know, a cleft in his chin." The sketch artist works, and Tiffany's all, "You're right -- it is easier!" Nicky smiles, either because he's recalling some of that fraternity action or he's just relieved she's finally producing useful information. We then transition to Miami, where Sasha is telling a police artist what she saw. Surprise! They look alike. The Vegas picture comes in over the fax; Catherine picks it up while talking to Nicky: "Adam Van der Welk -- little girl saw a monster, showgirl saw a husband. So this guy could be anybody." Nicky sings the gospel of evidence, as delivered by Reverend Gil. He then asks Catherine to tell Warrick "hey," and warmly wishes them both luck. Catherine clicks off, and continues walking through the nicest labitrail ever. Those Miamians spend public money like it's going out of style, don't they? Horatio pops out of nowhere and says, "So how's your colleague Grissom doing on the aroma angle?" Catherine tells Horatio that Gil will produce his results when he's good and ready, and nobody questions the master. She then breaks into a tremulous chorus of "I Don't Know How To Love Him." Kidding! Catherine would never sing Andrew Lloyd Webber. Anyway, Horatio informs Catherine that the sticky gold substance they lifted off Mina was honey. Catherine says, "You say that like it means something." Horatio's all, "Well, honey on its own is just honey, but when you add plastic wrap, it's a different situation." This is the point where my mother asks where Liam is in this episode. I wonder why.
Cut to a bar playing Jan Hammer's greatest hits as women in plastic-wrap bikinis sashay up and down a bar. A woman lies down in front of the bar, and two shirtless men hold up carafes of honey; the crowd begins chanting, "Five, four, three, two, one!" and the men pour honey on the women. Slightly more dressed women pass through the crowd handing out green apple slices. People surge to the bar and dip the apples in honey. Catherine and Horatio, walking through the crowd, take it all in. Catherine realizes that this is where the killer got the idea. Horatio tells Catherine to wish him luck, and surges to a conveniently empty part of the bar. He whips out a swab; Catherine looks impressed. Horatio greets the girl on the bar. "Some guys like to lick it off," she coos, implying that she would love it if he were one of them. "I'm partial to the swab, myself," he replies. Heh -- how Grissomian. Catherine watches this repartee, then asks, "Ready, honey?" "Coming, dear," Horatio replies.
Cut to a quiet Las Vegas, where David is peering over a textbook and saying, "Tuberculosis victims emit breath that smells like wet leaves." On the other side of the desk, Gil looks up and asks, "Maple, elm, ash, what?" David replies that he's not sure; from the doorway, Brass says, "Miami's pulling cars out of canals, chasing leads, debriefing the kid, and you guys are flipping through textbooks?" Gil replies steadily, "This is how I work." Brass looks at the spines of the books: Tuberculosis, Cyanide Poisoning, Endocrinology. Without looking up from his book, Gil replies, "I'm following my nosino." Brass leans down and asks, "You're closer to this Van der Welk guy than you're letting on, aren't you?" Gil just gives him the patented Don't Question Me stare. Brass knows his cue. He turns to Gil and nods, "Doctor." Then he turns to David and nods, "Doctor." Then he takes his leave. No sooner is Brass gone than David's all, "How about Darier disease?" "Doesn't that give you a rash that smells like human excrement? We're looking for something a little sweeter," Gil replies. As if this is the first time David has heard those criteria, he replies, "There is diabetic ketoacidosis. The body has excess glucose which gets converted to ketone, which gets expelled through the pores. Has a fruity smell."
And now -- a tiny disclaimer. Normally, this is the part of the recap where I jump into the science with both feet, and believe me, I'm dying to here. But I'm on a fairly tight deadline with this recap, so The Wide World Of Ketoacidosis will have to be explored some other time.
David says, "It would help if I had a piece of the assailant's clothing." My mom looks up from her book and asks, "Didn't they have that baseball hat?" Uncanny! Gil looks up, faintly horrified, and says, "I think I overlooked some evidence."
And speaking of evidence, here's Speedle in the lab, playing the role of Liam East. He's putting some honey on a slide and telling Horatio, "I'm going to isolate it using high performance liquid chromatography. Once we identify the pollen, we'll know if it's floral honey." We see the honey. Horatio leans down for a look-see and Speedle asks all casual-like, "When's the last time you were in Hives?" "I was there opening night," Horatio replies. Speedle counters that he didn't see him there. Horatio says, "I was VIP." We see that the sample is tupelo honey, the purest of the honeys in that it neither crystallizes nor hardens. We find out that Speedle knows from honey thanks to an Africanized bee problem the CDC hipped him to a few years back. And then we find out that Mina was festooned with tupelo honey.
Cut to Warrick and Horatio in Hives, during daylight hours. Warrick is of the opinion that $500 is a lot more than a jar of honey is worth. The guy behind the counter explains that mostly the honey carafes serve a decorative purpose, but every once in a while, someone with more money than sense buys a jar. Warrick wonders why these people can't keep their receipts in any comprehensive order. This is Calleigh's cue to produce the winning receipt. Off in another part of the building, Catherine's quizzing the bouncer on whether or not he recognizes Adam Van der Welk. The bouncer does not remember. Catherine narrows the parameters to "walked in the door in the last forty-eight hours and bought some of that tupelo honey." The bouncer has a poor memory. Then Horatio's all, "My people tell me that a customer came in two nights ago and bought some honey." The bouncer experiences a miraculous memory recovery: "It wasn't a customer, it was a limo driver." The limo driver's named Gordon, and he was apparently freer with the hundred-dollar bills than he was with telling folks who was in the back of his limo.
Mere minutes later, Delko's marshaled the forces of good and they're pulling over a limo driver named Gordon Daimler. Gordon's not too pleased about the delay: "Look, Officer, the Corwins are coming in on their own private jet. They're two of my best customers. I really should be there." Horatio's not sympathetic to the service sector: "Well, the Corwins are going to have to wait." Catherine jumps in -- I can't help but wonder if Warrick and Calleigh are just out of camera range and fuming over their partners ditching them -- with, "We understand that another one of your customers bought some very expensive honey from a club." This slides off Teflon Gordon. Catherine tries again: "This customer of yours have a name?" Apparently not; Gordon claims the guy paid cash, so he never saw a credit card. Catherine keeps on going: "Was there anything unusual about him? Did he smell? Did he have an odor?" Gordon gives her a you-gotta-be-kidding-me look and stammers that maybe the guy smelled as though he'd been drinking. Horatio jumps back in and asks if maybe Gordon could identify the liquor by smell: "Was it sweet, like Irish whiskey?" Gordon says, "Whatever I have stocked." Catherine wants to look in the limo, and Gordon graciously complies. Catherine climbs in the back to check the bar (vodka, gin) and Horatio jumps in the front and starts the car. A funny smell from the vent, amplified by the vapors one can see wafting up, makes him start. He rolls down the barrier between the front and the back and requests that Catherine take a sniff. She does, then says, "Sickly sweet. That's exactly how Grissom described it."
Speaking of Grissom, he's meeting with his favorite showgirl. He pulls the baseball cap out of his bag; Tiffany says, "You want me to do what?" "Smell this," Gil says. Only he could pack so many alternate meanings into one phrase. He gives her the Don't Question Me look until she relents. Gil then probes for misty watercolored memories of her five days with Adam, making sure that the smell isn't somehow from whiskey or cognac. "With him, it was all Dom, all the time," she replies.
Back in Miami, Catherine's in a tank, soaking up some sun while she chats with Gil. He fills her in on the diabetic ketoacidosis: "It's an insulin deficiency; his body's been expelling excess glucose. Makes him smell fruity." Catherine concedes that it would indeed make him smell sickly sweet. Beside her, Horatio stares off picturesquely. He's one of the most aesthetically aware brooders around. Catherine then asks if it's possible to test for diabetic ketoacidosis off urine; Gil concedes that it might be. Back in Miami, Horatio turns and commands Catherine, "Ask him what medication you would take for that." "Ask him yourself," snaps Catherine. No, she does not. She asks, and Gil replies, "Novolin insulin." Only quacks prescribe any other brand, right? Snort.
After another shot to establish that yes, we are still in Miami, we move to the luxe labitrail, where Horatio's all, "Lucky for us he had blood in his urine." Indeed. Catherine then breaks down the science: "Absence of C-peptide in the blood means the insulin in our guy's system isn't natural." Horatio then leads Catherine to a database that, frankly, would have the ACLU, the EFF, and about sixteen other advocacy groups screaming bloody murder if they knew of its existence. With it, he tracks down all the people who a) take Novolin insulin, and b) have had to fulfill a prescription in the last forty-eight hours. Surprise! Gordon Daimler is among them. Horatio does the low voice again and says, "That's him, and the reason old Gordon didn't smell when we picked him up was that he'd probably taken his insulin, hadn't he?" Catherine realizes the scent was stored in the limo's circulation system, then thinks that it's a mighty good thing they have his address. Horatio wants a closer look at said address (2421 Riviera Drive, Coconut Grove, FL, ) -- "a limousine driver with a house on the water in Coconut Grove? I don't think so." They tap a few more keystrokes -- this is apparently a database that tracks everything, which, frankly, I find more frightening than any of the plot twists this evening -- and discover that the Corwins are currently the residents of that address. That Daimler thinks he's living there should come as a shock to someone. Catherine thinks Daimler uses the limo to pick up his victims. Horatio replies, "And when they're away at some posh resort, he moves into their house, doesn't he?" I don't know. Does he? Long story short: met the Rittles last year, decided to take the serial killing act on the road to Vegas, brought back a few souvenirs, then decided to cap a busy week by killing the Corwins. Because, as we all know, serial killers are totally type-A.
scene: a Miami CSImobile -- this time a Land Rover, as we've already established that Miamians have no qualms whatsoever about fiscal prudence -- pulls into the Corwins' driveway. Everyone disembarks. Warrick is toting a pistol the size of his head. "Since when does Warrick carry a gun?" my mother wonders. Since his partner got thrown out a window, I'm thinking. Horatio leads the way, gun at the ready as well. Call me stodgy, but I like it better when it's the Vegas folk, since they're using guns as the last resort. As Horatio shouts, "Miami-Dade Police!" and enters, my mom starts critiquing the decor. I contemplate having her finish the recap. The teams split up -- Catherine and Horatio together again, and Warrick wandering along a back hall with Calleigh. Horatio and Catherine head upstairs, Horatio waving around a gun and Catherine an evidence kit. As they hit the landing, the husband comes home and demands, "What kind of people put a picture of their plane on the wall?" Everyone's a critic. Warrick and Calleigh, meanwhile, are heading downstairs into the garage; this is the point where my mother wonders why Warrick didn't take off his sunglasses earlier, and how does Calleigh think she's going to chase criminals in her four-inch heels. Somehow, I can't help but think that if this allegedly tense scene is being picked apart by observers who are not in the TWoP employ, it's probably failed. Catherine's in the bedroom; she throws back the bedcovers and finds some plastic. Down in the basement, Warrick's thinking that the trail of blood they found indicates that Daimler dragged the Corwins' bodies out here. Calleigh checks the pool of blood and immediately pronounces, "Nine-mil." Warrick comes over and she clarifies, "Shots through and through. Scalp hair. He fired this one first, to terrorize her." Warrick looks at the second bullet hole and says, "This one here is all business." Horatio, meanwhile, has checked out the bathroom, where we see honey dripping down the tiles. As he's looking around, my mother catches his multifaceted reflection and groans, "Oh, God, more Caruso." I personally have no quibble with the man. Anyway -- honey on the tiles. Catherine comes in and says, "He wrapped her in plastic on the bed, raped her." Horatio says, "Then brought her in here and cornered her like an animal." Catherine concludes, "If Gordon's true to form, he's going to kill the Corwins." Just then, Speedle comes in and says, "You guys gotta see this."
"This" is apparently outside, where Speedle is leading Horatio and Catherine and explaining, "People don't buy these houses for the view -- they buy them for a place to put their million-dollar boat." "What's your point?" Horatio asks. Speedle's point is that the Corwins' dock is empty. Catherine says ominously, "The boat's missing, and that's where he's killing them right now." Horatio tensely orders Speedle to put the word out on the boat. Nobody seems to notice that Warrick is, once again, trapped in the plot basement, only this time with, in my mother's words, "that annoying girl from The West Wing."
Night has fallen; approximately eleven thousand law enforcement personnel converge on the boat. It was apparently found adrift. What, the ten feet it is from shore? Calleigh points out the figures on the infrared monitor. She explains to her fellow seasoned law-enforcement colleagues that pink means body heat is fading. Or they're in a Degree antiperspirant commercial. There's a tense moment when a red figure comes into view and Dennis the Gringo Fed decides that said figure is the killer and Detwiler the sniper should shoot to kill. Calleigh disputes this, arguing that the posture of the red figure implies a desire to help, not a desire to kill. At that moment, the photo my husband noticed plays a pivotal plot point; Horatio flashes back to seeing it and concludes that Gordon will be leaving on a jet plane, don't know when he'll be back again, and the yacht set-up is a device to buy him time. He runs over to Detweiler the sniper, arguing, "The Corwins have a jet! Gordon left them here to die!" Dennis the Gringo Fed looks appalled -- this was his big chance to make up for Waco, and Horatio's pissing all over it. Dennis snaps, "Interstate case, not your call -- proceed!" "Stand down!" Horatio screams. "Take him out!" Dennis commands. How I long for the days when it was just Gil filleting Liam between commercial breaks. Horatio then decides that the thing to do is to distract the guy with the gun; he hovers behind him and says, "I know you want to impress your boss, but there's an innocent man on that boat. Now if you take this shot, I'll be in your grill for the rest of your natural life" -- or for a dozen episodes, given his track record with television series -- "so think about what that might be like. Think about that!" Detwiler steps down, lest he turn into another Amy Brenneman. Horatio commands random people to detain the plane, telling someone that the FAA better ground Corwin's jet on the authority of Miami-Dade county. He then runs off with Catherine, because no jurisdictional tussle is complete without bringing in a third party. Catherine and Horatio sprint through the yacht and enter the stateroom; they open the door, where a bloody Mr. Corwin is looking up and sobbing. "I tried to save her. It was too late," he says. Catherine whispers, "I'm sorry," and goes to comfort him. Horatio does the scenic brooding for a moment, then hops back on the walkie-talkie to boss some more people around. At this point, I am numb; I have no idea which federal agency he's violating now.
And now we're in the private jet, where Gordon is having himself some Dom before fleeing the country. This prompts the following exchange in my house:
The Husband: He doesn't have a cleft chin at all!
The Mom: And where's the pouty lower lip?
The Husband: Kari Wuhrer is the dumbest human being alive.
Me: Don't you dare put me in the position of defending her. It was the writing!
Anyway, as Gordon goes to take a sip, Horatio enters with his gun drawn. I have to wonder if this is how he always enters a room -- even the bathroom when nobody else is home. Horatio greets Gordon as Mr. Van der Welk, then trains his gun on him; Catherine comes in to pat Gordon down and asks, "Did you drive your limo here?" Gordon, not really sensing the tenor of the situation, smiles and says, "The Corwins are my friends. They lent me their plane." Catherine snaps back, "Like they lent you their boat?" Gordon, still not picking up on the cues being presented, says, "Speak to the pilot. Dylan Corwin called him personally, directed him to fly me to Monaco." Horatio says, "I'd rather call Dylan at the hospital to confirm it." The smile disappears from Gordon's face, and Catherine says viciously, "The husband didn't die. You left us a witness. We have enough evidence to convict you in two states." Gordon smiles and says smugly, "Rich men don't go to jail." Horatio replies, "You're not rich, Gordon."
After Gordon is led off the plane in handcuffs, Horatio screws up his courage and asks Catherine for a malted and a booking. She declines the offer with, "I'll have my DA call your DA." They chuckle. Horatio says, "Sounds good, sounds good. Ah...thank you for your help on this." Catherine turns to him, bats her baby blues, and says warmly, "Thank you for yours, actually." Horatio pauses for a minute before saying, "Right." Catherine smiles at him, and he says, "You take care of yourself." "I always do," she shoots back. They have a meaningful look and shake hands for a moment longer than seems businesslike. You just know she smirked on the entire plane ride home, while Horatio spent the car ride back to the office going, "'Take care of yourself?' 'Take care of yourself?' Could I be any lamer?" I can only assume Warrick and Calleigh were saying their goodbyes elsewhere. The conversation was probably short and to the point.
And now, during either sunrise or sunset on the beach -- the finest minds in the room couldn't solve this problem -- Horatio is once again silhouetting himself against the skyline. It must be his hobby. He walks over and hunkers down beside Sasha. "My mommy and daddy are dead, aren't they?" Horatio tries to duck the question with, "Well, your aunt is flying in to talk to you." I'm trying to imagine Gil in this scene, and I can't help but think that he'd say, "Yes. They are." Sasha's no dummy, though; she says, "That's a yes." There's a quiet moment, then Horatio says, "I lost someone once. And you can find out who if you tune in to my show this fall, on CBS." "Did you feel sick?" Sasha asks. "Still do, still do," Horatio says. He then says portentously, "Sasha, people are going to say things about your mom and dad, and some of them are going to be true. But what I want you to remember is that they fought like heroes for you. Will you remember that for me?" Sasha agrees to. "Good. Good for you," he says. They sit quietly together.
Then we see Vegas, sweet familiar Vegas. Acoustic guitar starts playing somewhere, and I instinctively begin ducking, all the better to miss whatever Interpersonal Plot Points are sure to begin flying. Catherine slinks on over to Gil's office door; she's in a peasant blouse and jeans. I can only assume this is her day off. Gil is adjusting his tie, and she watches him. He turns around and says, "Hey! Nice tan." Catherine smiles and returns the compliment: "Nice suit." Gil turns -- it really is a nice suit -- and says, "I knew you were coming back today, so I dressed up." Catherine scoffs at this. Gil protests again, "Really!" Catherine is rendered speechless. Gil -- who probably did this just to mess with Catherine's head -- says, "What?" Catherine says, "It's...unusual to see you dressed like that." Gil then sets her straight -- he didn't wear the suit for her; he wore it because he had to attend the chief's funeral. They buried the chief without letting his daughter attend? Was it a swingers' funeral? Catherine is not pleased to have been played: "Missed me that much, huh?" she says, then walks off. Gil watches her leave, satisfied that the universe is making sense again now that she's returned, and allows himself a small smile. The guitar plays us to close.
Coming week: The season finale, which somehow involves a Kate Spade purse and lots of people looking appalled.