It's night in glamorous Miami, and the beautiful people are having a party. A shirtless man undulates between two well-groomed women, and all over the room, that sort of set-up is replicated in assorted numbers and combinations of genders. It is precisely the kind of party that the people who feel like losers for staying home on Saturday night are convinced the rest of us are having while they're making friends with their remote control. The camera then swoops over to a woman who's attractive in a generic way. She's seated, and she puts a shot glass between her thighs before bidding the man currently dancing between them -- and, while he's shaking his groove thang, let me just ask, who on Earth thinks that pelvic figure-eight thing is sexy? -- to shimmy on down and do a no-hands shot. The camera pans to her pleased look, then to her friends who are egging the spectacle on. I take it back about this being the kind of party people suspect everyone else of having; this is the kind of party that would only take place in a world based on liquor ads. The guy finishes his shot, and the generically good-looking person, who I now realize is Jamie Luner, asks, "How'd you like that?" He smolders in her general direction.
Cut to daytime, where a Hockney-blue swimming pool is surrounded by lurid pink cabanas. I seriously have to question the wisdom of the pink motif; are there plush unicorns and teddy bears on the beds too? Would it be possible for any man over age eighteen to enter one of those pink nightmares and not suffer immediate impotence? Anyway, a grounds worker's nearby, beginning the onerous chore of cleaning up after a night of someone else's debauchery. As he attempts to wind up a strand of outdoor lights, the end of the string refuses to come. After a few impatient yanks, the end of the lights flies free -- and a human foot falls out of a swath of bright pink fabric. It's death by ill-conceived theme decoration!
Cut to Horatio and Sevilla walking onto the grounds. She's filling him in: "We've got a looker -- twenty-two-year-old named Noel Peach." Horatio asks if they know why Peach was there. Sevilla says, "Some sort of private party." Horatio replies, "Not private anymore, is it? Did we find out what killed him?" Sevilla's been briefed on Horatio's supernatural crime-solving powers, and she replies, "I was hoping you could tell me." The camera pans over to Peach, who's now lying on his back in a classic cheesecake pose. Damn -- any postmodernist who wants to write a paper on necrophilia as the latest erotic trend has just been given the first fifty pages of Baudrillardian deconstruction. Horatio comments on the tableau by hunkering down and quipping, "I guess we can't rule out exposure."
The Who caution us against not getting fooled again, and we go to commercial.