Vegas. Night. Shiny buildings. I think you know the drill.
A well-heeled couple leaves a restaurant in Pasadena. No, really -- between the lush greenery and the Spanish-style buildings packed densely on the sidewalk, I'm flashing back to a rum-soaked evening I spent at the world's longest wedding reception in old-town Pasadena. But enough about me; let's get back to the couple: he's tall and besuited, she's shorter and besuited, and they're having a blandly pleasant time. "I had such a beautiful time tonight. Eight years!" she burbles. "People said we wouldn't last. Happy anniversary, baby," he smarms in response. They manage to pull off a simultaneous walk-n-kiss (degree of difficulty: 9.2), and as they're walking to their gargantomobile, we see a cigarette drop out of nowhere and roll away on the sidewalk. The husband deposits the wife on the passenger side of their SUV, crosses a few zip codes as he wends his way to the driver's side, then stops and stares at her expectantly. She gives him a come-hither look -- I hope she has all day, what with the amount of time it would take him to circumnavigate the SUV to come thither -- which changes to one of horrified surprise as a knife-wielding thug seizes her from behind and holds a blade to her throat. As the wife gasps in terror, the camera pulls in real close on a moderately appalled husband. "Dammit!" he's thinking. "They were right! It didn't last!"
In the next scene, Warrick is reciting the specifics of the anniversary dinner gone wrong: "Two victims. She's on the sidewalk by the curb, and he's in the middle of the street." Sara comes over and notes that there's no car. Nicky notes that there's not a whole lot of unpunctured flesh left on the husband either; he's been stabbed five times. Gil comes over with Brass in tow and confirms that the couple was at Andre's. I'm in shock: Brass has yet to deliver a piece of expository dialogue. All he does is grouse that, for want of valet parking, two lives were lost. Gil notes mildly that typical carjackers don't use knives. "Never?" Brass teases. "They used to say 'never on Sunday,' then Pearl Harbor happened. Now I never say never," Gil replies. Somewhere, a viewer's head explodes from trying to track all those nevers and figure out if Gil is ruling out a knife-based carjacking, or allowing for its possibility.
Fortunately, we're all saved from pondering Gil's circumlocuitous speech patterns by the arrival of a torrential thunderstorm. Gil springs into action: "We've got three minutes to process this crime scene, after that it's all in the gutters. Sara, take overalls; Warrick, put a cone by anything you bag; Nick, we've got to get these bodies into the van!" Everyone hauls ass as the rain continues to pour down. "We're losing everything!" Sara wails to Gil, and he looks up at the heavens with a profoundly irritated look, muttering ruefully, "Yeah, our killer got lucky tonight."