"Well, by the way you've cleaned up, Mrs. Brady, I wouldn't even know you'd had a party here," Gil comments. She probably has help. Someone named Alice, maybe? Gil asks, "What kind of party was it?" "A mixer," she responds. Liam is openly goggling, and Gil gives him a look to check the goofy, hormone-addled grin. So he contents himself with checking out the sideboard while Gil wanders into the spacious kitchen. Maybe this is what they mean by adult content -- a frank discussion on the merits of sub-zero fridges and Corian counters. Gil notices that a few shish-kabob skewers are missing from the case. He soon concludes they're probably in the dishwasher, and pops it open to discover a dish rack full of vibrators draining. Mrs. Brady looks mildly chagrined as Gil holds up what looks like an eight-inch purple dildo. He comments, "Well, cleanliness is next to godliness." Liam openly guffaws.
In the B-plot, Nicky and Warrick are sitting on the curb, eating the lunches that are presumably the fruits of Marty's largesse. If Marty were paid by the word, he would be raking in the six figures he claims to make. Warrick asks Marty how many cases he works a week, and Marty shoots back, "How many cases you do a week." Warrick and Nicky do between 10-20; Marty replies that he does too. Around a mouthful of sandwich, Nicky asks, "You're trying to tell me you make between three and ten grand a week?" Why, yes. Also, just in case Warrick and Nicky are looking for a little pocket change, Marty's happy to take them on as freelancers. In fact, while some may see a rising crime rate as a problem, he sees it as a franchise market in Arizona. Before Marty can outline his plans to clean up decomposing bodies all over the entire American southwest, along comes the table-saw victim's widow, who is all torqued because the store still isn't clean yet. Marty instantly assumes a generic cracker accent and drawls, "Iht's outta mah hainds, ma'am. Tha lab boys, they hahven't released the sce-yun ye-yut." Back on the curb, Warrick and Nicky exchange looks and shake their heads ruefully. Marty continues sweet-talking the widow -- awfully nice of her to swing by and introduce herself -- and when he comes back, Warrick calls that Marty ought to be ashamed of himself. Marty begs to differ: "The bereaved often find a Southern accent very comforting." Nicky looks put out by this observation. When he turns to look at Warrick, the other man's suddenly very interested in his drink.
Everyone troops back inside, Marty continuing to carry on, and Nicky finally realizes what stinks: it's the Ms. Pac-Man machine. After Nicky rips off the plastic, the two CSIs reel from the odor, and Warrick cracks, "It smells like eternity for somebody in here." A few quick turns of the screws and disassembly of a machine later and, in the words of Marty, "Holy mackerel, bitch in a box!" Nicky snaps, "Hey, hey, hey!" and Marty apologizes. Everyone coughs from the stench.