Author's Note:

I've been sitting on this one for a long while, and at the behest of a friend and beta, I've decided to toss it up here unfinished to see what kind of response I get. It's my first attempt at forming a mystery to go along with the continuation of my shipper plot from my previous submissions. As per usual, I add the disclaimer that I personally own nothing in terms of the CSI franchise, save my original characters and plot line.

This story takes place at the end of Season Six - Not long after the events in "Rashomama".

PROLOGUE

The night sky above Las Vegas seemed to stretch out into infinity, a thousand stars glittering like diamonds sprinkled across crushed black velvet. An excited crowd was gathered beneath that sky, just a few miles off the main strip, at a lavish ground-breaking ceremony thrown by the city's newest real estate tycoon, Trey Barnett.

No expense was spared in the planning of festivities, anyone and everyone who mattered in Las Vegas had been invited to enjoy a VIP preview of the fabulous new Carnivale hotel and casino. The tired old Paragon Hotel had been razed to the ground a few weeks earlier, and the corner lot had been leveled, swept, and readied. The contractors were ready to begin their work on construction the following week, but first came some good old fashioned party time.

A sumptuous carnival was painstakingly organized for the dedication, complete with over fifteen different cutting edge portable thrill rides and dazzling fireworks provided by the country's master pyrotechnic showman. Roving bands of premiere showgirls with million dollar smiles mingled in the crowd, all of them dancing the night away in bikinis encrusted with jewel-toned feathers, sequins, and rhinestones. The air was thick with the smell of exotic spices and delicacies frying in herb infused oils, the five star chefs who would soon make Carnivale their home assembled in specialty tents to prepare their gastronomic delights for the eager guests.

In the very center of all the action lay an expansive outdoor dance floor, and giant amplifiers pumped out the hottest Latin music found North of Rio de Janeiro. At a quarter to midnight, Trey Barnett himself took over the microphone to encourage everyone in attendance to point their eyes toward the skies and get ready for a surprise.

The Flying Elvises were on their way.

The faces of the well dressed crowd lit up with intense excitement, releasing an almost deafening round of applause. The salsa beats gave way to the voice of Elvis Presley himself singing his classic 'Burning Love', and like a gathering of worshippers come to sing the praises of their one and only king, the elites of Las Vegas erupted in cheering, whistling, and raucous laughter as they gazed upward toward the approaching plane.

Before long, a string of flashing objects appeared above them in tight formation, one after another. Once the plane was emptied, there were ten Elvises on their way down to the crowd, the bright multi-colored lights on their jumpsuits twinkling as they descended. In a flash, a pair of giant searchlights lit up with blinding illumination, their beams focused directly on the incoming merry makers, and the DJ increased the volume of the music on cue. The excitement was reaching fever pitch as the Elvises got closer and closer to landfall on the dance floor, everyone bouncing to the beat with glasses of champagne in hand. Barnett was please with this response, and challenged his guests to see if they could cheer loud enough to wake up their neighbors all the way down in Pahrump.

In the midst of all the boisterous activity, there came a single gasp of distress, sharp and swift. Before long, an entire chorus of gasping could be heard, accompanied by a series of high pitched shrieks. The mirth seemed sucked out of the crowd as if by vacuum, the voices lowering into a rumble of panicky chatter. Trey Barnett stood upon the stage in abject confusion, and then he pointed his own gaze toward the sky.

Nine Elvises had released their parachutes and were now gliding steadily down to earth, but one of them was plummeting at breakneck speed. Trey Barnett stood hypnotized by the sight he saw above him, up until one of his business partners shook him awake. Barnett made hand gestures toward the DJ, instructing him to cut the music immediately, running his fingers manically through his gray hair as he struggled to grasp the unexpected situation unfolding before him.

Within a few short seconds, the orderly crowd of socialites had turned into a hysterical mob, and the crash of champagne glasses was nearly blood curdling. The richest and most elite guests had handlers, and so they were rushed off the scene to safety beneath the steel reinforced scaffolding behind the main stage. The rest were left to their own devices, some took shelter beneath the stage, some fled the dance floor in a crush against the 10-foot barriers around the perimeter, some dove under tables. Barnett did the best he could to keep the crowd calm, but no one seemed to hear him.

All eyes kept returning to the sky, tracking the rapid descent of the Elvis gone rogue. The lights on his jumpsuit continued to flash in a blur, and the expressions in the crowd turned from fear to horror as the inevitable impact finally came to pass.

The party was officially over.