AN: June, this one's for you :-D
Here's what you missed: Jacinda Chambers was murdered in Tribeca. The evidence points to the daughter of a former Senator who lives in the Hamptons. Our favorite crime quartet (and Jack McCoy) heads out to the home to investigate. Things get a little awkward, however, with the arrival of a woman who seems to be well acquainted with Mike. Who is this mysterious visitor?
...
The blonde woman glided toward Mike and encompassed his hands with her own delicate, manicured fingers. "Michael, it is absolutely wonderful to see you!"
"Hello, Annie…" Mike made a subtle, swift retreat from the woman's embrace, growing rigid and reserved. He noticed Connie's puzzled expression. "Connie, this is Ann-… Bianca Peters. Bianca, this is Consuela Rubirosa, my colleague."
They exchanged clipped smiles and mumbled pleasantries. If Connie's hunch was correct, this was the same Bianca Peters that had earned a reputation as a ruthless, dogged, and formidable reporter. She had exposed the seedy underworld activities of several prominent figures, from celebrities to politicians. Connie had nothing against her, but it could be expected that no good could come from such a tenacious investigative presence.
Jack rose from the couch, irritated by the blatant lack of regard for the gravitas in the room. Mrs. Webb stammered, wringing her handkerchief. "Mr. McCoy, Bianca is from the Ledger. She is writing an exposé on my husband's charity work in the Sudan."
Bianca snapped her head in Jack's direction. "Mr. McCoy? The Jack McCoy?"
"Something like that," he dismissed her attempt at amity. "Mrs. Webb, I suggest that you reschedule your interview. This is a delicate matter, and I trust that my detectives will not appreciate any interferences with their investigation."
"Right… Perhaps this isn't the best time."
"Detectives?" Bianca arched her brow, visibly enticed by the idea of an exclusive story, and even more so, the thought of a scandal. "What brings Manhattan's finest all the way out here?"
"That's really none of your business-…" Connie chimed in with a shade of spite in her tone, only to have Mike derail her train of thought.
"…-May I have a word with you? In private?" Mike placed his hand on Bianca's back and guided her toward the front entryway.
Taking the flagrant subversion to heart, Connie turned to Jack for vindication of her reaction. He was just as shocked, his thick brows hovering ominously above his glowering eyes. Lupo and Bernard materialized through the French doors off of the living room, extinguishing the smoke and cinders of an imminent eruption. They announced the arrival of the uniforms and CSU technicians.
Bernard held up an inhaler in his gloved hand. "Mrs. Webb, does Audrey have asthma?"
"No…" Celeste crumpled into the plush cushions of the sofa. "James does."
Bernard pointed to a framed photograph on the mantle above the fireplace. "Is this him?"
"Yes," Celeste sniveled into her embroidered cloth.
"Where is your daughter, now?" Lupo prodded.
"In the City. She had a final dress fitting before the wedding," she sobbed. "James went with her."
Lupo gave Bernard a knowing look. "I'll call the Captain and get an A.P.B. out."
Mike returned to the sitting room with an air of complacent satisfaction. The distant echo of a closing door signaled that he had successfully jettisoned the ill-timed guest. Connie was well aware that Mike was an intelligent and attractive man, ergo it was safe to assume that he had never been denied the company of the opposite sex. That had always been out of sight, though, and therefore out of mind. But, sadly, when you live in denial (intentionally or not) there is always a moment where reality will spoil perception. This was that moment. The moment where she realized Mike held some sort of power over this Bianca Peters woman, a power that presumably stemmed from a past consummation of attraction. It was iconoclasm in its purest sense, and she felt the febrile emergence of the notorious green-eyed monster.
Later that afternoon…
Connie knocked and hesitantly strolled into Mike's office. He was anxiously pacing the carpet, capping and uncapping a black dry erase marker. His shirt collar was undone, as were his cuffs, and he was clearly deep in thought. She took a moment to admire him in his solitude, feeling akin to zoologist observing an elusive beast in its natural habitat. She cleared her throat and asked, "Is this a bad time?"
"No, of course not." He shook his head and sat on the round table at the center of the room. "I was just going over my closing arguments for tomorrow."
"You're not nervous are you?"
"Nah, we've got Calderon in the bag. Did you make any headway on the Leiber motion?"
Connie handed him a yellow legal pad, congested with neatly penned paragraphs of carefully cited arguments. He scanned the first page and frowned. "People v. Hatzfeld? Is that the best we've got?"
"I know what you're thinking—it's a weak precedent. Just hear me out, though! The ruling is straightforward: any reasonable person would have known that the police's initial questioning was solely investigatory, not accusatory. Any statements made were voluntary and self-incriminating, constituting an admissible confession. Swap Leiber for Hatzfeld, and I think we can wing it."
"You're forgetting one thing—the questionable search. Detective Lupo manipulated a borderline senile woman into letting him into Scott Leiber's apartment. The judge will never go for it," Mike set the notepad beside him on the table and folded his arms across his chest.
"You say manipulation; I say good faith."
Mike smirked. "If we relied on sheer confidence to win cases, you'd have the best conviction rate in the state."
"Yeah, well, I'm not feeling so hot about the Webb case." Connie seized the marker from him and walked to the whiteboard. "James Northam and Jacinda Chambers were having an affair. Jacinda gets the ax, and everything in the car points to James, but Audrey Webb—" Connie drew a circle to connect the initials and abbreviations—"has the biggest motive. Unfortunately, she's lawyered up to the hilt, and James is M.I.A., leaving us S.O.L. at the moment."
Mike moved to her side, brushing her shoulder, and reclaimed the marker. He scribbled a few words next to her diagram. "Have the detectives confirmed whether or not James was actually at the Pridwin? That's the story he told Celeste Webb."
"Well, here's the thing," Connie sighed, yanking the pen from his grip. "According to Lupo, James would had to have left the Webbs before 6 am in order to correspond with a 7:54 time of death for Jacinda. But, Audrey was in Manhattan on Tuesday night for her bachelorette party. Mrs. Webb gave a statement saying that Audrey arrived home around 1:30 am, but she only heard her daughter. She didn't actually see her, nor did she bother to check to the garage to confirm whether or not the Mercedes was there."
Mike ran a hand through his hair. "She wouldn't have had a reason to check for the car, though, other than the fact that James was going to borrow it… which, by the way, strikes me as odd. We're supposed to believe that a 26-year-old Yale graduate doesn't have his own vehicle?"
Connie nodded, her demure earrings dangling in the dim lamplight. "Exactly. The DMV shows an SUV registered to James. On top of that, Bernard took a look at Mrs. Webb's cell phone records. There was a call made at 8:15 am from Audrey's phone to her mother's."
"If Audrey was home, why would she call her mother? It's arguable that wealth can generate sloth, but not to such an extreme." He stroked his chin pensively. "Celeste Webb didn't tell the detectives about the call?"
"No. She didn't mention any communication with Audrey, whatsoever. I'm thinking that Audrey never went home. We just have to prove that she was the one in Tribeca yesterday morning."
"Or, we'll go from one prime suspect to two," Mike suggested gloomily, moving to his desk and pushing the chair with his foot. It spun precariously at the contact. "Maybe even three—it seems like Mrs. Webb isn't above obfuscating."
Connie scowled at his petulance. With his hands shoved into his pockets and shoe-gazing demeanor, he resembled a kid who had just lost a ball to a forbidden yard. "What's with the defeatist attitude? You should be glad that we have something rather than nothing."
He relaxed his shoulders. "This case… It puts us in an extremely fragile and unfavorable situation. There's a lot at stake here—if we make one wrong move, we'll be chewing leather, Connie. Senator Webb was one of the few people that took a chance on Jack when no one else would. We can't mess this up for him."
There was underlying anxiety to his words that gave Connie the feeling that he was not being entirely forthcoming. "Is that what this is really about?"
"What?" His head shot up, eyes growing narrow with uncertainty and minor displeasure at her insinuation.
She exhaled deeply, hoping he would have the inclination to discuss the issue at hand as adults. "Ever since this morning, when you talked to Ms. Peters, you've been on edge. As your partner, I think it's only fair that you level with me."
"If you're asking me how I got Bianca to leave without putting up a fight, I told her that Jack would be releasing a statement to the press tomorrow. Nothing more. And, if you're actually implying that I would sabotage a potential case by leaking information to satiate the journalistic itch of an ex-…" He trailed off, placing his fist against his forehead. "Look, maybe this is a bad time. I'm sorry."
To an outsider, Mike's misguided melodrama would have been unpleasant and aggravating. But, Connie shrugged it off and extended an olive branch. "You know, I think Jack's still got that whiskey in his drawer. Or, we could head to Maxwell's after work. Either way, I think that you need a drink."
Mike's expression softened, appreciative of her willingness to drop the sore subject. He was grateful that she had neither pressed him further nor stormed out of the office. They had undeniably found their niche in their working relationship, a place of tolerance, empathy, and understanding. Their alliance had grown infrangible. He slumped into his chair and proclaimed, "That's the best damn idea I've heard all day."
...
"Okay, hit me with your best shot." Connie set her beer down on the bar, and shifted on her stool so that she was facing Mike. He hid a smile with his shot glass, eagerly swallowing the burning liquor and shaking his head ardently. "You can't tell me a story like that, and the not give me proof. I'm an ADA, remember? I need evidence. C'mon, give me your best line."
Mike rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright." He adopted a serious expression, and then cocked his left brow. "'Excuse me, but I think you owe me a drink. See, I dropped mine.'"
Connie played along. "How's that my fault?"
"'Well, I was looking at you and tripped over a chair.'"
She burst into laughter. "Not bad, Mike. Better than 'Do you have a Band-aid? I just scraped my knee falling for you.'"
She took another sip of her drink and noticed him gazing at her intently. "What?"
He leaned in closer and softly remarked, "'I'm so completely and utterly mesmerized by you that I forgot my terrible pick-up line.'"
Connie's breath caught in her throat briefly before she plunged back to reality. She laughed nervously, hoping to disguise the flush on her cheeks. "Wow, you're good. Is there anything Mike Cutter can't do?"
He paused, apparently searching his thoughts for an answer to her rhetorical question. "Knitting."
She grinned, fishing her chirping Blackberry from her purse. Her amusement faded to a frown as she read the screen. "It's Lupo. James Northam was just nabbed for public indecency at a bar in Chelsea…"
"Bachelor party gone awry?" Mike quipped.
"A gay bar," she added.
His jaw slackened with bewilderment. "Why can't we ever catch a simple case? Something cut and dry?"
"Is there such a thing?" Connie smirked and procured her wallet. "Come on, let's go."