...

James Northam was a slender man with well-tailored hair, defined cheekbones, and crisp, clean clothing. He sat patiently in the chair in the interrogation room, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. He was the quintessential image of status, class, and an Ivy League education. However, a slowly drying trail of blood stemming from his swollen bottom lip told a different story. Upon closer inspection, a tinge of violet was beginning to spread across the skin under his left eye. The door opened, and Detectives Lupo and Bernard appeared. They each pulled out a chair and the metal legs scraped loudly against the floor. James studied them coolly.

"So," Bernard began, "my partner and I, we're a little confused. We can't seem to figure out why on Earth you would kill your wedding planner four days before you were scheduled to say 'I do.'"

"Now wait a minute, B," Lupo joined in, his tone thick with sarcasm. "We're only assuming that James is the murderer. We found his inhaler in the car, but that doesn't make him guilty."

"No, Lupes, I think we're on to something here. The housekeeper said that he and Jacinda were having an affair. Maybe Jacinda decided to spill the beans—maybe there was some money involved—and Romeo here didn't want his fiancée to find out."

"Are we on the right track, James? If we're way off base, feel free to let us know."

James smiled eerily and shifted in his seat, slinging an arm over the back of the chair. "Either you're bluffing or that nosey wetback is lying. Jackie wasn't exactly my type, if you catch my drift."

Angered by the racist comment, Bernard stood and leaned closer to the arrogant suspect. "Because she's black, or because you've got a secret?"

"How did your fiancée feel about your affinity for the bathroom at Barracuda?" Lupo snapped.

James shook his head, frowning in a comical and exaggerated manner. "You know, in our circle of delusional socialites and sycophants, I'm Audrey's eccentric fiancé—her sophisticated and refined fiancé. It's 2010, but I'm still supposed to hide away in the closet... A walk-in closet full of skeletons."

"You can wax philosophical later, Howard Hughes. Why don't you tell us where you were Wednesday morning and how this car," Lupo slid a photo of the damaged Mercedes across the table, "got that dent?"

"And then," Bernard continued, hovering menacingly over James, "you're going to tell us every last detail about where you've been for the past 48 hours—and I mean everything. I want to know what you ate for lunch and how many times you stopped to take a piss. A woman is dead, James, and if you don't start talking, I'm going to see to it that you take a trip to our closet; it's called Central Booking."

James leered, calmly taping his fingers against the table. "Alright, I'll play along. Gee, I'm sorry, I don't know how Audrey's car ended up with a dent. Maybe she hit something."

Lupo's patience was running thin. James' sadistic humor was not amusing at all. "Celeste Webb told us that you borrowed the car to take care of some business at the wedding venue. Manhattan is a long way from Shelter Island."

"Celeste is lying… She's just trying to protect me."

"And why would she do that?"

"Because to her, I'm a saint. I'm the only one who's willing to play house and marry her harpy of a daughter. The truth is, Detectives, I've been in Manhattan since Monday night. I'm staying with my boyfriend, Richard."

Lupo and Bernard exchanged perplexed looks. "Are you saying that you have some sort of arrangement with the Webbs?"

"You see, little Audrey has always been…problematic." James emphasized his words with irreverence, stifling laughter and anxiously tapping his foot. "She's been to rehab several times for her nasty cocaine habit under the guise of 'boarding school' and 'Swedish spa retreat.' Whatever excuse they could come up with. She's an embarrassment to that family, and they practically begged me to take her off of their hands. Imagine how awful it would look if good ol' Sherman was writing checks to D.A.R.E., while Audrey's getting her stomach pumped at Mercy General. It would be an absolute press circus, followed by career homicide. So, they found a nice young man from a respectable family to clean up the mess. It's a win-win situation, Detectives. The Webbs keep their reputation; I get a ridiculously sinful prenupt and a six-figure paycheck. If anything, Jackie's death has put quite the damper on my salary."

Outside the interrogation room, Connie and Captain Reischer raptly observed the interview. Mike stood quietly in the background, hardly masking his disappointment. "If Lupo and Bernard can corroborate James' story, he's off the suspect list. But, don't have enough to charge Audrey Webb with murder, not even by a long shot."

"James said that Celeste was trying to protect him," Connie recalled. "His prints are all over the car, and his inhaler was found under the driver's seat. It's enough to charge him with Vehicular Manslaughter. Maybe it will be enough to get Celeste to crack and give us something on Audrey."

Mike moved toward the window, his face contorted with concentration. "Celeste may be at her wit's end, but what about her husband? I doubt he'll cooperate; he'll be too worried about his image. We'll break down one door only to have another slammed in our face."

Captain Reischer folded his arms across his chest. "I agree with Ms. Rubirosa. If James is telling the truth, then he would be a fool to jeopardize his payout. He's conniving and enterprising, but he's not a killer."

Mike hesitated for a moment, searching Connie for reassurance. She stood confidently, her eyes pleading with him to trust her instinct. "Okay. Vehicular Manslaughter. Can we draw up the indictment before the 48 hour mark?"

Connie was already heading for the door. "I'm on it. I'll have him arraigned by tomorrow afternoon."

...

"How do you plea, Mr. Northam?" The Honorable Judge John Laramie sat equably in his seat at the bench, flipping through the pages of his calendar.

"Not guilty, your Honor." James' eye was now a deep purple, a undeniable contrast to his pallid and tired complexion.

Judge Laramie briefly glanced up toward the gallery. "Ms. Rubirosa?"

"Your Honor, the People request Remand. The defendant plowed through a crowded city street in broad daylight, destroying property and putting innocent bystanders in danger. His actions resulted in the death of a woman who we have reason to believe was a former lover. He evaded the police for two days after the incident, lied about his activities and affiliations, not to mention that his inhaler was found inside the vehicle-..."

"Your Honor, the only evidence the People have against my client is an inhaler, which is only one of the three inhalers that he has in his possession. My client has no prior infractions, comes from a prominent family, and has significant ties to the community and obligations to several proprietary and non-profit organizations. There is no proof that Mr. Northam had engaged in any sort of relationship with the deceased other than the hearsay testimony of a housekeeper." Elizabeth Sanders glared across the well at Connie, earning no reaction in kind. Connie knew that Sanders' bark was worse than her bite. She and Mike had this one in the bag.

"I agree. Frankly, Ms. Rubirosa, I'm surprised that the People are proceeding with this indictment. It must be a slow week for you folks... Bail is set at $2 million." Clack!

Judge Laramie's response came as a surprise, and Connie could hardly conceal her displeasure. She regained composure, realizing that her jaw was actually hanging open. A seething heat rose in her stomach, chest, and cheeks, and she shoved her files into her briefcase. She didn't know which was worse: the thought that James Northam might go free or the thought of Mike's face after she tells him that her plan backfired.

The walk back to the DA's office was a blur. Connie was deeply entrenched in her thoughts, thinking of all possible scenarios. It was the curse of her Astrological Sign—at least that's what she told herself. The mind of a Gemini never rests, ticking and calculating endlessly, a constant cycle of overdrive, worry, and innovation. She trudged toward her desk and unloaded her things, rubbing her forehead in frustration. Instinctively, she walked toward Mike's office, only to find that his door was closed, and he was not alone. He sat perched on his desk talking to someone that was out of Connie's line of vision. She stepped closer and felt her breath swallowed by a treacherous pit in her stomach. Bianca Peters was lounging casually in a chair at Mike's roundtable.

Connie returned to her workstation in a robotic haze, slumping into her black leather seat. Her hands were clammy and her heart was pounding, an involuntary reaction that she neither condoned nor enjoyed. She pressed the power button on her computer monitor, waking up the screen, and pretended to be unconcerned with the conversation beyond the door a few feet away. She wasn't unconcerned, though. She was… annoyed. There was so much work to be done, and Mike was cavorting in his office with an old flame. Even worse, the old flame was a reporter, someone that could easily compromise a case. What was going on with him? What was he thinking? Was it some sort of midlife crisis? She shook her head and cleared her throat, focusing intently on the screen in front of her. No. She was not going to go down that road again. She wasn't his keeper or guardian. He was a big boy. He could handle himself. She just had to trust him the same way she expected him to trust her.

The door swung open, and Bianca emerged with a beaming smile. Mike followed closely behind. Connie gave a slim, half-hearted smile as Bianca passed her desk. She perused through her email, not bothering to acknowledge that Mike had parked himself in the chair adjacent to her. She wasn't going to ask, and she didn't want him to tell. He stole a piece of candy from the jar on the desk and unwrapped it noisily. "How'd it go?"

"Not good," Connie sighed. "Bail's set at $2 million."

She expected Mike to launch into a diatribe, but instead he shrugged, popping the butterscotch lozenge into his mouth. "So we'll find another way, Connie. Call Lupo and Bernard—see if they can stall the Webbs before James posts bail. Maybe we've still got a chance at Celeste."

Connie furrowed her brow, picking up the phone receiver and dialing the 27th Precinct. "Someone's in a good mood. It wouldn't have anything to do with a visit from Ms. Peters would it?"

Mike smirked mischievously. "No—I'm just glad you're back. It was a little lonely in trial without you this morning."

In slight disbelief, Connie allowed his words to sink in as he got up and returned to his office. The sound of an irritated voice snapped her back to reality. -Hello? Hel-lo?- Oops. How long had she been zoned out? "Um… yes… Detective Lupo, please."

...