Here's What You Missed: The case took a turn, and Audrey Webb, the blushing-bride-to-be, was arrested for the murder of her wedding planner. Things were going smoothly until an eyewitness' testimony was tossed out, leaving Mike and Connie with an even bigger mystery to solve. Nothing seems to be adding up for the dynamic duo! Just who's protecting Martha Muñiz, who killed Jacinda Chambers, and why does Bianca Peters keep popping up?

…*...*...

Saturdays at the DA's office were laid back. The boss was never there; the dress code went unenforced; and someone always pitched in for carbohydrate-laden breakfast. This Saturday was particularly uneventful, and as Connie dumped a packet of sugar into her coffee mug, she wondered why she had even bothered to come in. She stirred lazily and trancedly gazed out of the glass partition that separated the elevators and reception desk from the reference room. The encircling noise of an overworked fax machine, the symphony of ergonomic keyboards, and the periodic ding! of arriving visitors and employees nearly lulled her to sleep. She yawned, glancing over at the belabored copier. It was only 10:15, but she was ready to call it a day. Her eyes throbbed slightly and began to water, tattling on her for staying up past midnight to finish the latest novel in her favorite series.

Hot liquid splashed onto Connie's hand, and she realized that she had never stopped stirring her coffee. She quickly grabbed a pile of napkins and attempted to halt the spill from spreading to the carpet. Movement from beyond the glass screen caught her eye and she glanced up briefly, then again, doing a double take. Mike had just arrived, garbed in dirt-stained baseball pants, a dingy blue and white jersey, and cleats. He lugged a large black gym bag down the corridor and into his office.

It was a majority opinion that the man looked good in a suit, but remarkably, he looked even better in dusty, soiled sports gear. Connie felt a blooming flush on her cheeks and quickly banished the unchaste thoughts from her mind. That earth-shattering (and regrettably neglected) moment in his office from a few days before had incited a terrible preoccupation with the possibility of a romantic involvement. However, the fact that she had no clue why Mike was wearing a baseball jersey to work put a giant gaping hole in her pipe dream. The disheartening truth was that after three years of working together, she really didn't know much about the elusive Mike Cutter. As she slogged to her desk, she realized that she could count the number of personal facts she knew about him on her one, free hand. The risible thought of having him fill out a survey brought an impudent smile to her lips. What's your favorite color? Food? If you could be any animal, what would you be? Coke or Pepsi?

"Yeah, that's not awkward," she mused aloud, gathering up a few important documents from her workstation and crossing the distance to Mike's closed door. She straightened her clothes—jeans and a fitted turquoise sweater—and knocked, before turning the handle and stepping inside.

"'Morning! I've got some bad ne-…" she trailed, seeing that Mike had just tugged off his dingy over-shirt, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath. The jerked, fleeting motion exposed a plat of his lean, and surprisingly athletic, frame. Her train of cognition crashed and burned, and she gawked defenselessly, wholly captivated by the extempore and moderately embarrassing moment. Indulgence of woolgathering to get through a boring case brief was one thing, but this had gone entirely too far. Sighing and salivating over a supervisor—trying saying that ten times fast—was unacceptable behavior for a consummate professional in such an esteemed office. Connie rustled up a sentence, stammering, "-news. I'll…come back later."

"No, it's fine," Mike replied, focusing his attention on his laptop screen—presumably, an email. With an expression of concentration, he glanced up at Connie, completely oblivious to the reaction he had triggered. "Actually, I take that back. Is there food?"

"There might be a few lingering pastries," Connie arched her brow and slouched against the door frame. "What's with the outfit?"

"I coach Little League during the summer. Practice ran late. What were you saying? Bad news?" Mike sidled past her and hightailed it to the lackluster display of muffins and Danish in the conference room. Connie followed closely behind, struggling to focus on the task at hand. The thought of cutthroat EADA Mike Cutter teaching kids how to perfect line drives and evade foul balls was adorably disarming. Why had he never told her about his endearing extracurricular persona before? She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, hoping that the gesture would somehow push her internal dialogue to the background.

"Right. Bad news. Icon Parking sent copies of the security tapes from the North Greenwich garage to Lupo and Bernard-…" she paused. Mike had discovered the empty glass carafe sizzling away on the hot plate of the coffeemaker, and he was not amused. She switched the machine off and handed him her mug, from which she had yet to take a sip. Wordlessly, he accepted it and nodded in appreciation. Connie proceeded with her summary, "The entire stream of footage from 7:30 am to 8:00 am on the morning of the murder? Gone. It's dead air."

Mike sputtered.

"The official story is that there was a temporary outage among their surveillance systems in several structures across the city, but Lupo dug deeper and got the actual story." She introduced a photocopy of Icon Parking system maintenance logs. "All systems were a go, except the ones on Greenwich, 30th, and the FDR—a tidy little trail to the Long Island Expressway."

"That almost seems like someone was trying to sneak back to Bridgehampton," Mike smirked, stating the obvious conclusion in a brassy manner.

"This was no crime of passion," Connie reached across him and grabbed a bran muffin. "It was calculated and well-executed, if you ask me."

"We just need to finalize our theory before the preliminary hearing on Monday—that's if Jack lets us go through with it. He won't be too happy about the sad state of our discovery index." They meandered to the hallway, munching on their mid-morning snacks.

Connie hesitated, her eyes lighting up with her latest Eureka! "I have an idea."

…*...*...

Anita Van Buren opened her apartment door to find a friendly face standing in the hall. She smiled welcomingly and took a step back, signaling for her visitor to enter. "It's been too long, Counselor."

Connie chuckled, enveloping Anita in a one-armed hug. "Are the formalities really necessary?"

"Old habits die hard. Make yourself at home! Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?"

"Oh, no thanks! I'm fine." Connie accompanied Anita to the kitchenette, where they sat at the small circular table. She sighed deeply and regarded the older woman with warmth. "How are you?"

"All things considered, I'm hangin' in there. How are you? 'Holding down the fort?" Anita absently smoothed the scarf that was tied over her hair, a reminder that though she was in remission, she was still enduring a debilitating affliction.

"You know me: the perpetual keeper of the peace. Mike and Jack. Mike and Lupo. Mike and Bernard… Wow, I'm detecting a pattern." They shared knowing looks and muted, albeit wicked laughs.

"I believe it." Anita rose and retrieved a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the spigot on the freezer door. "So, you wanted to talk to me about Jacinda?"

"I'm sorry. I feel terrible putting you through this, but I just… I have a few questions. I wouldn't be here if Mike and I weren't at our wits' end." Connie nervously tapped her nails against the smooth surface of the table.

"Oh, it's quite alright… Are you forgetting what I did for 32 years? I'm the queen of inopportune procedure and protocol. Ask away!"

Connie knitted her brows in appreciation. "Dominique and Jacinda were still very close?"

"Well, after high school, they went off and did their own thing. You know, different crowds. Different aspirations. But yes… I'd say they were close. They kept in touch, especially when Jackie agreed to help with the wedding."

"Can you think of anything, anything at all, that might help us with Audrey Webb's motive?" Connie rubbed her forehead in frustration. "I would hate to drop the ball on this one, but in all honesty, our case… it's a complete mess."

"Jackie never mentioned anything about her other clients… not even to Dominique. If she was in trouble or if she was planning anything, she didn't tell anyone. Although," Anita gazed out the large bay window, "there was one thing that I thought was odd. She met up with Frank and I at the florist one afternoon, and she got a phone call. She seemed upset…almost paranoid."

Connie listened raptly. "Did you catch any names? Does anything stand out in your mind?"

"No, nothing—just that it was clear that she wasn't talking to a friend. It was urgent. I only caught the first part of the conversation. Something about a being late for a meeting? I'm trying to recall the name… "

Fishing a notepad out of her purse, Connie pressed further. "Could it have been 'James'? Or 'Celeste'? What about 'Sherman'? Or 'Martha'?"

"No," Anita shook her head. "I'm sorry, nothing is ringing a bell. I really wish I could help you."

Connie slumped in her chair, defeated and ready to give up. "I'm back to square one." Then, on second thought: "I'm sorry. I'm being completely insensitive. If anyone's in a rut, it's you. What are you and Frank going to do about the wedding? I can't even imagine what it's like to have such a special day taken away from you."

"You know, I had that special day once already, and look how it turned out for me…. So, if Frank and I have to get married in the cleaning supply closet at City Hall, I think I'd be okay with that."

Connie winced with empathy and remorse, recalling that Anita's first husband had put her through the ringer. She had been a woman scorned and humiliated, yet she seemed all the better for it. Her resolve was admirable and enviable. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"What the hell am I thinking getting married again?" Anita quipped with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

Connie grinned. "Well, that isn't quite how I would've worded it, but… I mean, you had every reason to avoid getting close to anyone. What made you decide to try again? To let yourself be so vulnerable?"

Anita cupped her glass fondly, carefully considering her answer. "When you find the person that you are supposed to be with, you just…know. Sometimes, you have to take a few detours to get to that place, but when you do, you'll know. Even now, through all of this… I still believe that me and Frank are going to be alright." The clock above the stove ticked loudly in the ruminative silence. "What about you?"

"Me?" Connie scoffed. "I'm a realist. I spend half my time at the Courthouse, and the other half… it's split between sleeping, eating, Hallmark movie marathons, and Mike. I've considered renting out the couch in his office, because I see him more than I see my landlord."

"Is that so bad?"

"It's a catch-22. I don't want my job to be my life, but I also can't imagine my life without my job."

"I was talking about your partner," Anita arched her brow suggestively. "You've been here less than 15 minutes, and I can't even count how many times you've said his name. You two seemed awfully close at that little get-together in May."

Connie reddened at the observation. It was true… She always found herself thinking about him. Talking about him. She chewed her lip and rejected the idea with dissenting wave of her hand. "We're colleagues. Anything more than that is just... It's not an option." Finally, she had willed herself to say it aloud. Perhaps that would make it more finite. "You know what kind of situation that would put me in. Besides, he has a type, and it's not me. In fact, I had the pleasure of meeting one of his bubbly, blonde college conquests. You've probably heard of her. Bianca Peters? The reporter from-…"

"Bianca?" Anita interrupted. The name appeared to have triggered a recollection. "You know, I'd completely forgotten about this, but a few weeks ago, we were supposed to take a look at the Midtown Loft. Jacinda canceled. She said something about an interview with a reporter from the Ledger."

Gaping in disbelief, Connie had to be sure. "Reporter... As in Bianca Peters?"

"Yes! I'm positive that's the name I overheard."

…*...*...

Monday morning was the embodiment of muggy and stagnant. The sky was gray, suggesting a promise of rain, but the air was thick and stiflingly sticky. Summer in the city was the antithesis of the snow banks and icy patches that blanketed the sidewalks in the winter months. Connie stood near the entrance of the Courthouse with her cell phone in hand, waiting impatiently for Mike to arrive for the scheduled hearing. She spotted him emerging from one of the taxis that flanked the barriers lining Centre Street, and her stomach vaulted toward her chest in an unsanctioned flutter. He was not alone, however. A familiar figure shadowed him, pulling at the hem of her skirt as she slammed the car door. What the hell was he doing with Bianca?

As the pair ascended the steps, Connie clenched her jaw and fists, silently praying for the wherewithal to maintain composure.

"Good morning, Ms. Rubirosa," Bianca greeted unenthusiastically.

"'Morning," Connie muttered. "Mike? A word with you?"

"You read my mind," he placed his hand on her back and brusquely escorted her to a more secluded section of the portico.

"I have been trying to reach you all morning. Where have you been?" she hissed in a low register, not wanting to attract attention to their conversation.

"I'm sorry, I was busy prepping the witness that you summoned without telling me. Bianca called me yesterday, saying that the Detectives cornered her outside of her building. They were asking questions about Jacinda Chambers! Would you like to fill me in, preferably beginning with the part where you thought I would be okay with you amending the witness list without consulting me first?" The last time Connie had been on the receiving party of this particular Mike Cutter scowl, it had nearly ended their working relationship.

Not this time, though. Connie stood her ground. "I went to see Anita on Saturday afternoon. She told me that a week before the murder, Jacinda was on the phone with Bianca, and it wasn't a pleasant little chat about garter belts and cake toppers. It was an uncanny coincidence and highly suspect behavior that warranted a more in-depth look. I took the liberty to-…"

"It wasn't yours to take, Connie. You were out of line!"

"Excuse me?" she gaped in affronted disbelief. "I'm following the facts, Mike. You, on the other hand, are allowing your personal inclinations to cloud your prosecutorial judgment! If this were any other case, you would've had her arrested for obstruction of justice. Bianca never bothered to come forward, even though she knew about the Webbs' arrangement with James Northam, which she knew about because Jacinda went to her looking for a deal! Unlimited access to inside information in exchange for a plug in the Ledger and her 15 minutes of fame. Bianca knew about verbal threats made against Jacinda. She knew that Jacinda was terrified of Audrey's temper and her history of being unstable!"

"Are you listening to yourself right now?" Mike paced impatiently. "Two seconds ago, her behavior was 'highly suspect', and now you trust her enough to put her on the stand?"

"Regardless of my distaste for professional scandal-mongers-..."

"Oh, that's clever," Mike retorted insincerely.

"…-Bianca's testimony is invaluable to our case."

"How? You're accomplishing nothing other than imbuing reasonable doubt and a complete lack of credibility. If Bianca goes on that stand, you think that Eleanor Harper won't manipulate and skew every word until we aren't even sure who was driving that car? You're way off base here, Connie. I don't know what you were thinking."

A slight breeze whipped through the arcade, splashing hair across Connie's disconcerted face. She brushed it away and studied Mike with resentment. "Your confidence in me is so reassuring."

She stormed past him, taking deep breaths to clear the red haze from her vision. Once she was on the third floor, she made a beeline for the courtroom. A gloating and unpalatable voice carried from the bench near the window, and Connie turned to see Bianca smiling smugly. "Good luck in there, today, Ms. Rubirosa. I'm so glad that I could be of assistance to you and Michael. I'm only sorry that I didn't have the courage to come forward sooner."

Connie did not take kindly to ridicule in sheep's clothing, and she snubbed the phony armistice, taking a few resolute steps toward her adversary. "Let's get one thing straight, Ms. Peters. I'm the one doling out the favors, here. The only reason you shirked an indictment for hindering prosecution is because your testimony today will help us put Jacinda Chambers' murderer away for a very long time."

"You're so certain that this will go to trial," Bianca smirked mischievously. "Ambition is a virtue, but pride can be deadly. Be mindful of whom you tread upon in your incessant, voracious quest for justice, Counselor."

What was that supposed to mean? Connie was not going to be snared into whatever mind game Bianca was attempting to employ. "I'll see you on the stand. Oh, and just a heads up: you're going to have to take an oath on the Bible... "

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry... I don't follow?" A look of perplexity contorted Bianca's soft features.

"I'm just making sure that bursting into flames won't be an issue."

Bianca's eyes darkened as the meaning of Connie's words slowly sunk in, and her lips tightened into a thin line. Feeling a guilty sense of satisfaction, Connie entered the courtroom and pushed through the wooden gate that separated the well from the gallery. She took a seat at the Prosecution's table, and Mike materialized in her peripheral vision a few moments later. In the suffocating friction that persisted from their disagreement outside, they silently awaited their fate.