Connie Rubirosa sat on the bed in the guest room in her uncle’s house and opened her laptop, thinking absently that she might check her email … and maybe a little news from back home.She clicked through the email—mostly spam—and then went to the WNBC website and scrolled down the page, scanning the headlines until one caught her eye.
ADA’s apartment burns in three-alarm fire.
Feeling slightly panicky, she clicked the link and began reading.Apartment of ADA Michael Cutter … suspected involvement of a meth lab … District Attorney Jack McCoy to give press conference at ….
She checked the clock in the corner of her screen; she’d left it set to Eastern time—.She clicked the link to take her to the streaming video of the press conference.McCoy was standing on the familiar steps of the courthouse; apparently, he’d just been asked a question.
“…Were there any fatalities.One that I know of,” he said, and pointed to a reporter.
Rubirosa’s gut clenched and she kept watching.
McCoy listened intently—as usual, the question wasn’t picked up by the microphones—and responded, “Mr. Cutter was treated and released this morning.He’s had a few, minor complications, but I have been assured that he will be fine.Next.”
There was the faint sound of a reporter’s voice.
“Anything you want to know about a possible meth lab, you’ll have to ask the police,” McCoy answered.Knowing him as she did, Rubirosa thought he sounded tense, uneasy.“One more question.”He selected a reporter and waited.“The question was whether any charges will be filed.That won’t be determined until the investigation is completed.Thank you.”Amid the babble of voices clamoring for his attention, he stepped away from the microphones.
Rubirosa closed her laptop and leaned back against the wall, thinking.Mike’s apartment burned down.But it sounds like he’s okay … I wonder if anything was salvageable? I wonder why no one bothered to call me?