Disclaimer: I don't own Law and Order in any of its incarnations. Be glad I don't, because it would probably become a romantic comedy if I did.
A/N: This story is set directly after Closure, Part II, but assumes Harper Anderson and Mrs. Cleary did not kill Kenneth Cleary after the mistrial was declared. Did anyone else notice that the profile of the victims sounded a lot like a description of Alex? Except for the part where Alex lives on the Upper West Side; I went ahead and relocated her apartment building to the East Side to make the story work. :P
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"Acquire some professionalism," I mutter, pacing the length of the tiny elevator in my building as I wait for it to reach my floor. Judge Barry's comment about my lack of professionalism still stings, and it's doubly worse because there's a small part of me that agrees with her. Cleary's wife was unstable and I put her on the stand anyway. "But I needed her," I sigh. "I needed the jewelry to prove the timeline of the rapes. Besides, professionalism wouldn't have helped me handle Mrs. Cleary. Ventriloquism might have done the trick, but there's no other way for me to control the excited utterances of my witnesses...especially the crazy ones." The elevator dings and I sigh, stepping off onto my floor. "Oh, who am I kidding? They're all crazy."
"Alex?" calls a familiar voice. I turn around and see Clara Deluca, my friend and next-door neighbor, giving me a curious look. She probably heard me talking to myself. I do my best to put a smile on my face as she comes closer. After today's trial, though, I don't feel like I've got much to smile about.
"I haven't seen you in days," she scolds mildly, stopping long enough to give me our usual greeting: air kisses on either cheek. I reciprocate, taking a break from blaming myself for the disaster that was the Cleary trial to be amused by this daily ritual. Neither one of us has ever been any closer to France than drinking Perrier with our Caesar salads at lunch, but over the three years we've known each other the traditional French gesture has become a running joke.
"Clara. Yeah, I've been busy at work." I search for a change of subject and find one when I notice her apparel. "Are you headed out this late?" I ask politely, but we both know my real question is, "Are you headed out this late dressed like that?" She's wearing a men's t-shirt, presumably her fianc's since it's practically a dress on her, the scruffiest sweatpants on the planet and a pair of bright blue Old Navy sandals. It's not exactly her usual trendy ensemble.
"Nah," she laughs, grabbing the elevator door before it can close. "I'm just going down to check the mail. I'm expecting Gabriel's birthday present to get here any day now, and I don't want him snooping around and finding it, so I'm going to grab it and hide it in my office until the big day. Since you don't actually have to go into the lobby to get the mail anymore, I'm declaring a dress-down day and going like this."
"Good luck," I tell her. She winks as the elevator doors close, whisking her downstairs to the mailboxes, and I return to wallowing in self-recrimination over the Cleary trial as I walk down the hall to my apartment.
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I wander aimlessly around my apartment for almost an hour. I turn the TV on, but I can't find anything interesting. It's typical: six hundred channels and still nothing worth watching.
I spend fifteen minutes trying to choose between a rerun of 'Three's Company' and an episode of 'Lifestyles of the Disgustingly Rich and Famous'. I finally give up and turn off the television, immediately missing the background noise. Pushing the thought out of my mind, I realize that since I missed dinner I should probably eat something, and head into the kitchen. I consider making dinner, decide it's too much trouble, and grab a cup of yogurt from the fridge.
"This night is a total loss," I mutter out loud, my voice echoing in the impersonal steel-and-tile kitchen. Finishing my yogurt in relative silence, I put the spoon in the dishwasher, and I'm about to throw away the empty plastic cup when I notice the recyclable plastic emblem on the side. It occurs to me that I ought to be recycling my yogurt containers, since I eat at least one yogurt a day, and I resolve to look into it tomorrow.
"No wonder I spend so much time at work," I sigh. "The most exciting prospect in my personal life is getting a recycling bin."
I pour myself a glass of water from the Brita filter and bring it with me into the bedroom, making sure to turn off the lights in the kitchen and living room. If I'm going to start recycling, I might as well conserve energy, too.
About three seconds later, I regret shutting off the lights. It seems darker in my apartment than usual. Feeling unsettled, I sit down on the bed, resting the water glass on my nightstand and glancing at the window.
"It's locked," I assure myself. I'm trying to be amused at my own unease, but it's not working. Feeling like a frightened child checking the closet for nighttime monsters, I go over and tug on the window frame. It doesn't budge.
"I told you," I say, and then shake my head at my own ridiculousness. "Great. I've graduated from talking to myself to arguing with myself. I'm losing my mind."
Kenneth Cleary's victims were all blonde, the persistent little voice in the back of my head reminds me. Blonde, pretty, single, living on the Upper East Side, fire escape leading into the apartment. Just like you.
"And their windows were all unlocked," I scold myself. "You just checked. It's fine. Time for bed."
This miniature motivational speech gets me back to the bed and tucked under the covers, but as I reach up to flip the switch on my bedside lamp, I hesitate. Clara's home. I could go over to her apartment, hang out for a little while. It's almost 12:30 in the morning now, but she'll still be up, waiting for Gabriel to come home. Her fiancé works the 3pm to midnight shift. He might be home by now, actually. I know they wouldn't mind if I did show up; not Clara and Gabriel, the patron saints of insomnia. They'd probably be glad to have a new player join their late-night playback of this evening's 'Jeopardy!', taped because they both work well past 8pm every night. I'd certainly feel a lot safer with Gabriel around. I could just tell them I got lonely; they'd buy it. It's not like I'd have to admit that I'm so worried about a case that I'm afraid to sleep in my own apartment...
"Ridiculous," I tell myself firmly, banishing the thought from my mind. "You have to work tomorrow. You're a professional, Alexandra. Go to sleep."
Decisively, I turn off the light and snuggle down into my bed, pulling the covers tight around me. The window is locked. Everything's fine.