Title/Author: "Replica" by n.s.
Rating: T
Summary: Jack McCoy has dinner with a journalist. Jack/Claire Kincaid, mainly, with mentions of several other canon characters of that time.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. This story is brought to you by the 20(plus)-year-old repeats of Law & Order that happen to coincide with my daughter's nap time.
xx
Fung Tu, 22 Orchard Street, New York, New York
8:30 pm
"I'll be honest, Mr. McCoy—,"
"—please, call me Jack."
His companion smiled slightly, and nodded.
"Jack," she said as if she was testing out the taste of the word, her voice dropping as she said it in an all-too-familiar way. "I'm surprised by you."
"Why would that be?" he asked, dropping his eyes to the half glass of Scotch floating on the white linen table cloth. He was finding it hard to look at her for too long, and the Scotch he thought would make it easier wasn't.
"Because you're not surprised."
The silence hung between them as the forks and knives of other patrons in the restaurant tinkered around them like a piano jazz solo.
xx
The truth was, he had been surprised to see her.
Two weeks earlier, the sight of her had practically stopped his heart in his chest.
He'd been returning from lunch with Judge Kaplan when he saw her speaking to his secretary. His hand froze on his office door, as did the rest of his body, as he stared. Her strong, dark brows were knitted above huge brown eyes, but her mouth was smiling and cordial, her body language friendly under a tailored camel jacket. A silk scarf was knotted loosely around her collar, and her hair fell in black waves down past her shoulders. He watched his secretary take the message and watched her walk in the opposite direction toward the stairs, eyes downcast to the smartphone in her gloved hand so she never saw him.
"Debbie," he said once he found his voice, moving stiffly to her desk abandoning his previous course directly into his office. "Who was that woman?"
"Um, Sarah Klein? With the Times."
"Who was she here to see?"
"You, actually. I took her message, I didn't realize you got back." Debbie lifted the piece of paper from the top of her pad. "She left a number but didn't say what for, just a case reference number. Looks. Maybe an interview for some true crime thing?"
Jack nodded, his pulse still roaring in his ears.
"Let me have that number."
A quick Google search had rendered several political pieces, dating back three years, including one on him during the previous election season. He read them each carefully, noting her latent admiration shimmering beneath a critical—though accurate—analysis of his own positions.
He dialed her number that evening past seven.
"Klein," she answered brusquely, and he heard the wind popping in the microphone of her phone as though she was walking outside.
"Ms. Klein, this is Jack McCoy."
"Mr. District Attorney," she said with cool, disguised amusement. "I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."
Jack's eyes fell to the case number she had referenced to Debbie. Scott, Mickey, 1996, Case Number 1008015.
"You got my attention."
xx
Fung Tu, 22 Orchard Street, New York, New York
8:30 pm
"More wine, miss?"
"No, thank you," Sarah said with a smile. The waiter looked at Jack.
"I'm fine right now, thank you," he said, regarding the glass again. When the waiter shuffled away, Sarah leaned forward on her elbows, eyes glittering.
"You know I have questions for you," she began, smiling slightly. "But I understand you probably have some for me."
"A few," Jack admitted, leveling his gaze on her eyes, finally. It was the eyes that did him in every time.
"How did you get my name?"
"It wasn't easy, let me tell you," she said proudly, sitting back. "Mike Logan."
Jack allowed a short chuckle. "Not who I expected."
"Adam Schiff?" Sarah asked with a raised eyebrow and the same mischievous smile played on her lips. "He didn't return my call until after Detective Logan."
"And what did Detective Logan tell you about me?" Jack asked, the face of the gruff detective shimmering in his subconscious for the first time in over a decade. Since Lennie Briscoe's funeral.
"He said you were close," Sarah said, shattering the visual of Logan and bringing him back to the present. A very strange present, getting stranger by the second.
"Close enough that he said the sight of me might kill you. But, here you are, alive and well. I can't help but think…" she trailed off, sitting forward and tapping her nails dully on the tablecloth.
"What?" Jack asked, feigning innocence. "That I'm at an age where nothing could possibly surprise me anymore?"
"No," she said quietly, her gaze level and intense, her smile gone. "I can't help but think she told you something about me."
xx
"What is it?"
"What is what?"
Jack closed the space between them in the empty elevator, putting a hand on her arm."You're shaking."
Claire bit her bottom lip, hard. Not a seduction, but to keep it from trembling.
"That testimony just…" she shook her head and pressed her eyes closed.
"It was awful," Jack said, squeezing her arm gently and attempting to pull her closer. She resisted.
"I just can't…" She shook her head more emphatically. "Foster care is meant to take children out of the exact situation it put Steven Barlett in."
"Ours isn't the only system that's deeply flawed, Claire," Jack said, his voice gentle but his eyes squinting, trying to see past the facade and what it was that she was trying to keep inside.
"Flawed?" Claire exclaimed, her voice pinging off of the metal walls. "How would someone like them get past the screening process to take in a child? How—,"
Before he could answer, the doors opened and the chaos of the bottom floor of the courthouse poured in.
He kept his hand on her arm as they manuevered through the crowd, falling slightly behind her to murmur in her ear,"Are you going to be okay?"
"Yes," she said, steel in her voice as they moved towards the door. She slid out of his grasp, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear with a slight tremble before striding ahead and out of his reach in every way.
xx
"Not specifically."
Sarah pressed on despite his evasiveness. "But you had some idea. That would make you the only person besides her parents who knew."
"You spoke to Dr. Gellar," Jack realized aloud.
"I visit him about once a month. He's still puttering around in Boston," Sarah watched his reaction and added, "He didn't mention you."
"He wouldn't have known to."
"Another interesting facet to all of this," Sarah mused. "After Detective Logan gave me your name, I asked Mac about you. He said he remembered that you worked together, but wasn't sure what else you'd be able to offer."
"I'll be honest with you, now, Ms. Klein—,"
"—Sarah," she corrected, smiling sweetly as she ended the formality in the same manner he did.
"Sarah. I don't know how much good I'll be to you."
She nodded, never blinking.
"I understand that. But anything you can offer that can help me is deeply appreciated."
"To what end?" he asked, his stomach turning slightly so that instead of a gulp he took a shallow sip of his Scotch.
"I guess it's an occupational hazard," Sarah said, leaning back. "People fascinate me. Who they are, why they make the choices they make. Especially someone who had such a pivotal role in my own life. Even…briefly."
Jack stared down at his drink again.
"And what happens if you don't like the answers to your questions?" he asked quietly.
"Another occupational hazard," Sarah replied darkly, with a half-smile that was equally self-effacing and apologetic. "I didn't even know Claire Kincaid existed until almost 20 years after she died. I'm not expecting some Hallmark moment. I just want to know…whatever I can. And I'll find a way to live with whatever I learn."
Another silence, the clamor of the dinner rush dying down around them so it felt in that moment they were the only ones in the world.
"What do you want to know?" Jack said finally, meeting her gaze and pushing the heartache down as far as he could, to the depths where his Scotch was burning.
"Let me ask you this, Jack," Sarah challenged. "What do you think she would want me to know?"