Disclaimer: I don't own Connie, Mike, Carly, Judge Reynolds, or any of the L&O characters. They belong to Dick Wolf and NBC.

AN: This takes place within the episode "Zero."

"There they are. Let's go." Mike hailed a taxi, and held the door open for Connie, sliding onto the seat next to her. He brandished his ID and told the driver to follow the black town car making a left onto Worth.

Connie erupted into a spell of laughter. Mike's blue eyes observed her suspiciously, tacitly questioning her outburst. Attempting to regain composure, she apologetically placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry… this is all just extremely amusing to me."

"What is?"

"We're in cab tailing Judge Reynolds and your girlfriend, so that we can waste our lunchtime snooping around and testing your hypothesis."

"She's not my girlfriend," Mike snapped defensively.

"Regardless, I feel like a sleeper agent."

"Lock her in a stall if you have to."

Connie made her way to the women's room, devising a strategy along the way. She pushed open the door with a squeak and stealthily peeked at the tile floor, recognizing Carly's shoes. They were alone, thank goodness. She caught her reflection in the mirror and approached the sink, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears. She ran her hands down her hips, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. Carly emerged from her stall a moment later, and Connie feigned a lapse in memory. "I know you...You're Judge Reynolds' clerk… Carly, right?"

"Yes," the blonde responded, donning a sickeningly charming counterfeit grin. "You're Mike's assistant…"

"Colleague, actually."

"Right," Carly dismissed. "I didn't catch your name."

"Connie." Seeing that conniving blonde was headed for the door, Connie panicked and utilized the only weapon she could think of—a catfight. "So, you and Mike…you're an item?"

"You could say that," Carly boasted, tossing her paper towel into the trash receptacle. "Is that a problem for you?"

"No, of course not. He could be my father," Connie made light of the insinuation. "It just seems a little one sided, don't you think? I mean, he's never mentioned you before...and he's here with me, not you."

"We try not to mix business with pleasure. What's your point?"

"I'm just saying that it could be a little embarrassing for you if you two aren't on the same page about your relationship status."

"Listen, sweetie," Carly hissed, "this anorexic, Latina ice queen look you've got going on may have everyone else fooled, but you and I both know that you're as plastic and fake as your tits. Mike knows a real woman when he sees one."

In spite of the pejorative and slightly racist remark, Connie quashed the urge to drag Carly to the stall and dunk her peroxide infested head into the toilet repeatedly. With her jaw clenched, she concocted her retaliation. "He sees you for what you are—a manipulative law school reject. Mike is going to prove that you're taking advantage of a compromised judge, working Malcolm Reynolds like a puppet. And when he does, you won't have a job or your dignity."

"Are you threatening me?"

In the back pocket of her pencil skirt, Connie's phone vibrated. She prayed it was a signal that Mike was finished with his investigation. Sensing that it was time to retreat, she quickly cut her losses. "No, I'm just giving you a little glimpse at your future. See you around."

Outside of the restaurant, Connie spotted Mike near one of the planters, fiddling with his Blackberry. "How'd it go?"

"He couldn't remember a thing."

"Sound like you've got your ammunition to have him removed," Connie's briefcase swayed against her legs as they walked down Thomas.

"Why do I feel nauseous then?"

"It's called a conscience," she smirked. They remained in silence until she saw her silhouette in the windows of a bank on Worth. "Can I ask you something?"

Mike grunted passively, lost in a haze of deliberation and, presumably, self-pity.

"Do you think I'm a bitch?"

Slowing his pace, he pondered her question. "No…"

"Okay," she shrugged.

"Where did that come from?" he pressed.

Connie averted his inquisitive gaze. "Carly was going to leave. I had to stop her."

"What did you do?" Mike arched his brow, now utterly engrossed in the conversation.

"Nothing, really," Connie glossed over the details. "But she got personal and called me a skinny, Latina ice queen. I'm just curious if that's her opinion or an overall perception."

Mike cleared his throat to discourage the smug smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in the ladies room of Odeon. He chose his words carefully. "You can be a little unapproachable, but so can I. At the end of the day, does that really matter, though? As long as we do our jobs and pursue justice, who cares what other people think of us?"

Considering his rationalization, Connie determined that it was satisfactory and nodded appreciatively. "Thanks."

"No problem. And if it's any consolation," he continued, suddenly caught up in a very interesting non-existent e-mail on his phone, "the office survey says you're at least a 9.5."

Cocking her head at his surprising disclosure, she gasped, "Survey? You rank the females?"

"I've said too much already," Mike contended, narrowly missing the jab she aimed at his arm.

"I can't believe you guys, Mike. That's terrible!" Connie expressed her disapproval all the way down Centre to Leonard and up the elevator ride to the office.

Growing tired of the castigation, Mike tossed his briefcase on the couch and brushed past his brooding partner in the doorway. "I'm going to go talk to Jack. You coming?"

Connie unfolded her arms from across her chest and relaxed her glare. "Right, about Judge Reynolds… Don't think you're off the hook, though. I want to see the list or I spill the beans about your secret census."

Unfazed by her poor attempt at blackmail, Mike casually tucked his hands into his pockets, chewing the inside of his cheek. "How about… I tell you that Carly is a solid 8 and you keep this on the DL."

They scrutinized one another briefly before Connie extended her hand. "Deal."