Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, and no profit is made from these stories. (But I do have fun writing them: )
Spring 1996
Ben's European travels had finally brought him to Paris. And it was a wonderful first day in the city – he'd toured the Louvre, visited the Eiffel Tower, eaten a five-star French dinner, and was now in his hotel room overlooking the Champs Elysees.
He was trying to sleep, but just couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong – or about to go that way. An uneasy feeling settled heavy in his stomach and resonated through his entire body, keeping him awake.
Ben mentally ran through his traveler's checklist. He had his passport, all his luggage, he'd remembered to tip the waiter back at the restaurant, and his wallet sat squarely in the middle of the nightstand.
Maybe it was something back home. Not his daughter; he'd spoken to her only a few hours ago. Or his ex-wife, who was now remarried and living in Arizona. He had also spoken to Adam recently and he was fine as well; although he seemed very troubled about the execution that was scheduled to take place soon.
That couldn't be what was troubling Ben. He sympathized with his former boss's plight, but was now so far removed from the Manhattan District Attorney's Office that he sometimes forgot he'd ever been there. He could thank the rich European wine for that.
And he refused to even think about the last possibility. It was simply too painful, a reminder of the happiness he might have had. But he'd conceded that fight, handing the prize over to Jack McCoy and simpering away like the loser he was. All because he didn't really believe he could win.
So he shrugged off his intuition; it had obviously run amok this time. He finally fell asleep, only to be awakened by the harsh ring of the telephone at his bedside. Sitting up, he swiped at it several times before lifting the receiver from its cradle.
"Hello?" he croaked.
"Ben." It was Adam. And something was wrong – he could tell by the sound of the other man's voice.
"Adam?" Ben glanced at the digital alarm clock. "It's 2 a.m. here."
"Claire Kincaid was in a car accident last night."
There it was. He'd been right all along. But that still didn't ease the shock; Ben felt as though Adam had just knocked him across the head with a two-by-four.
"How…what…is she okay?"
The hard swallow was audible on the other end of the line, across the ocean and what seemed like a million miles away.
"She's dead, Ben. I'm sorry."
The room was spinning. Ben's stomach turned, his fine French dinner landing all over himself and the bed. He'd dropped the receiver; it was hanging somewhere between the bed and the floor. Adam was shouting for him, but it sounded tinny and distant. Only two words sounded in Ben's head.
Claire. Dead.
After a few minutes, Ben regained his bearings. The smell of vomit permeated the air, but he barely noticed the mess he'd made of himself. He reached for the receiver; he had only one question.
"How did it happen?" He wasn't sure if Adam even heard; he had trouble finding his voice.
"Ben…I don't think it's wise to discuss that right now…"
"Adam, please. I need to know."
There was a pause. If Adam knew him at all, he'd know that there would be no ending this phone call without answers.
"It was a drunk driver," Adam conceded. "She went to pick Jack up somewhere, but he'd already gone. Detective Briscoe was there, and she ended up driving him home instead. Her car was T-boned, and the impact was on her side. That's all I know."
"Okay," Ben said softly. "Thanks for letting me know."
"What about you?" Adam asked. "I know you loved her."
"I'll be fine," Ben said.
The remainder of his pride was the only leg he had to stand on.
finis