I'm really sorry I took so long. I wrote myself into a hole, had to type up 4 different versions of this chapter to finally get one right. I'm not terribly happy with it, but it seems to be the best I can do... and I don't want to keep stalling. Once again, thanks to my lovely reviewers, especially those who answered my questions on Claire Kincaid.

4.

"Get anything from the videos, Lennie?"

Lennie Briscoe swiveled around on his chair, welcoming the interruption. Not only was he dead tired after a long hard day, but the surveillance tapes were making him seriously sick. He'd been looking at them for what seemed forever. In reality it must have been an hour—two at most. Ever since he'd got the urgent page from Lieu—"Meet me & Ed at courthouse ASAP. Carmichael down". Enough information to make him dump his Scotch down the drain and take off—but not enough to even begin to prepare himself for what he'd find. After what had happened to Toni Ricci—and to his own daughter—his agonized overworked cop's imagination didn't take kindly to hints.

In the end it hadn't been as bad as he'd feared. The pool of blood next to her car made him cringe, but the uniforms who had set up the perimeter assured him "the victim" was alive and on her way to the hospital.

The victim.

Terrible words to describe one of their own. Because the people from the DA's office were "one of their own", even if they didn't wear badges or carry pieces or go around kicking down doors. They were on the same side of The Law, and Lennie had grown to respect and appreciate Carmichael through their mutual collaboration. Sure there were those who grumbled about what a hardass she was. But that came with the job. You couldn't really work for the district attorney and not be a stickler for rules. It didn't matter to him—she'd never been anything if not committed to him and his fellow detectives. Maybe the search warrant wasn't always on their desk at their beck and call. But she always was. And she never balked at meeting them at the local diner, hot dog vendor or gory crime scene either.

"Nothing but a headache," he groused. "Take a look."

The security videos made him want to punch someone's lights out. Three different cameras had caught the attack on Carmichael in surprisingly lurid detail, in spite of the dark. And yet no one had come. Not when she was pinned to the car, not when she was fighting back for all she was worth—not till after McCoy had come bounding through like some sort of avenging angel, scaring the perp off into the shadows. Where were the security guards? The cops posted around the courthouse? Where were all the people whose job it was to keep the officers of the court safe from the felons they prosecuted each day?

The attacker had obviously been waiting for her—he'd started tailing her the minute she stepped into the parking lot. Lennie wondered at her for not noticing. Then again—it was Friday night and she and McCoy had just wrapped up one hell of a grueling case. Her spidey-senses were probably at an all-time low.

The rest of the scene was fairly crude and straightforward. Lennie didn't need to see it again—he'd had enough. Let Ed deal with what came afterwards—the brutal backhand that sent her sprawling like a ton of bricks, that tall, graceful woman who carried herself like a queen. And the pervert actually hauling out his "equipment" right there in front of the camera before crouching down to finish the job.

At least there was no doubt on intent. And robbery it was not.

"Damn…" Ed agreed, looking properly horrified.

"I know," Lennie fumed. "And the worst part—all this footage, and we still got nothing. Sick son of a bitch never shows his face."

"At least we can confirm McCoy's description—white male, about 6'2", dark hair," Ed put in helpfully.

Lennie scowled. "Yeah—him and half of New York. That really narrows it down."

Ed didn't get it. He hadn't known her for as long as Lennie had. They owed her. Law enforcement hadn't been around when she was hurt. The least they could do was catch the person responsible. She was a good kid. She didn't deserve this. Nobody did.

Maybe if they were lucky they'd get a hit off CODIS with the blood. But it would be hours—even days—before those results came back. And in the meantime the scum could hop a Greyhound and skip town for all they knew. Their best bet was the bunch of fingerprints CSU had pulled from the car. Although after watching the videos, Lennie couldn't be sure the perp had ever actually touched the car. Carmichael had always been in the way.

"She's gonna be okay, you know," Ed told him. "Van Buren called a while back. Said she was up and talking. No life-threatening injuries. Sent an officer back to the precinct with her personal effects and things."

It was a load off his mind, though Lennie doubted anyone could be "okay" after what he'd just seen. Protocol be damned, he wasn't looking forward to delving into her private stuff. He wouldn't have batted an eyelid about rummaging through someone else's handbag, day planner and discarded clothes. In fact, he kind of enjoyed it—people carried around all sorts of crap. But… Abbie Carmichael was such a private person, and poking around people's lives always turned up something nasty. He really didn't want to be the one to do it this time.

Ed was still staring at him for some reason.

"What?"

"Van Buren wants us to go home. CSU and the lab will work through the night, McCoy's coming into the precinct in the morning to talk to a sketch artist. The people at the Courthouse want to lock up. We can take the tapes with us. There's nothing more to do here."

Like hell there wasn't.

"I wanna talk to the head of security before I go."

If Lennie had been in the mood, he would have found the revearsal of their positions funny—Ed Green, always the alleged "bad cop", the impulsive one, attempting to calm him down. "Not tonight, Lennie. We'll talk to them tomorrow."

"I wanna talk to the head of security," Lennie doggedly insisted.

The head of security was finally produced. It turned out to be a square-jawed, middle-aged, heavyset man by the name of Crenshaw. Lennie realized he'd talked to him before, when they were given access to the camera room. But that was before they'd watched the videos, so he hadn't really made an impression. Now he just felt like smacking the crap out of him and his incompetence.

"We can't be everywhere," the guy tried to explain. "Especially after hours. Only a couple of guards stay on after the courts shut down for the day."

"This isn't everywhere," Lennie barked. "It's the goddamn parking lot. Cars get broken into every day. Don't you have someone posted there to keep the cars from getting vandalized? Or even someone watching the freakin' camera?"

"It's not considered a risk spot. All our efforts are concentrated aroun the main area—inside the building, in the courtrooms, front door… We'd never had an incident before."

"An incident? You call this an incident?" Lennie was practically yelling. "This woman could've been killed. Don't you know parking lots are where judges are most vulnerable? What if someone had come at one of them with a gun? You're lucky it was just an ADA this time."

The guy was sweating bullets. "Look, I'm sorry, detective—but it really isn't our fault. Miss Carmichael could have asked for someone to walk her outside. She didn't. She was with Mr. McCoy. There was no reason to think it wasn't safe."

"Oh yeah? Then how do you account for this stranger sitting around waiting for her? We saw the videos. He was there for hours, staking out the place. How does no one notice a stranger just sitting there in the parking lot?"

For the first time Crenshaw seemed to really focus on the screen where the image of Carmichael's attacker had been frozen. "That's no stranger."