Chapter Text
Phoenix Wright is starting to sweat.
"Well, Mr. Wright?" the judge says gruffly, peering down at Phoenix from his regal perch on the bench. His bald head shines with a film of perspiration, and his beard looks rather limp and bedraggled. "Are you ready to begin cross-examining the detective?"
On the witness stand, Detective Gumshoe yanks at his already loose tie, his collar gaping open at his throat, and pushes the sleeves of his ubiquitous trench coat up past his elbows. His hair has wilted, its usual upswept spikes drooping onto his sticky forehead.
Phoenix clears his throat. Were there even any contradictions in that testimony? If there were, I didn't notice 'em. "Your honor, I, uh --"
"Get on with it, Wright," Edgeworth snaps, although even his snap lacks some of its usual crispness. Phoenix might chalk that up to their friendship if it weren't for the fact that, while relations out of court have softened significantly since the Matt Engarde incident, in this room, they seem to be pushing each other harder than ever. The truth will out, but not if they don't flush it out, and to do that they've got to keep each other honest. Not a moment of ill-preparedness slips by Edgeworth, and not a hint of contradiction escapes Phoenix's notice.
Usually, anyway. Right now he's having a bit of a hard time focusing.
"Nick," Maya whispers beside him, half-slumped onto the defense table and yanking her hair up into a complicated knot to get it off the back of her neck. "I'm literally dying right now. This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
"You were kidnapped and starved for three days."
"I said what I said."
"Mr. Wright," the judge prods.
"Yes, your honor. I was wondering if we might, uh, take a five-minute recess to turn the air conditioning on?"
Immediately this sentiment is echoed with enthusiastic support from the gallery, a pointed please from Maya, and even a quiet thank God from Edgeworth that Phoenix reads on his lips more than hears over the hum of agreement. The judge grimaces, the grey bristles of his walrus mustache meeting the grey bristles of his voluminous beard, and shakes his shiny head.
"I'm afraid the central air conditioning is malfunctioning. I'm told that repairmen are on their way, but for now this is as cold as it's going to get."
Groans from the peanut gallery.
"I will, however, consent to a five-minute recess while I deliberate on how best to proceed in light of the adverse temperature. And so the bailiff can locate an electric fan."
The judge bangs his gavel, and Maya and Phoenix make their way to their assigned defendant lobby along with the client -- Dima du Zen, hit man turned ice cream man (and the idea of having to talk about ice cream in the sweltering courtroom is enough to make Phoenix consider trading places with the deceased), accused of murdering a man by the name of Tim Vickers, who had run afoul of the criminal organization to which Dima formerly belonged, using a poisoned Popsicle. There's no denying the murder method, at least based on the way Gumshoe described the autopsy and police investigation, but Dima insists he had no idea that the customer even knew who he was, let alone that said customer would be chowing down on a cherry cyanide special.
"Ugh," Phoenix groans as the doors to the lobby swing shut behind Dima. It's only marginally cooler in here, and with how small the room is as compared to court, he suspects it won't be for long. "I can't think straight in this heat."
"I don't blame ya, Mr. Wright," Dima squeaks. "I'd kill to be in my truck right now."
"Maybe don't say stuff like that in court."
"What, that I'd -- oh! Oh, I get it, Mr. Wright." Dima snorts out his nasal laugh. It's remarkable to Phoenix that he was ever a hit man when he talks like a cartoon rabbit. Not that cartoon rabbits can't be killers -- Phoenix is confident that a prosecutor trying Bugs Bunny could send him down on a double-digit number of assault charges, at least -- but anyway -- oh, man, what were we talking about? It's too damn hot to think.
"Sorry about that," Dima continues. "But seriously, when you get me off, it's free ice cream for life."
"I wish we could take you up on that now," Maya says, trying and failing to pry open the window of the lobby. "Why don't any of these windows open anyway, huh?"
"Probably so criminals can't escape," Phoenix points out. "Anyway, I doubt it would help. I'm pretty sure it's even hotter out there than it is in here."
"Nobody should be allowed to commit murder in August," Maya complains.
"Technically nobody's ever allowed to commit murder. That's kind of the whole point of the criminal justice system."
"Oh, come on, Nick," Maya groans, giving Phoenix a halfhearted, playful shove. "You sound just like Mr. Edgeworth."
"Hey, is that supposed to be a bad thing?"
"Normally I'd say no, because I think it's cute, but I don't know if I have the energy to watch you make googly eyes at him right now."
"Googly -- Maya!"
Maya grins, flapping the collar of her robe to send something resembling a breeze over her skin. "What? It's true. Ever since you guys rescued me from that De Killer guy, you've been looking at him like he's ice cream on a hot day."
"And not the poisoned kind," Dima interjects.
"Again, Dima, probably best not to joke about the murder you're accused of."
"Sorry! Sorry. Old habits die hard. I can still say that, right? Even though it's got 'die' in it?"
Phoenix groans. The major problem with this situation, other than the fact that it is already stiflingly hot in the courthouse and it's hardly 10:00 in the morning, and the fact that his client won't quit making morbid jokes, and the fact that Phoenix still has no idea what he's going to say when he gets back into the courtroom, is that Maya's right. If Phoenix is honest with himself, and he tries to be, there was probably something there all along. His desperate drive to see Edgeworth again, the knock-down-drag-out courtroom brawls that always left him exhilarated, the impossible sharpness of even hearing his name when Phoenix thought he was dead: none of these speak to Phoenix having had measured and platonic feelings about the man, even from the beginning. But after Engarde's trial -- after watching Edgeworth work double-speed and jump in time and time again, singularly focused, as Phoenix was, on saving Maya -- after hearing him talk about truth and knowledge and promises -- something shifted inside Phoenix, knocked off-kilter by that display of earnest feeling, by the way the thank-yous they exchanged felt like promises in their own right.
And yeah, maybe after that he really started noticing that the kid who wore an actual bow tie to school had grown up into a man with broad shoulders and a killer jawline and long, dexterous fingers and suits creased sharper than a knife that fit him absurdly well. And sure, maybe Phoenix had taken to leaning a little more heavily on their burgeoning friendship, getting drinks with Edgeworth, finding excuses to visit his office to chat about cases or kvetch about the latest pretrial procedural snafus. And fine, yes, maybe some feelings have sprung up inside of Phoenix alongside that developing trust, and maybe they're only growing lusher and greener no matter how often he tries to ignore them or disregard them or call them something other than what they are.
Acceptance, Phoenix figures, is probably the best path forward. For one thing, he really does try to be honest with himself. For another, he already knows it's never gonna happen -- Edgeworth trusts him, has even found occasion to open up to him, little by little: the lingering nightmares, the lingering doubts. He relies on Phoenix to be a pillar of unwavering faith in human goodness, in his goodness, and it's a role Phoenix plays with no small amount of pride. Calm, cool Edgeworth (cool as ice cream on a hot day) trusts him. He's not about to fuck that up. And denying it to himself is likely to make things weirder than just accepting that his feelings exist, not acting on them, and moving on.
Which is fine. All of that is fine. Except that apparently he can't even keep things under wraps in court, and not only does Maya get to have a giggle about it, but now even his client is in on the joke.
Phoenix wipes the sweat off his forehead with the cuff of his blazer and says, "Look, right now we just have to focus on finding anything strange about Gumshoe's testimony. Even if I feel like I'm sweating my brains out my ears."
"Want me to call Mia?" Maya asks. "At least then I could get out of this heat."
"Sure, that'd be really helpful. Thanks, Maya. And we should get some water, too."
"On it!" Maya scrambles out of the lobby as quickly as anyone can be expected to move through the thick, still, oppressive air. Phoenix turns to Dima.
"If you remember anything else at all about what happened that day, tell me, okay? I feel like I don't have anything to go on right now."
"I will, Mr. Wright, I promise," Dima says, "but I don't think there's anything else to tell. It's just like I told you -- my truck wasn't open for the morning yet, but a guy came up and started banging on the side asking for a cherry Popsicle. I can't ever turn down a customer, so even though I wasn't open yet I came out the back of the truck to give him the very last one. He paid me, and three minutes later he was as red as the Popsicle, lying on the ground outside my truck."
"Shoot. Yeah, alright. I'll think of something, Dima. I promise."
Maya returns with three miniature bottles of water and an announcement that court is about to be back in session, and the three of them troop back into the courtroom. It's going to be, Phoenix can already tell, a very long day.
The judge calls the courtroom to order and clears his throat, speaking up to be audible over the whirring of the oscillating electric fan that really seems to be pushing the hot air around more than anything. "Considering the fact that it is currently eighty-one degrees Fahrenheit in this courtroom and expected to get hotter," the judge says, "I would like to say two things before we continue the trial. First, I ask that the prosecution and defense keep their objections to a minimum. Let's get this done quickly."
Shoot, there goes my usual strategy. I guess I screwed myself over by asking for that recess.
"And second, although I ordinarily expect a high level of professionalism and decorum in my courtroom --"
Since when? Phoenix thinks wryly.
"-- I think we can relax the rules on professional attire for the moment. I, for one, am sweating half to death in this robe." To punctuate this statement, the judge unzips his robe -- it has a zipper? Why am I so surprised that it has a zipper? -- revealing a red tie and a slightly wrinkled shirt beneath it. He pushes up his sleeves, nods once, and taps his gavel against the bench. "Now, I believe it's time for your cross-examination, Mr. Wright."
"Yes, your honor. Uh, Detective Gumshoe, you said the police arrived at the crime scene just minutes after Tim Vickers died. Why did you get there so fast?"
"Oh, that's easy, pal. I was already in the area when I got the call that someone had died."
"And why is that?"
"Well, uh, in the dog days of summer, you know, I kinda like to start my day off with some ice cream." Gumshoe shrugs off his trench coat. "Man, it's hot. Anyway, everybody on the force knows that du Zen's Desserts has got the best ice cream in the whole city, and he parks his truck in the same spot every morning. So I was already on my way there when I got the call."
"What time was that?"
"Oh, I'd say it was a little before eight o'clock in the morning, and it couldn't have taken me more than ten minutes to get to the crime scene. I know I got there right at eight because I heard the old clock tower. The truck was still closed when I arrived on the scene, but there was a dead body lying on the curb."
"That all seems to be true," Mia says, her sudden appearance making Phoenix jump, as it always does, even when he knows she's coming. "Maybe try moving on to the rest of his testimony."
"Right."
"Goodness, it's hot in here."
"Tell me about it," Phoenix groans. His blazer weighs on his shoulders like a wet blanket, which he supposes it is at this point, damp with sweat and swaddling him, trapping his sodden dress shirt against his skin. He shucks it off, wriggling his arms out of the heavy sleeves, and hangs it over the railing behind the defense table. He unbuttons his cuffs and peels them up over his elbows, feeling rivulets of sweat trickling down his ribs and spine as he does so. It's not much better, but it's enough to clear his head momentarily.
From across the courtroom, Edgeworth lets out a sudden, choking cough, snapping Phoenix back into the proceedings. He glances over. Edgeworth's wide-eyed, staring straight at Phoenix, and his face is flushed a vibrant scarlet as he coughs -- man, poor guy's gotta be sweating to death in that jabot. Phoenix raises his eyebrows, a silent offer of help, but Edgeworth shakes his head and waves a hand in Phoenix's direction.
"Carry on, Wright," Edgeworth gasps out, turning his head to glare fixedly at Gumshoe, who's trying and failing to get his hair unstuck from his forehead. "Please."
"The police found the receipt for the Popsicle in the victim's pocket, right?" Phoenix asks. "What was the time of the transaction?"
Gumshoe checks the crumpled receipt. "Looks like he bought the Popsicle at 7:55 a.m."
"And he was dead by eight."
"That's right, pal. In a big enough dose, cyanide works pretty fast. Even if he didn't start eating it right away, it wouldn't have taken more than two or three minutes for him to die."
Wait just a second.
When Phoenix gets it right -- when he finds the lie, the mistake, the crucial piece of proof -- it's a rush. A swell of pride runs through him every time, and he can practically feel his attorney's badge sparkling on his lapel, and he all but glows with the warm feeling of doing his job and doing it well.
It's eighty-one degrees Fahrenheit in here and getting hotter, so a warm feeling is perhaps the last thing he needs, but Phoenix isn't about to complain. He slams a hand down on the table.
"Detective Gumshoe! You said it took you ten minutes to get to the crime scene."
"Might've been a little less than that, pal. Maybe only seven or eight."
"Not less than five?"
"No. No, not less than five."
"And yet the victim hadn't even bought his Popsicle until five minutes before you arrived!" Phoenix leans forward, loosening his tie with his free hand, keeping his face court-serious even though inside he's grinning like a maniac. "Doesn't that mean the call reporting a dead body came in before there was a dead body to report?"
Before Gumshoe can respond beyond a stammered confusion, Edgeworth lets out another choking noise. Phoenix straightens back up, absent-mindedly pulls his tie all the way off as he makes eye contact with Edgeworth. There's sweat beading on his forehead, and his whole face is flushed, down to his neck where it disappears beneath his high collar. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and one of his hands is white-knuckling the edge of the prosecutor's table.
The part of Phoenix's brain that makes his vow of monkish acceptance extremely hard to keep imagines where that flush keeps going, what that bottom lip would look like swollen and bitten, what else that hand could grip.
Stop it, Phoenix, he chides himself, hoping very hard that Mia can't tell what he's thinking. The Feys have an uncanny ability to respond to his thoughts even as he's having them, although whether that's a spirit medium thing or just a best-friend-and-mentor thing, he couldn't say. He's obviously not well.
And indeed, in addition to the choking noises and the red face and the white knuckles, he does look like he's trying very hard to hide how unwell he is, which must mean it's bad. Ordinarily Phoenix can't read anything into Edgeworth's smooth, steely courtroom exterior unless the man is intentionally cuing him.
"You alright, Edgeworth?" Phoenix asks, worry overcoming legal procedure. "You look --"
"Fine," Edgeworth snaps back, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I'm -- I'm fine. It must be the heat."
"Yeah, you're not exactly dressed for it."
"While you seem to be making yourself very comfortable." There's a razor sharpness in Edgeworth's voice, and Phoenix furrows his eyebrows.
"The judge did say --"
The judge, seemingly roused by hearing himself referred to in the third person, bangs his gavel. "Order," he says. "Couldn't the detective be mistaken about what time he got the call?"
"Oh, yeah, that must be it," Gumshoe says. "Maybe I was closer to the truck than I thought I was! To be honest with you, I'm always a little fuzzy on details before I've had my ice cream."
”I’m afraid not,” Edgeworth says, producing a sheaf of papers. “The police keep phone records of emergency calls, of course. The call to which Detective Gumshoe refers was placed at 7:51 a.m., four minutes before the victim purchased his Popsicle. We have the transcript right here.”
”Ha!” Phoenix pumps a fist. “Why would somebody call the police if there was no murder yet?”
”Not so fast, Phoenix,” Mia warns beside him. “He wouldn’t be bringing this up unless he knew something we don’t.”
His excitement is quickly crushed by a wave of frustration as Edgeworth does, indeed, flash that smug smirk that does all kinds of things to Phoenix’s heart rate. The unflappable confidence used to drive Phoenix crazy when they were rivals. Now that they’re friends, working toward the same goals, wanting the same things -- well, some of the same things -- it still drives him crazy. That smug smirk curling his lips as he says --
Don’t get too excited, Wright.
Not yet, Wright. Try to be patient.
You want it that badly, do you, Wright? Fine, then. Beg me for it.
”Don’t get too excited, Wright.”
Phoenix makes a deeply embarrassing noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a gasp of surprise and a groan of -- well. It’s quiet enough, at least, that he doesn’t think it’s audible over the useless whirring of the fan and the shifting and grumbling of the overheated observers up in the gallery. But even still, his blood seems to be bubbling through him at a lively simmer, and even radical acceptance of his feelings does not a less sweaty Phoenix make. Reflexively, he unbuttons his collar button and tries not to look at that smug smirk on those lips.
He fails, and dares a glance anyway, only Edgeworth isn’t smirking anymore. His lips are just parted, and a bead of sweat catches the fluorescent light as it trickles down his temple. He’s staring at Phoenix with a wild look in his eyes that Phoenix recognizes only from moments in which something has been very, very wrong. Edgeworth’s composure seems to have evaporated in the heat, and Phoenix can suddenly read him like a book, only the book must be in a language he doesn’t speak, because all he’s getting from Edgeworth’s incandescent cheeks and frenzied eyes is that the man is panicking, and Phoenix has no idea why.
”Edgeworth, seriously, are you alright? What’s wrong?”
The judge, too, leans forward, beetle brows knitted in confusion. “You don’t look well, Mr. Edgeworth. Does the prosecution need a moment?”
Edgeworth clears his throat, and, as if neither Phoenix nor the judge had spoken at all, says, “Would -- ah, Detective Gumshoe, would you read the transcript? Now?”
”If you say so, Mr. Edgeworth, but you don’t look too good.”
”Now,” Edgeworth repeats, a teakettle hiss, thrusting the transcript into Gumshoe’s hands.
“Uh, hello? Police? There’s some kind of big, suspicious truck parked outside. I’m worried something bad is gonna happen.” Gumshoe hands the transcript back. “Then they hung up.”
”So you see,” Edgeworth says, addressing the court, hands spread, “the call wasn’t about a murder at all. It was simply a concerned citizen reporting a suspicious vehicle, and the timing happened to coincide with a murder.”
“That makes perfect sense,” the judge says, scratching his beard. “Mr. Wright? Anything to add?”
Phoenix is still watching Edgeworth, whose smooth, unbothered demeanor is largely back in place, although every time Phoenix catches his eye there’s another spark of that fevered panic in his gaze. Phoenix swallows. Oh, man, better come up with something.
”Um, who made the call reporting the truck? Are they gonna be on the witness stand?”
”Oh, we don’t know, pal,” Gumshoe says. “The call came from a private number.”
”And what was the truck they were reporting?”
”Well, there was only one big truck on that street when I got there.”
”Which was?”
“The ice cream truck, of course, pal. This heat must be getting to you, huh?” Gumshoe lets out a chuckle and tugs at his collar. “It’s gettin’ to me, too.”
Phoenix squints at Gumshoe, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Hold it. Someone called the police, from a blocked number, to report an ice cream truck? With big pink letters on the side that say ‘du Zen’s Desserts?’ The same truck that parks there every morning?”
”Huh. I guess so. When you put it like that, pal…”
”Sounds pretty suspicious, doesn’t it?”
”Objection,” Edgeworth calls out. “We’ve just established the call had nothing to do with the murder. This line of questioning is immaterial.”
”Objection!” Phoenix retorts, hearing the smile in his own voice even as he keeps it off his face. They’re getting on a roll now. This is his favorite part of being in court with Edgeworth: the back-and-forth, the escalations in speed and volume, the fight to convince each other of the truth that feels almost like a dance. “We don’t even know who placed the call or what their motives were. For all we know there could have been another suspicious truck that left before the police arrived on the scene that had something to do with the murder. It’s impossible to declare the phone call immaterial until we figure out who made it!”
The peanut gallery erupts into murmured chatter, and the judge thunks his gavel against the bench.
”Order. Order in my court! You make a compelling point, Mr. Wright. And, since it seems our air conditioner is still not fixed, I think it’s best if we adjourn until tomorrow. But you had better come prepared with all the evidence you need, Mr. Wright, Mr. Edgeworth. I don’t want to extend this trial another day.”
”Yes, your honor,” Phoenix choruses in harmony with Edgeworth, who grimaces and runs a hand through his damp hair. Despite how overheated he obviously is, the creases literally steaming out of his suit as the temperature in the courtroom climbs, Edgeworth hasn’t so much as adjusted his jabot. Phoenix watches him as Edgeworth watches the judge close the proceedings for the day, and then everyone is filing out into the humid halls of the courthouse. Phoenix urges Maya, now back in her own body, to go to the office and cool off, and he’ll catch up, and hangs back to wait for Edgeworth. This isn’t uncommon; often they’ll begin discussing a case as soon as the day’s proceedings have ended and not stop until they part ways to continue their investigations, or eat, or -- on a few memorable occasions that Phoenix’s mind regularly returns to, late nights in one office or the other, both half-delirious with exhaustion but doggedly committed to unraveling the truth, working with heads bent towards each other, nearly touching -- they won’t stop talking until the next day’s proceedings are due to begin.
Phoenix gathers up his jacket and tie and leans against the defense table as Edgeworth, gazing fixedly at a spot on the wall over Phoenix’s shoulder, approaches.
”Don’t you think you’re rather grasping at straws with that phone call?” Edgeworth asks, stopping across the table from Phoenix, still not looking at him.
”Hopefully not. Doesn’t it feel weird to you, too? Who calls the cops on an ice cream truck?”
”It is odd,” Edgeworth admits, “but it doesn’t change the facts of the case. There was cyanide in that Popsicle.”
”Sure,” Phoenix agrees. “Still, I’m gonna do some digging this afternoon. I’d ask if you wanna come with, but I’d feel like an irresponsible friend if I didn’t tell you to go home and lie down.”
”What for?” Edgeworth asks, speaking to the wall rather than Phoenix. His hair is plastered to his head with sweat, and his lips are pinched in a pained grimace. “I’m perfectly fine. Or I will be, with a cool drink and my air-conditioned office.”
A feeling flares up in Phoenix's chest, half adrenaline, half determination. It's the feeling that drives him to be a defense attorney, activated primarily by his clients and his friends, and especially in cases where those two categories overlap. Something is wrong, says the crackling feeling, a fire just itching to spread, and it's up to me to fix it. To protect people, to stop anyone from getting hurt, or hurting others.
Ordinarily this feeling manifests in objections, but here, now, Phoenix wants nothing more than to put a hand on either side of Edgeworth's face and ask him what's wrong, fold him into a hug, promise to put himself bodily between Edgeworth and anything that could ever so much as look at him funny --
Oh, my God, stop it, Phoenix. Yes, I have feelings for him. Focus. Focus on what he needs.
Edgeworth's arms are crossed and his jaw is set, a vein visible in what little Phoenix can see of his neck. He still won't quit staring at the wall. Phoenix takes a deep breath and says, “Edgeworth. Look at me. You’re clearly not fine. What’s going on? Is it the heat?"
He moves like each muscle requires his conscious willpower to contract, turning his head toward Phoenix, unclenching his jaw, uncrossing his arms. It all seems to take superhuman effort. He looks Phoenix in the eyes but quickly drops his gaze down again, settling it somewhere around Phoenix's collar, then back up again. He offers an impressively forced smile.
"Yes," Edgeworth says through his teeth, "it's the heat. Thank God they'll have it fixed tomorrow."
"Ugh, I know, right?" Phoenix responds, keeping his voice light, watching Edgeworth for any further signs that he's about to collapse. "Although maybe I'll bring a change of clothes tomorrow, just in case. How d'you think the judge would feel about me cross-examining witnesses in cutoffs?"
It's clearly supposed to be a joke -- at least, Phoenix thinks it's clear enough -- but Edgeworth glowers at him and snaps his head away, now addressing the floor between them. "For God's sake, Wright, it's a court of law. Your present attire is quite inappropriate enough."
Phoenix glances down at himself. Jacket and tie slung over his arm. Sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Top button of his dress shirt undone, and the collar is slouching open, unable to stand in the heat and humidity. In other words, his standard court clothes, haphazardly adapted to adverse climatic conditions -- and at the judge’s orders, no less.
Inappropriate?
"I was kidding," Phoenix starts to explain, but Edgeworth is already stalking out of the courtroom.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Edgeworth calls back over his shoulder, his tone something like conciliatory, although he doesn't stop walking and he doesn't turn back to Phoenix. "Good luck finding the mystery caller."
"Thanks."
Edgeworth leaves, and Phoenix is left with a handful of damp jacket and a handful of questions. Chief among them: what the hell was that about?
The du Zen's Desserts truck sits forlornly at the curb, window shut, as Phoenix and Maya trawl the baking street in search of anyone who could be the mystery caller.
"The transcript said the truck was parked 'outside,'" Maya muses as she leans against a spindly tree that provides very little shade. "If we think whoever called was talking about the ice cream truck, that means they had to be inside, and they had to be able to see it from where they were, right?"
"Yeah. This street's all businesses. Not many of them would've been open before eight in the morning, so odds are it's an employee rather than a customer at one of these places who made the call."
"So let's start with whoever was open the earliest and go from there?"
"Sounds like a plan to me," Phoenix says. "They also would've needed a clear enough view of the truck to call the cops about it in the first place, so that narrows it down to only a few places."
"Great! Let's hope some of these places have A/C." Maya's stomach growls audibly. "Ooh, and snacks. Channeling my sis always makes me hungry."
They start with a café -- air conditioning and snacks -- and, while Maya gets to devour an enormous bear claw and Phoenix gets to down a full, icy glass of sweet tea that the waitress made him order before she'd talk, the place is, from an investigative standpoint, a bust. They were closed on the morning of the murder because the usual opener called out sick at the last minute, and they've got the angry comments on their webpage to prove it. Phoenix pays their tab and thanks the waitress, and the two of them skedaddle before the line of customers waiting for a table, which stretches out the door into the sweltering afternoon, transforms into the pitchfork-wielding mob it seems about two seconds from becoming.
Maya fans herself with her hands. "That was a really good bear claw. Where to next?"
"Uh, looks like the electronic supply place next door opens at eight o'clock, so whoever runs it would've been there when the call was made."
"Lead the way!"
The electronic supply store couldn't be more different from its bustling next-door neighbor. It's a miniature cavern, soundtracked with ominously hissing static and lit by the screens of a few flickering, half-busted television sets. The front window is dusty, so the sunlight streaming in from outside has a kinemacolor quality to it, as if the whole place was unstuck from some lost era and dropped here on the hottest day of the year. Mercifully, the store is supplied with air conditioning, and that combined with the darkness and general eeriness inside makes Phoenix actually shiver when he and Maya cross the threshold.
"Anybody here?" Maya calls into the store.
”You are customers?” comes a deep, Russian-inflected voice from behind a stack of televisions. The voice sounds shocked at the idea that anyone might choose to shop at this store, which, looking around, Phoenix can't blame it for.
”Not quite,” Phoenix says, stepping forward, searching for the source of the voice. “I’m a defense attorney -- I’ve got my badge right here, if you want to see. I need to ask you a few questions about something that happened on Tuesday morning.”
"No need to present badge to me," replies the voice, and from behind the televisions emerges a very wide man with a head like a cue ball, which is to say smooth, bald, and blindingly white. A large ring of keys jingles at his belt. "I am Ilyak, proprietor of this store. What questions do you have for me?"
Phoenix clears his throat. "Well, Mister... uh, Ilyak, you said?"
"Yes. Ilyak Tronik."
"Mr. Tronik, were you here at 7:51 a.m. on Tuesday?"
"Of course. I get to store at seven sharp every day."
"Did you happen to see anything suspicious? A truck parked outside, maybe?"
"Ah, this is about call to police. Yes, this was me." Ilyak pats the stack of televisions, and they rattle hollowly, screens flickering. "That ice cream truck out there is no good. The owner -- very shifty. I do not like the look about him when he parks on Tuesday morning. He seems up to no good. I see him with strange little bottle doing something to ice cream. I figure, probably nothing, but if it is something I never forgive myself. I call police."
"Why did you call from a private number?" Maya asks.
Ilyak shrugs. "I do not have cell phone. Landline's number is private."
"Why?"
"For privacy."
"Could we take a look at that landline?" Phoenix asks.
"Be my guest. Is on the counter. Just ring bell if you need me."
Phoenix and Maya circle behind the counter, which itself is nearly concealed behind an ancient-looking display of DSLR cameras, and Ilyak slips between two rows of shelves and vanishes from view once again.
"Man, I guess this place is bigger than it looks," Phoenix says, examining the phone. "Anything look weird about this landline to you?"
"Nope." Maya squints at it. "It looks like a phone."
"Yeah. I don't know if this really counts as evidence. Shoot."
"And the whole 'strange little bottle' thing doesn't exactly sound good for Dima." Maya scuffs a toe against the floor, her long face making evident her disappointment. Suddenly, her eyes widen and she yelps. "Ow!"
"What happened? You okay?"
"Yeah," she says, hopping on one foot and grabbing at her toe. "I just kicked something under the counter."
Phoenix squats down. "It looks like... a mini fridge? I guess on a hot day like today it's nice to have some cold drinks."
"But it's already so cold in here."
Phoenix opens the fridge, and a fog of sub-zero condensation rolls out. There's ice crusted around the door. It's not a fridge. It's a freezer.
Inside are what appear to be dozens and dozens of cherry Popsicles.
"Holy cow," Maya says, squatting down next to Phoenix to look inside the freezer. "That's gotta be, like, sixty Popsicles. Think he'll notice if we take one?"
"I think you'd have bigger problems than Ilyak noticing if you ate one of these."
"Like what?"
"Like dying of cyanide poisoning." Phoenix picks up one of the Popsicles. Its wrapper still seems to be intact and sealed, but even so, he holds it between his thumb and forefinger like it might bite him. "It's too big of a coincidence for the murder weapon to be a cherry Popsicle, and then the guy who calls the police -- before the crime even happens -- has a freezer full of cherry Popsicles in his creepy store."
"Where did he go, anyway?"
Phoenix stands, peering around the store. "I have no idea. This place seems way too small for him to just disappear like that."
"Ilyak?" Maya calls out. No response. "Huh. Well, what d'you say, Nick?"
"I'm taking this with me," Phoenix says, kicking the freezer shut and holding on to his Popsicle. "Hopefully he won't miss just one. We should probably take another look around Dima's truck, and then I should probably go check in..."
"Say no more. You wanna go talk to Mr. Edgeworth about what you found."
Phoenix snorts. "That obvious, huh?"
"The obvious-est."
"I just... he was acting really weird in court today. I wanna talk about the case, but I also need to make sure he's okay and not deathly ill, or something."
"I can take a look around the truck on my own if you wanna go now."
"You just want free ice cream."
Maya shrugs. "Guilty as charged! You gonna stop me?"
Phoenix grins and squeezes her shoulder. "Not on your life. I'll see you at the office later, okay?"
Maya nods, leaning up to plant a kiss on Phoenix's cheek. "See ya, Nick! Good luck with your googly eyes!"
"Maya, I swear --"
But Maya's already leaving, practically skipping out the door, and all Phoenix can do is chuckle and follow her out.
Blessedly, the central air at the Prosecutor's Office is working just fine when Phoenix arrives. It's technically evening, but the August sun hasn't given up on the city yet and golden beams are slanting through the wide window that takes up nearly the entire wall behind Edgeworth's desk. The door is open, but Phoenix knocks on the frame anyway. Edgeworth holds up a finger; he's seated at his desk riffling through a manila folder stuffed with papers, with several more piles of folders and a few hefty books stacked in a neat grid on top of the desk.
When he comes to the end of whatever he's reading, he shuts the folder and waves Phoenix in. "Good afternoon, Wright," he says. "What have you got there?"
Phoenix holds up the slightly sticky plastic-wrapped Popsicle. "Evidence, I'm pretty sure. Although I think it's mostly melted by now."
"Another Popsicle? Is that one poisoned too?"
"No idea. We'd have to get it tested. But get this." He fills Edgeworth in on everything he and Maya figured out -- Ilyak Tronik, the store that seemed to be bigger on the inside, the phone call, the miniature freezer filled with dozens and dozens of cherry Popsicles. By the end of it, Edgeworth is on his feet, leaning over towards Phoenix with his hands spread flat on the desk, his eyes wide.
"What did you say that gentleman's name was?"
"I'm pretty sure it was Ilyak Tronik. Although there wasn't a name on the store or anything -- or even a sign, come to think of it -- so I can't be certain. I think he's Russian?"
"Why does that name sound so familiar?"
Phoenix shrugs. "I've never heard of him before."
"Hold on a moment." Edgeworth re-stacks his piles of files, leaving a clear space in the middle of the desk, and pulls a few more folders from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. "I seem to remember something from a trial some years back... yes! Come have a look at this."
Phoenix tries very hard not to make it obvious that his breath has hitched in his throat as he circles around behind the desk and leans over Edgeworth's shoulder to read the file. Phoenix's chest is inches from touching Edgeworth's back. It would be the easiest thing in the world to wrap his arms around him, kiss the back of his neck, even grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back and --
"Known aliases," Edgeworth says, and Phoenix realizes his breathing has indeed gotten kind of loud and shallow and tries to course-correct by taking a deep breath, but it sounds like a gasp, and Edgeworth nods. "I knew it sounded familiar."
Finally, Phoenix forces his eyes to focus on the file in front of him. Most of the page is dominated by a mug shot of a man with a head like a cue ball.
"That's him!" Phoenix says. "That's the guy from the store."
"Ilyak Tronik is one of the false identities he's been known to use," Edgeworth says, pointing out a line of the file, "but his real name is Lysander Leonov. He's a high-profile crime boss who once controlled an entire organization of contract killers, although the organization largely fell apart once he was arrested. After he was released from prison a year ago, he dropped off the map entirely."
"What did he go down for?" Phoenix asks, squinting at the small print in front of him, leaning further forward, hyper-aware of the fact that there's barely a hair's breadth between his chest and Edgeworth's shoulder now.
"Attempted murder. That was all we could charge him with. He had covered his tracks too well. He was caught chasing after one of his contract killers' victims who had gotten away, attempting to finish the job. Luckily the police got there before he could do it, and the man survived."
"Who was the guy Lysander was trying to kill?"
Edgeworth flips back and forth through the file. "It was -- Tim Vickers. That's the name of our victim in this case."
Phoenix's eyes widen. "And the name of the hit man who failed the first time was...?"
"My God. Demetrius du Zen."
"Dima."
Edgeworth spins around, bringing him face to face with Phoenix, so close Phoenix actually has to take a couple steps back so that they don't touch. He does want to touch, of course, but he doesn't, because he's not going to risk this moment by making it weird, because they are on to something now, the truth is so close he can taste it, and he wouldn't mind a taste of --
Nope! Don't make it weird, Phoenix!
"Dima du Zen fails a hit," Edgeworth says slowly, "and his boss, Lysander, gets arrested along with him when he tries to finish the job."
"So he plans his revenge. When they both get out of prison, Dima goes straight, buys an ice cream truck and takes to parking it on the same street every morning."
"He sets up shop on that very street to keep an eye on his old employee. I'd bet my bookcase that that electronics store is a front. Based on the way you described it, I can't imagine they're doing much legitimate business."
They're on a roll now, speaking faster and faster, Edgeworth's eyes lighting up. Phoenix can see his own grinning reflection in those dark, shining eyes.
"And then," Phoenix says, "he laces a bunch of Popsicles with cyanide and gets them into the truck somehow. When he sees Tim Vickers coming, he calls the cops, knowing there's gonna be a dead body soon, and he can get rid of his old mark and the employee who got him sent to prison, all in one fell swoop."
"He hides the remaining evidence in his freezer, presumably until he can dispose of it properly." Edgeworth tilts his chin. "We ought to get that Popsicle to the criminal affairs department so they can test it for cyanide. If it's positive, that means your client wasn't the only one with motive, means, and opportunity."
"Either way, you've gotta call Ilyak -- Lysander -- whatever his name is -- you've gotta call him to testify tomorrow."
"Absolutely." Edgeworth smiles, and it's not his smug smirk. It's softer, self-assured in a quiet way, and it might not drive Phoenix crazy in quite so immediate a sense, but it's this smile that haunts his daydreams. He sees it so rarely, and he feels it so deeply. "I think we may be on to something, Wright."
God, if only. Phoenix is smiling back at him, though, and meaning it, and for a moment they exist in that moment of pre-trial pre-triumph.
"Hey, before I head back to the office," Phoenix says, taking in Edgeworth's perfectly pressed appearance -- is it even worth asking? He seems totally fine now. But I won't be able to quit worrying about it if I don't. "Can I ask what was going on earlier? I know the heat was getting to all of us, but you seemed like you were in really bad shape. And you don't normally snap at me like that these days unless I've presented the wrong evidence in court."
Edgeworth grimaces and folds himself back into his desk chair. “My apologies,” he says. “I realized right away that I may have been too harsh. I was… I was having a hard time focusing. That’s all.”
”Yeah, I feel you,” Phoenix says, the gnawing edge of doubt still prickling in his head, it can’t just have been that, what’s going on, what’s wrong, how do I fix it?
”Yes, well, tomorrow the temperature will be back to normal, so it won’t be an issue.”
”Don’t deal well with the heat, huh?”
“I run rather cool, actually. But nobody enjoys extreme temperatures, right?” Edgeworth glances at the time. “If I’m to call Lysander Leonov to the stand tomorrow, there’s paperwork I’ve got to submit as soon as possible. I’ll also call the criminal affairs department and let them know you’re on your way with that Popsicle for testing. Until tomorrow, Wright.”
He’s already turning back towards his desk, so Phoenix sees him in profile, the long, refined line of his nose, the sweep of his hair over his temple, his clenched jaw. He’s beautiful. And something is wrong.
”Edgeworth, seriously. I don’t wanna push you if you don’t want to tell me about it. But I don’t believe it was just the heat.”
“Wright, there is a very fine line between charmingly dedicated and annoyingly stubborn.”
He thinks I’m charming? He thinks -- Phoenix, stop it, this isn’t about you.
”Hey, no, I get it. But if there’s anything I can do to help -- anything at all, I mean it -- you’ll tell me, right? Because you’re my friend, and --”
”I am, in fact, your friend,” Edgeworth says curtly, still facing his desk, “and thus there is nothing whatsoever you can do. I quite like you, Wright. You know that."
"Of course I do."
"Well, there you have it. Some problems are one’s own to deal with. Focus on finding the truth in the du Zen case, and I’ll do the same. Agreed?”
Phoenix sighs, takes one last long look at that lovely sharp profile. Guess he doesn’t trust me as much as I thought he did.
“Agreed,” Phoenix says after a long beat. “See you in court tomorrow.”
He drops the ex-Popsicle, current-puddle off with Gumshoe on his way back to the office. Sunset has afforded the city a measure of relief from the heat, and although Phoenix is still sweating as he walks, he’s plenty cool enough to focus on the way his thoughts loop, screwing tightly, drilling through his brain.
He says he runs cool, so it couldn’t have been just the heat, so something else is wrong. And even though we’re friends, he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me what it is.