Chapter Text
Redd White is surprisingly easy to locate. He hasn’t moved much from where Edgeworth first spotted him out in the gardens, seeming to have simply stepped inside into the main entryway when the commotion began, and now that he has a literally captive audience–what with the police keeping everyone mostly stationary–he seems even more disinclined to leave. His sharp laugh echoes in the near-silent entryway, rivaled only by the click-clack of Edgeworth and Phoenix’s shoes across the marble.
Phoenix is quick to incorporate himself into the loose huddle surrounding the man while Edgeworth picks at a mostly-abandoned drinks table nearby. Within a couple minutes, Phoenix is laughing boisterously alongside White, an untouched drink in his hand and a pasted-on smirk on his face.
Phoenix twirls the champagne glass he’s holding. “Such a shame,” he hums. “That such a fantastic party had to be halted for this, don’t you think?”
“A true travesty,” White agrees. “If someone was going to die at this party it could have at least been someone worth the attention. I think it would have made the entire affair markedly more refreshing.”
Edgeworth watches as he shoots Phoenix a glittering sneer–his approximation of a smile, Edgeworth assumes–as if this is some silly game they’re both in on and not the last moments of a man’s life. Phoenix returns it, almost easily, and for a moment Edgeworth is very much afraid of the supposed lawyer he’s decided to trust tonight.
“You knew him, then?” Phoenix says. “I’ve been dying for some details. Anything to assuage this horrible boredom, you understand.”
“Many years ago he even got a friend of mine put away.” White’s nose wrinkles like he’s smelled something foul. “And for something horrifically unimportant as well. Money laundering, or fraud, or something of the like. Child’s play, honestly, but you know how people like him are. Always making a fuss over the silliest things.”
Phoenix chuckles darkly. “People like him?”
“Journalists!” White exclaims, spitting the word like it burns on his tongue. “Always poking their nose into other people’s business. I’m inclined to believe he had it coming, with his history, and that horrid case years ago. You remember, certainly, yes?” He looks to the rest of the group for support, several of whom nod emphatically. “Someone did the rest of us a favor, tonight.”
Phoenix hums and takes another mock sip of his drink as White continues to ramble, his volume rising all the while.
“I smashed his camera, you know.” White swigs from his champagne inelegantly. “When I saw him, skulking around on the balconies above the rooms earlier, I found him and I destroyed his stupid little camera. I suppose it wasn’t enough to deter him, if he went and got himself murdered after that.”
“You must have been quite sure of his identity, to do something so bold, sir,” Phoenix says, a practiced tone of awe in his voice. “I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to act.”
“Why, of course,” White says. “I would have recognized him anywhere, pointless mask or not.”
“What was his name?” Phoenix says. It’s bolder than Edgeworth expected him to go, bolder than he would have gone himself, and he has to resist the urge to freeze like a startled animal at the drinks table. “I’m just so curious, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.”
For the first time since he and Phoenix entered the room a few minutes ago, White is silent. He scans Phoenix up and down, a garish smile twisting his lips into something frightening. Phoenix, impressively, does not waver. He looks innocently curious, his spine straight and his eyes round and hopeful as White appears to pick him apart like a hungry vulture. Edgeworth hopes he doesn’t find anything worth scavenging.
“Oh, I’m not sure if I should say,” White says, his tone suddenly calm and lofty. “Would hate to reveal too much, you understand.”
“Oh, certainly, my apologies sir.” Phoenix nods, ever good-natured. “I shouldn’t have expected you to remember, I’m sure it was years ago. Please, think nothing of it.”
At that, Phoenix looks carefully and casually away from him, tilting his gaze over White’s shoulder and taking a lazy sip. White looks about ready to let his head pop off his shoulders right then and there.
“Reed Porter,” he says. “Of course I remember his name. There isn’t a name that escapes my mind, and especially not his.”
“What a useful skill!” Phoenix trills, almost dumbly. “I can never remember names to save my life, you’re quite lucky, sir,”
After that, Phoenix spends a few minutes working his way away from the main huddle of the conversation, excusing himself for drinks and coming back a moment later only to hover further away. Soon he’s managed to extricate himself–hopefully without rousing any suspicion–and makes his way to Edgeworth.
Phoenix quickly pulls him back out into the hallway, and his demeanor shifts instantly.
“We need details about that case.” His voice is hushed and his grip on Edgeworth’s wrist is tight. “That’s gotta be it, that’s gotta be why he was killed.”
“You were quite frightening out there, Phoenix,” Edgeworth says, only partially mocking. “Do I need to be worried about trusting you?”
Phoenix blinks at him dumbly for a second before his face goes a little pink and he ducks his head to his chest in what appears to be genuine embarrassment. Edgeworth decides that he absolutely does not find it charming, even if he feels blood rush to his face. “Oh! Sorry. Didn’t mean t’scare you.”
Edgeworth hums noncommittally. “It was convincing. Your performance with Mr. White. You seemed like someone else entirely.”
“Would you believe I have an acting background?” Phoenix grins and moves a hand to the back of his neck. “In undergrad, I got a theater degree. Nothing suspicious, honest. Though I understand if you’d rather step away now.”
“I said nothing of the sort.” Edgeworth frowns. “There’s not a lot of limits to what I’ll believe tonight, I suppose. And in any case, White is clearly involved in some way.”
Phoenix nods, his embarrassed grin replaced with a determined frown that Edgeworth is becoming increasingly familiar with. “I don’t think he killed him, though,” Phoenix says. “I think he would have bragged about it if he did. He acts like he thinks he’s untouchable.”
“He has motive. And opportunity,” Edgeworth replies. “The camera means he certainly interacted with the victim tonight, perhaps moments before his death.”
“Everyone here has motive, though,” Phoenix says. “He’s just the only one cocky enough to say so out loud.”
“He’s our only suspect, Phoenix. We don’t have much else to go on, and there won’t be much we can do without the police noticing for much longer.”
“Then we need more information.” Phoenix looks over Edgeworth’s shoulder down the hall, as if the answer might materialize there. “We need to see what the other guests know. If Porter really was as infamous as White said, they’ve gotta know something, right?”
“You say that as if them knowing something means they’ll tell us,” Edgeworth bites out. “It’s not that simple, Phoenix. If we start investigating openly, they’ll think we’re police. No one will tell us anything if we ask outright.”
Phoenix’s brow furrows as he looks away from Edgeworth and down at the shattered camera still in his hands, and as much as Edgeworth wants to believe in whatever investigative skills Phoenix’s background might give him, it feels like a dead end. He watches as Phoenix turns the camera over and over and over, passing it between his palms until he freezes suddenly.
“Well,” he drawls, looking back up at Edgeworth. “We’re not investigating then.”
Edgeworth rolls his eyes. “What in the world does that mean?”
A now all-too-familiar smirk plays across Phoenix’s lips.
“We’re gossiping.”
-
Back in the dining room, Edgeworth clutches nervously at his arm. “I don’t know how to do this, Phoenix.”
“You’ll be fine!” Phoenix smiles gently, which only serves to make Edgeworth’s heart beat a little faster, although for admittedly different reasons. In any case, the kindness is unhelpful. “Think about how you talk to your friends, or your coworkers, when someone does something annoying. It’s just like that.”
Edgeworth thinks of chastising Gumshoe for a paperwork mixup, or showing up in Prosecutor Skye’s office to ask for a better legal intern for an important case. He thinks of the hush that falls over the break room when he enters, and terse, clipped conversations with Franziska, usually covering no more than the details of whatever cases they’re each working on. Franziska will sometimes complain about the INTERPOL agents she works with, but even that usually amounts to accusations of unprofessionalism.
“I’m not really the type for that,” Edgeworth says. Phoenix raises an eyebrow.
“Not the type for gossip?”
“Not the type for friends.”
Phoenix throws his head back and laughs. “Really? That’s surprising to me. You’re a really interesting guy.”
Edgeworth scowls. “Don’t tease, Phoenix. It’s uncouth.”
“I’m not!” Phoenix says. “I’m not, honest. I mean it, I’ve enjoyed spending time with you tonight.”
“You’re spending time with me because a man was killed.”
“I was spending time with you before that. And there’s no one I’d rather investigate a murder with, anyway.” A cheesy, exaggerated grin plasters itself across Phoenix’s face. Edgeworth huffs and turns his head away, but based on Phoenix’s continuing smile, he doesn’t think the twist at the corner of his lips remains entirely hidden.
“Well, in any case. I can’t do what you do. The acting, that is.”
“Then don’t.” Phoenix looks him up and down. “People love to talk about themselves. All you gotta do is tell them what they want to hear and they’ll keep talking right back. Plus,” Phoenix smirks. “The whole aloof, catty thing you have going on is great for gossiping. Use that.”
Edgeworth draws back. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, c’mon.” Phoenix rolls his eyes, although the expression is more playful than anything else. “Get out there. You can do it.”
Phoenix shoves at his back lightly and prances off into the dining room, light on the balls of his feet as he approaches a group of men in jewel-toned suits, talking in loud whispers. He says something that is inaudible to Edgeworth, and the men laugh loudly before he’s absorbed into the circle.
Edgeworth steels himself. He’s an investigator at his core. A prodigy, an undefeated, genius prosecutor whose name is feared across the state. He can spend a little bit of time chatting at a party. He can laugh. He can gossip. He can be approachable, at least for a little while.
He spots a group–maybe 5 or 6 people–huddled around one of the tables in the back, each holding a brightly-colored drink in their hands. They’re not as hushed as some of the more skittish groups in the dining hall, but they’re not quite as rowdy as the group Phoenix has managed to endear himself to in a matter of seconds, so they seem like a safe bet. He places his drink down and approaches as casually as he can.
“Excuse me.” The entire group falls silent and turns to him. It should probably be anxiety-inducing, but it reminds him strangely of the courtroom instead. He clears his throat. “Might I ask what it is you’re drinking? It looks quite something.”
A woman at the center of the group–in a garish mustard-yellow pantsuit with a feathered mask to match–looks him up and down exactly twice before laughing, although not mockingly.
“Certainly, darling,” she says, and Edgeworth does his best to return her smile. “I believe it’s some sort of Campari drink. An Americano, perhaps?” She looks to the man standing next to her, who shrugs. “In any case, it’s splendid. Care to taste?”
Phoenix’s voice echoes in his head. Tell people what they want to hear and they’ll keep talking. He nods and extends a hand. “Oh, certainly. You’re very kind.”
The group watches as he takes a sip, feels the bitter dryness of the drink behind his teeth and fights the urge to grimace.
“Delicious,” he says, passing the drink back as the woman nods in approval. “You have excellent taste.”
The woman in yellow titters, and the rest of the group follows suit. “Oh, flatterer,” the woman says. “I suppose you have to be choosy with your drinks at an event like this. If you lose awareness for a moment you might be crushed by a chandelier, it seems!”
The group laughs loudly, as if this is the cleverest joke they’ve ever heard. Edgeworth wishes he would have brought his drink with him to have some way to cover his face without drawing attention.
“You know,” a man in a sleek black suit says next to him. “The fellow must have been quite intoxicated. Had that been me I’m certain I could have moved out of the way. I always have my wits about me like that, you understand?”
“A woman I spoke to earlier said he was apparently quite a strange man to begin with.” This time, it’s a woman in a short, frilly purple dress, puffing up around her thighs and wrists, who speaks. “Skittering around all night like some sort of little rat, and then behaving quite inappropriately at dinner. How boorish!”
“Inappropriately?” Edgeworth questions, in what he hopes sounds like casual interest.
“Oh yes,” the woman in purple says. “He was speaking almost nonsensically at the table, kept complaining about a headache or something, and then he just fell asleep! Right at the table! Quite rude, if you ask me, to behave so horridly in polite company.”
Edgeworth nods mildly and tries to look for Phoenix across the room. “Yes, how bizarre.”
Phoenix is nowhere to be found, but Edgeworth spots Gumshoe, now hovering near the door to the room since other officers have arrived to take over monitoring the site of the chandelier crash. He looks a little frantic, his eyes darting around the increasingly busy crime scene, and Edgeworth feels a bit guilty for abandoning him so early in the night. He excuses himself from the conversation he’s in and heads in Gumshoe’s direction as discreetly as he can.
“Detective,” he says, and Gumshoe turns towards him. From this distance he can see the way his mouth is creasing in worry, flapping open and shut like a fish every couple seconds. “I need you to ensure that the body gets checked for poison.”
“Mr. Edgeworth, but–”
“I know it seems improbable, given that he was crushed by a chandelier in front of all of our eyes, but trust me on this.” Edgeworth looks around for Phoenix once more and sees no familiar flash of blue. “I think it’s possible he was dead before the chandelier hit him.”
Gumshoe’s look of trepidation does not fade in the slightest. “Yes, sir. But I just–”
“Honestly, Detective,” Edgeworth scoffs. “You’d think you’d never been at a crime scene before. Pull it together, will you? I’m doing my best to look into–”
“Miles Edgeworth.”
Edgeworth freezes. Gumshoe freezes in tandem with him. The voice is piercing and familiar, and Edgeworth is not surprised to see the gray-blue hair and the distinctive whip ensemble that goes with it when he turns around.
“Franziska.”
Franziska smiles, and makes no effort to hide her disdain. “Hello, little brother,” she says. “Missed me?”