"You know," Maya pondered aloud, "Cherry's really not so bad, until you knock over her bay camel sauce."

          That certainly explained the commotion Phoenix heard, ascending the stairs, about how ham-hockin' much of a pain it is cleaning up bechamel. He gave Maya a bemused glance, and opened the Orchard's bell-jingling door for the two of them.

          "Did you get any clues from her?" Other than new recipes and how to ruin them.

          "She talked about the cost percentage on Fiesta tarts, whatever that means. And a regular customer who eats there every day." Maya beamed. "She showed me how to make a pretty swirl of sauce on a plate, Nick! Right before she started yelling."

          And none of that had a thing to do with the late Morna Beasley, unfortunately. Phoenix and Maya turned at the Orchard's corner, following the brick wall into cool shade, their sand-scuffing footsteps rattling away down the alley.

 

          "The cost percentages make sense," Foxx offered, "I've found records of most of Ms. LaFlamme's payments through the Orchard -- utilities, taxes, payroll."

          Phoenix's brows lifted, and he sidled around fallen police tape. "Should we be ...?"

          "I'm not altering a thing, Phoenix." Her voice softened briefly, like sympathy. "But you might be interested to know that LaFlamme is making minimum payments on her bills. She hasn't paid one cent more than necessary for as long as the restaurant's been open."

          "She's in debt?"

         

          Maya looked suddenly to Phoenix, wide-eyed, fingers lifting to her chin. And a pang of sympathy struck him, the same as every time she gave him that look.

 

          Foxx paused.

          "I can't confirm that without seeing the business's savings, and perhaps LaFlamme's own finances, but if I had to guess? LaFlamme is so ... tense because she's barely keeping her head above water."

          Phoenix couldn't look at Maya while wondering: he glanced away to the board fence in front of them.

          "So Cherry has good reason to worry about the Orchard ..." And to resent anyone who slandered it.

          "That's terrible," Maya whimpered, "The food's really good!"

          "Foxx," Phoenix said, and his voice fell low, "You heard Cherry talking about the bridge group, didn't you? Can you find any records on them?"

          "You're wondering if Ms. Beasley was part of the group?" A few keystrokes -- she paused like a pensive frown. "It's unlikely that an elderly ladies' social group would have records in any database I can access, but I'm working on it."

          That could be just the break they needed: a motive, a reason to want an old lady dead.

          "In the meantime, Phoenix, please meet with your contact. He's quite the nuisance when he's bored."

 

          Their contact somewhere in the alleyway -- Phoenix looked around, at the brick walls stretching away in either direction, broken on one side by the Orchard's small, filthy window.

          "All right, we'll find him."

          Unless their Agent contact was a master of camofluage, lurking in the trash bags and flattened cardboard, he was beyond the fence. And Maya was a step ahead of Phoenix, opening the board door with a long, groaning creak.

          "No lock?" Phoenix wondered, eyeing the metal loop on the door's frame: it was the type meant to hook a padlock onto.

          "Yeah, but it was open." Pointing to the dangling brass lock on the door's handle -- and looking entirely too pleased about it -- Maya bounced past Phoenix. "Oh, I hear something! Mr. Agent? Mystic Maya, here!"

          Now that she mentioned it, a melody tugged low at Phoenix's awareness, low like ... someone humming. He combed gaze over the alley, brick and gritty ground and a battered metal door that must have led into the Orchard. 

 

          "Hey, gang."

 

          The voice came from a corner Phoenix hadn't thought to look in -- behind jumbled milk crates, a figure perfectly matched to the shadows. He straightened and grinned, teeth brilliant against his dark skin.          "Mr. Wright, Ms. Fey? Agent Spin, here." He showed his badge, a muted flash of gold in the shade. "Just in time, I was nearly done my serenade. She's a twentieth century fox!"

          "I'm nearly sick of hearing it," Foxx muttered.

          Spin came a leisurely step closer, shrugging, adjusting his large DJ's headphones. "She's so vain. She thinks that song's about her."

          Phoenix could nearly hear Foxx's eyeroll.

          "So," Maya said, smirking, "You have some information for us, right?"    "Sure do. All right, so here's the deal." Spin shifted his weight to one foot, and fished inside his suit jacket. "The others are keepin' an eye on the police an' Edgeworth, I'm just passin' along this here."

 

          The item in question crackled free of Spin's pocket -- a plastic bag gleaming with the low light, and a sad, broken piece of electronic casing inside it.

 

          "We figure it's a chunk of the security camera."

          "Security camera?" Phoenix asked.

          Spin pointed, past Phoenix and Maya to the wall above. A small security camera clung there, staring down at the unlocked gateway, its cables huddled where the wall and the fence formed a corner. And sure enough, the small control box at ground level had bare-tipped wires poking from an open panel. Phoenix took the broken piece from Spin -- its broken wires practically screamed suspicious activity.

          "The police know there's a security camera," Spin went on, "Guess they asked the restaurant owner 'bout it. But here's the good part -- we found the broken chunk on this side of the fence door. An' the whole time the police investigation was goin' on, the door was locked. They even didn't pay much attention back here, figured it didn't have anythin' to do with J 'cause he didn't get through the door."

          So there was traffic through this alley -- recent traffic, from someone with a key. And would that someone know about the damaged camera?

          "Do you know who unlocked the door?" Phoenix asked, paying little mind to Maya tugging the bag from his hand.

          "There was a gap in Agent presence for approximately ten minutes," Foxx replied, "After the police left and before Spin arrived. Sorry, Phoenix, it must have happened then."

          "It was open when I got here," Spin said, and added, with faint melody colouring his voice, "I can't tell you why."

          Rubbing his chin, Phoenix wondered, "But if they had a key for the locked gate, they must come back here a lot. What about Cherry?"

          "All I can tell ya," and Spin grinned apologetic, "Is that nobody in there right now is yellin' for help. Maybe Foxx can pull up buildin' plans or something?"

          "The alley door behind the gate," Foxx said, right on cue, "Leads to the second floor of the Orchard, according to the original schematics. There've been multiple contracts and renovations in the building since then, some for sizable sums of money, but there are no business records other than the Orchard's ... That second floor must be private property, Phoenix. Maybe someone's residence."

         

          "Nick," Maya piped. She looked up from the security camera piece, head canted. "I have an idea, I'm going to go talk to Cherry for a minute."

          Which was like going to poke a mountain lion with a sharp stick for a minute.

          "Uhh, why?"

          "Well, the security camera is hers, right? And she came back here not long ago?" Maya tapped her cheek. "So I thought she might know something about this broken chunk here."

          They didn't know that Cherry had come to the alley recently, actually. But Cherry definitely knew more than she was willing to tell. And she liked Maya better than Phoenix, or at least glared at her less ... Phoenix frowned thoughtfully, and fished in his pocket for the magatama.

          "Then take this, Maya. It'll show you if Cherry's hiding something from you."

          It was like Maya was seeing her family's treasure for the first time, eyes lighting up before she stuffed it into her robe's folds. "Really? Neat! I'll be right back, don't leave without me!"

         

          She trotted off, sandals scuffing away down the alley. And then Phoenix was left with Spin. Who grinned far too knowingly.

          "Err ..." Phoenix rubbed his neck. "What ...?"

          "I thought there was some synching goin' on in there!" Folding his arms, tapping two fingers to an imagined beat, Spin shifted his weight to one leg. "No wonder you got the mission, Mr. Wright! Secret agent ma~an!"

          Synching ...? More like Phoenix was living in a very, very mad world.

 

          And then came a familiar chirp of a voice -- "Hey Spin, Nick! Do you guys copy?"

          Phoenix's hand flew to his earpiece. "Missy?!"

          She giggled, sunshine-bright. "I'm in your com link, hackin' your signals!"

          "Actually," Foxx muttered, like she couldn't quite swallow her smile, "It was just easier to patch her in than to relay everything."

          "Did you just call to say you want me," Spin drawled, "To come back home?"

          "I can't seem to get you off my mind!" A bare pause. "Actually, the pitch modding's done on that audio Morris got. Nick, somebody called Prosecutor Edgeworth, and it sounded like she's really been driving him nuts!"

          For one deeply pitying moment, Phoenix recalled Edgeworth's office full of not-so-secret admirer's gifts. Getting attention could be a bad thing indeed.

          "Do you know who it was?" he asked.

          "Turns out it was Cherry LaFlamme! She called to yell about how she has vital information on the case and she'd be on Edgeworth like white on rice until he called her as a witness."

          "What?!" Phoenix spluttered, "She told me she didn't see anything!"

          "Guess you'll have to do what you do best, Mr. Wright," Spin offered. He -- presumably -- eyed Phoenix behind his shades.

          "She'll be on the stand, Nick!"

          He knew the look Missy was giving him now -- wide-eyed adoration, maybe with fists balled determined.

          "You can handle anybody on the stand, I know, I've seen you make people spill! And Ms. LaFlamme has something to hide, I just know it!"

          If nothing else, Phoenix could back her into a corner in the courtroom. Those locks would open one way or another.

 

 

          Maya came scuff-trotting back not long afterward.

          "So," Phoenix asked, "Did Cherry tell you anything?"

          Dropping the magatama back in Phoenix's grasp -- it was gently warm, from hands or magic or both -- Maya paused.

          "No ..." She brightened. "But I learned some new words!"

          Phoenix had no words. He rubbed his forehead.

          "Pushing Cherry isn't going to work," he muttered, "She's just getting defensive. We need to wait until we have a better idea of what's going on here and we can force her to talk."

          "Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this," Spin commented. His foot tapped idly.

          "Phoenix,"  Foxx mused, "I've got confirmation -- LaFlamme and Dempster have no natural music sense, and they've never shown awareness of Agent presence or assistance. Treat them like you'd treat any other witnesses."

          Easy to say, and trickier to do. Phoenix muttered agreement anyway.

 

 

          They said goodbye to Spin -- and were told to keep on rockin' in the free world. The com link in Phoenix's ear returned to Foxx's reliable quiet, and the rumbling dinginess of the city bus was almost familiar enough to be a comfort.

          "These are pretty gross, Nick."

          He looked to Maya, who picked through Cherry's clump of side rags in her lap.

          "They wouldn't be any use to us if they were freshly washed." He laid forearms over his knees, and leaned onto them. What had Barley been talking about, beef grease and red pepper ... something-or-other? "See anything you recognize?"   

          "I think this is the same sauce I spilled." Maya picked at a spot of crusty off-white. "And this black stuff's stove grease. Or maybe pot grease. Or pan grease ...  Where does grease come from, anyway?"

          Did they really want to know?

          "And-- green?" Maya squinted at the towels. "What kind of food is green?"

          "Broccoli?"

          "No, this isn't broccoli green. Or pea green. It's not even mint frosting green!"

          Phoenix decided to take Maya's expert word on the subject.

          "Uhh ... I don't know, then." And he straightened for a better look at the green in question -- a thin smear of a line, hidden momentarily as Maya's thumb passed over it. Spinach, maybe? Was there even such a thing as spinach sauce?

          "Hey," Maya chirped, "Why don't we get Detective Gumshoe to check it out for us? I'll bet the lab could tell us what everything on these rags is!"

          And it figured that they thought of it five bus stops too late; Phoenix reached up for the cord.

 

 

          The police station was the same as usual: rows of oddly neat desks, an occasional officer bustling by, the Chief grumbling as he started a new Solitaire game. And Gumshoe hunched over his desk, deeply concentrating for a change. His ratty coat hung on the back of his chair and his shirtsleeves sat rolled around his elbows: maybe Gumshoe's equivalent of taking off the kid gloves.

          "The thing with these frequency detectors," he muttered -- so that's what the mangled electronic innards in front of him were, "Is that they're not really hard to make, but they're a lot more sensitive than you'd think, pal. It just takes one little bent whatsit to throw the whole thing off."

          "Whatsit?" Maya picked up a pair of pliers and hopefully didn't have plans for them. "Is that the technical word, Detective Gumshoe?"

          He looked up at her, hurt and puppy-dog confusion on his face.

          "Hey, I don't have an electronical degree or anything."

          Or an English degree, either.

          "I just know how to put things together so they work." And, beaming, Gumshoe added, "I knew those old radios'd come in handy for something! Did Mr. Wright tell you? This frequency detector helped us uncover Matt Engarde!"

           The lemon-coloured casing pieces did look awfully familiar. And watching Gumshoe adjust fine wiring, the screwdriver comically tiny between his fingers and his tongue studiously between his lips, was faintly like watching Foxx work. Very faintly.

           "It was useful," Phoenix admitted, "And, speaking of useful--"

          "You want information, don'tcha, pal?" Gumshoe's brow furrowed. "Well, I can't tell you anything about the Beasley case, Mr. Wright! Mr. Edgeworth is keeping a tight lid on it since that news report about the Grandma Murderer!"

          "Could you tell us about Cherry LaFlamme, then?"

          "Chef LaFlamme?" Gumshoe wondered, "She's been calling Mr. Edgeworth, actually. She says she saw the killer running from Foster Park and she's dead set on testifying about it."

          So much for not talking about the case -- not that Phoenix was complaining.

          "She wouldn't let me set foot in her kitchen, and she said she was too busy for questioning. And she doesn't like people tripping over her furniture." Gumshoe paused from his wiring to sheepishly scratch his head. "She's kinda grouchy, pal. But Chef LaFlamme did give a statement and security records, and let us investigate in her restaurant's alley."

 

          "The microphone," Foxx suddenly hissed, "Phoenix, he might have found it."

 

          They still lacked that piece of the puzzle, didn't they? Watching Maya bend scrap copper wires into animal shapes -- that was actually a pretty good kangaroo -- Phoenix tapped his chin.

          "Did you find anything else linking him to that Foster Park trail," he asked, " Other than the footprints?"

          Phoenix's mind raced -- how would a person lose a microphone, accidentally and unremarkably? Dropping their ... what, bag of recording equipment? Stewart was supposed to be a handyman, not a rock star, how did a microphone make any sense at all?

          Sudden puzzlement hit Gumshoe, and he opened a filing drawer to dig inside. "Actually, there's one thing we can't make heads or tails of. You're good at this kind of thing, pal -- I'm not supposed to show you, but three heads are better than one!"

          "Even if one's a head of cabbage," Maya added, adjusting the ears on a wire bunny.

          "I thought you hated cabbage ..." Phoenix muttered.

          She stared thoughtfully into the air. "I don't hate it. We just agree to disagree."

          Funny, how Maya found time for civil negotiations while vaccuuming down her food.

          "We found this," Gumshoe announced, setting something dark and clattering down by its plastic bag in front of Phoenix, "By the Foster Park trail, pal. Off to one side, like somebody dropped it."

          Or threw it, because he couldn't be caught with it. Phoenix stifled bright relief away, putting on his best faintly surprised face -- "Is that a karaoke microphone?"

          "Yeah--"

 

          Foxx let out a breath of quiet relief.

 

          "--But the weird part is it's not from the wedding. We checked with Mr. Vanderspielgle, it's not the same model as his equipment. And it's covered with your client's fingerprints, Mr. Wright. Really covered. The lab had a hard time finding clear hand prints but Mr. Edgeworth insisted."

          "Hand prints?" Phoenix wondered, "To figure out what kind of grip it was held in, right?" There was only one reason Edgeworth would want to know that.

          "Yup! The mark on Ms. Beasley's head shows something rounded and about the size of that microphone's mouthpiece. But we didn't find any blood or hair or anything from Ms. Beasley on it."

          Focus on the outsides of things, memory said with Foxx's voice, focus on fingerprints and residues.

          "Just Mr. Lowe's handprints," Phoenix mused.

          "The lab figures they're all regular microphone-holding prints -- if you were hitting somebody with it, you'd hold it the other way around, and in a hard fist, see?" Gumshoe mimed out the difference, and then eyed Phoenix. "Why would your guy have a microphone anyway, pal?"

          He just had to ask, didn't he? One hand creeping to the back of his neck, Phoenix tried, "Uhh, well, he was doing all kinds of things that day..."

 

          "A singing job?" Foxx offered, "In a lounge, maybe? Or a bar?"

           

          Sure, that would work, he just had to stop showing nerves, let a thoughtful look wander over his face--

          "I think he was going to try out at some lounges," Phoenix said, "You know, bars ... For entertainment sort of ... jobs?"

          It was weak -- like impromptu excuses always were -- but Gumshoe's brows worked as he mulled it over.

          "Huh. He sings, too? Pretty talented guy."

 

          Gumshoe stared; the most awkward silence in the world passed them by. Maya set a wire cow on the desk with a fine click.

 

          "But anyway," Gumshoe said, "It doesn't look like Mr. Lowe whacked anybody with this. That's what Mr. Edgeworth really wanted to find out..." And, glancing over his shoulder, "Look, I dunno how, but I've just got a gut feeling that microphone's important, pal. If anybody can figure out a piece of evidence, it's you."

          "Actually," Maya piped, looking up from arranging her menagerie, "We've got some evidence only you can figure out! It's practically a trade!"

          Gumshoe frowned at the neat row of animals. "I'll help you, just quit making giraffes out of my whosits!"

          "I thought they were whatsits?"

          Phoenix lifted his briefcase onto the desk, and didn't offer to call them thingies. "Can we just give you the evidence, already?"

 

         

          And with the side rags stuffed into evidence bags, and Gumshoe's assurance that the lab knew every shade of green there was, they left the police department.

          "If you've got time, Phoenix," Foxx said, slow like thought, "Would you visit J in detention?"

          "Visit J?"

          Maya nodded eagerly, and then her attention went to waving down an idle-passing taxi.

          "Sure," Phoenix said. He glanced to his watch -- they had an hour left before the detention center guards would give him a hard time. "Is there something we need to find out?"

          "Not ... especially, no. I'm not convinced this wasn't an intentional attack against an Agent, but J insists that the target he followed was in real need. He knows what he's doing." And her voice lowered, "Honestly? I'd like to check in. We're still keeping transmission contact with J to a bare minimum while he's in police custody, but we need to know that he's holding up."

          Because that was what teams did -- looked out for each other, supported each other. Phoenix nodded, and watched the taxi glide up to the curb.

          "We'll be right there."

 

          Another ride in a ubiquitous cab, and Phoenix and Maya sat in the detention center once more, looking idly around at the camera and guard and stark walls. Same as usual, Stewart left the guards and took his seat, placing the bagged Agent shoes before him.

          "Am I ever glad to see you guys." He managed a wry smile. "It's boring in the can, ya know?"

          "Were you in questioning all day? They like asking the same questions over and over," Maya worried -- she certainly knew how the spotlit defendant's chair felt, and Phoenix did, too.

          "Well, for a while ..." Stewart glanced away, raking a hand through his hair. "Guess they got tired 'a hearin' I'm not talking without my lawyer present. The time's been pretty long after that." A smile suddenly brightened him. "But the Commander dropped a line!"           

          "I thought you weren't getting transmissions here in detention?" Phoenix asked.

          "I didn't think so either, but then I notice infra an' sure enough, it's these!" He lifted the shoes, and grinned. "The Commander transmitted slow. Real slow, so the beats were spread out an' nobody'd notice it's Morse, right? It took a couple hours to tell me to keep up the beat, Agent, we're all behind ya."

          Maya clapped her hands together, and shone. "Oh, that's so nice of him!"

          Leaning back in his chair, Stewart replied, "It's just what we do." And at that moment, he looked nearly at ease.

          "Well," Phoenix said, "It's good to know that you're all right."

 

          Foxx had to be listening -- she said nothing. And her words nagged in the back of Phoenix's mind; he took a breath and decided.

          "Mr. Lowe, when you chased that target into the alley, you say they were scared, right? Possibly injured?"

         

          Agent's dignity settled over him in an instant, and the lion's gaze returned.

          "Yeah. There was so much panic an'... an' just feelings, it was like I was right there with 'em, it was like stickin' my hand in hot coals and knowing it hurt."

          He looked away, and chewed his lip.

          "I've been thinkin' about that a lot. I'm sure it was real ... I wish I coulda helped."

         

          Phoenix could imagine it now, in a rough-sketched way: quick-pounding adrenaline from running, a gut feeling that someone was in need, extra senses colouring the world and urging, pulling. He nodded.

         "We've got some leads on the real killer, we'll get to the bottom of this. And--" Phoenix patted his briefcase, "Your microphone is in safe hands."

          "Oh, good! That's-- yeah, that's a relief." Stewart's grin crept back, and he scratched his head. "Losin' secret agent gear's pretty bad."

          That was implied, yes.

          "Would it be all right if I held on to it? Edgeworth had the microphone before we did--"

          Stewart winced -- Phoenix's sentiments exactly.

          "--And the police department couldn't make a connection to the murder, and they didn't look at anything more than your handprints. But just in case ..."

          "Yeah, sure, keep it. Just keep the switch off an' the conductor frequency to zero, it's that little twisty at the bottom of the handle."

          "Err ..." Rubbing the back of his neck, Phoenix grinned sheepish. "I just won't touch it, how's that?"

          "Come on, Nick," and the look of impending doom shone in Maya's eyes, "You'd make a great Agent! Sis said you dance to the radio like you mean it!"

          Hadn't Mia promised she wouldn't tell anyone about that?!

          "Well, anyway," Phoenix said, "We'll work on the evidence we've got, and the other Agents found some clues on what Edgeworth's doing. We'll be better off in court tomorrow than we were today."

          "We'll blow this case wide open tomorrow!" Maya smiled sunny. "So rest easy, all right?"

         

          Stewart chuckled, and nodded, but they all knew that was easier said than done.

 

Chapter 12