Foster Park spread lush and green, bordered by oak groves, doused with heavy midday sun. Police milling about the park's edges, however, ruined any relaxing mood the place might have had. The taxi grumbled away down the road, and Maya looked expectantly up at Phoenix.

          "Well," he said, and passed a hand through his spiky hair, "Let's get started."

         

           The cobbled main pathway wound through the center of the park -- probably full of pedestrians on any other day. Dark bars in the distance formed a stage platform Phoenix couldn't recall seeing before, and litter flecked the grass with white. But the police movements drew Phoenix's eye, along the trees' shade and between tall trunks. A person could be spotted easily in such open forest, with little leafy underbrush for cover -- there would surely be witnesses with stories to untangle, half-truths about a menacing, lurking figure.

          "Hey," Maya said, and tapped Phoenix's elbow, "There's Detective Gumshoe! Let's go ask him what's going on!"

 

          There was no need to go anywhere; Gumshoe already stormed toward them, across the open field, bull-fierce determination set into his face.

          "Listen, pal," he bellowed, "I know what you're up to! Don't think you can get away with it!"

          Maybe, in a past life, Phoenix did something to deserve such a welcome. He rubbed his neck, and stayed quiet as Gumshoe reached them, puffing ferociously; discretion was always the better part of valour.

          "None of your lawyer tricks! I can't afford to have anything mess this case up, see, so no snooping around!"

          "You got reinstated, Detective Gumshoe?" Maya asked.

          Catching his breath with a gulp, and settling a little as he looked to Maya, Gumshoe swiped at the back of his head. "Yeah, thanks to Mr. Edgeworth, he explained everything to the chief. And this case is serious, half the force is working on it!" Back to bristling excitability, back to glaring at Phoenix. "I can't even let you in, pal, not this time!"

          Understandable enough -- anyone who didn't know Gumshoe might have been discouraged. "We're representing the defendant, Mr. Lowe. Can you tell us what happened?" 

          Glancing away, Gumshoe muttered, "I guess so. Just don't tell anyone, alright, pal? The details are confidential."

          Which was why he revealed them so freely, of course.

          "We got a call at about eleven-thirty this morning about a mugging, our men caught your guy making a break for the alleys and the lady was already dead."

          "The lady?"

          "Yeah, here." Gumshoe fished in his pockets and came up with a crumpled autopsy report, which he stuffed into Phoenix's hands. "A sweet little old lady, pal! How could anybody do that?!"

          Morna Beasley, the report's cold print said, age eighty-six. Cause of death: head trauma. And that was all it had to say -- too early yet for a detailed report, Phoenix supposed.

          "Just walking in the park minding her own business," Gumshoe blustered on, "And somebody comes along and whacks her in the head! It says somethin' about people nowadays, doesn't it?! The murderer'll wish he'd never looked twice at her once Mr. Edgeworth's through with him!"

 

          Edgeworth prosecuting a sensitive case -- no wonder Gumshoe stood over the crime scene, snarling at intruders. With so little preparation time, details were crucial, anything that might reveal itself as a weapon in their upcoming duel. The thought of Edgeworth's steel to rely on was a comfort, but if neither of them knew the full story--

          "Detective Gumshoe," Phoenix began, and ran a knuckle back and forth over his chin, "This is a serious accusation, isn't it? Murdering an elderly woman in cold blood."

          "Darn right it is!"

          "Then it's important we find the truth here, this murderer is obviously dangerous." It made even more sense outside his head -- Phoenix was on to something, and he snatched the idea, ran with it. "If you accuse and convict the wrong person, the real murderer will still be at large. We can't allow that to happen."

          Gumshoe's face twisted with thought, with the logical recoil. He scratched meekly at his head. "That's ... Yeah. I guess you're right, pal." A sigh deflated him. "Here I go, sticking my neck out again!"

          "We'll be careful," Maya offered, imp's smile lacing her voice, "Promise!"

          She could at least speak for herself.

          "Listen, just don't draw too much attention to yourself, alright?" With a jerk of his chin, Gumshoe added, "Take the back way, that path down there. There's not much but an outline at the crime scene anyway."  A smile spread wide on him. "Hope we can crack this one open, pal!"

 

         

          The main path led Phoenix and Maya down a gentle slope, past neat-groomed grass with its peppering of litter -- mostly leaflets and balled paper napkins, a large function's leftovers fluttering and turning restless somersaults with the breeze. A paper cartwheeled to rest at Phoenix's feet and he stooped for it: lacy script drew out Jessie and Jim's itinerary, from opening saluations to closing ceremonies.

          "Oh, a wedding!" Maya gasped, peering over Phoenix's elbow, running fingertips over the flower petal border, "I wish we could have seen it!"

          None of the events looked especially interesting -- speeches, dancing, a lunch probably underportioned and overpriced. Karaoke caught Phoenix's eye and he grimaced -- people still did that? "Weddings? I didn't think you liked that kind of thing."

          "A girl's gotta have dreams, Nick!" She plucked the itinerary from his hands, and it promptly vanished into her waistband's bow.

         He got as far as imagining poofy white lace and a cake big enough for Maya to have twenty-six servings of, and that was when sympathy pain began around his back pants pocket -- weddings went through money like the stuff was going out of style. Phoenix shuddered, scooped another itinerary off the grass for his own records and looked over the stage: it was the light-built, temporary variety, probably there only for the wedding but now a witness to a murder. If the wedding actually took place between the ornately-printed times of nine AM and noon, there would be more witnesses and more conflicting stories than Phoenix cared to think about.

 

          "Hey Nick, Maya!"

          And speaking of witnesses and stories, Larry appeared, bearing his usual easy smirk and a stack of papers -- Phoenix nodded his greeting.

          "Hi, Larry!" Maya clapped her hands together, shining bright, "What brings you here?"

          He juggled the papers to his opposite elbow. "Passing out flyers." And with a wink -- surely more impressive in his head than in any form of reality -- he gave Phoenix and Maya sheets from the top of his stack. "Drop by the Orchard, where the finest flavours in town grow!"

          Vaguely tree-like design graced the sheet, followed by paragraph-long dish descriptions: the Orchard, apparently, was some sort of restaurant. "I hope you're being paid to go around saying that," Phoenix muttered, and stuffed the flyer into his pocket.

          Scratching his head, Larry drawled, "Yeah, and the ladies like that kind of stuff. I promised Latisha I'd take her there, I just need a paycheck first!" He grinned and stopped scratching, and his hair held the wild spines.

           "Stevia panacotta with Ida Red compote and creme anglaise," Maya breathed, "I have no idea what that is but it sounds great! Let's go there sometime, Nick!"  

          Oh, the world was a cruel place for poor, innocent wallets.

          "Larry," Phoenix tried, "There was a murder this this morning, at around eleven AM, by the south edge of the park. Were you here?"

           "Eleven? Nah, I was long gone by then." Larry shifted the stack again, slapping a hand to the top too late to save a handful of flyers from sliding free. "I hit up the wedding party with these things but they were starting the karaoke. Geezers trying to sing, man!"  He wagged a sleeve, a slow to-and-fro. "Nobody in their right mind'd stick around for that! I went to the other end of the park, some kids' soccer game just let out maybe half an hour ago."

          Then, Phoenix decided as he gathered the fallen papers, Larry had gotten lucky -- they all had. "Good. We don't have time to talk, but stay out of trouble, all right?" He returned the sheets to their pile, and gave Larry the least pained smile he could manage.

          "Always do, Nick!" Another juggle, and Larry produced a thumbs-up. "And really, drop by the Orchard, the boss could use a little peace of mind!"

          Couldn't they all; couldn't they all.

         

 

          The path Gumshoe suggested was an unassuming gap in the shrubbery, the beginning of a footpath's packed dirt. Bootprints clung to the path's valleys, at the edges of dark mud puddles. The path meandered around oak trunks and Phoenix looked up at the green-lit canopy, listening to breeze in the leaves and dirt grinding under their shoes.

          "Not much at the crime scene ... I wonder if Detective Gumshoe knows anything else," Maya mused, hopping over a log with a flap of purple-clad arms, "Something he's not telling us. Or maybe it really is too early for the police to find anything, and we can grab a few clues?"

          "Probably not this soon, the police'll still be there working on the crime scene." Being thrown out of places by stern-glaring officers never had been Phoenix's idea of fun.  

          Maya murmured disappointment, and fell quiet. Trees gathered denser and the path slithered around a thicket, joining up with a straight-ruled path that crunched sandy with their steps. A bird chirped in the distance, its two-note cry familiar but nothing Phoenix could match a name to.

          "This park's nice," Maya tried. Clapping hands together, she turned to him. "We should take Pearly here sometime, Nick, she'd love it. Maybe bring a picnic basket, and--"

          "Maya, keep your voice down." Phoenix looked to the trees again, this time searching for moving figures amid the green, square-shouldered guards. "We're not supposed to be here, remember?"

          "Oh, right!" And in a hiss of a stage whisper, "Sorry."

          He stifled the urge to roll his eyes, and instead watched the shapes of leafy branches passing by. Maybe the distant dark mass was a police officer -- it kept still and offered no comfort. They carried on, over the sand-cupped shaped of footprints, through the sun-dappled woods.

 

         Footprints formed strings when he looked at them the right way: tight lines where walkers meandered slow, turning prints where something caught their attention. Who knew what stories the path had to tell, and that just since the last rain. A set of footprints veered in from the forest to join the others, blend with the parade and carry on. Daylight and concrete showed at the path's end, police tape cordoned off a square of pathway and its numered flags, and footprints stood noticable again -- running prints, dug hard. And hadn't Stella told him that Stewart fled the scene?

         

          It took a moment to notice Maya missing -- the quiet hung too thick, the air felt too empty. Phoenix turned and her familiar shape demanded his attention, emerging purple and raven from between saplings.

          "Nick," she cried as he drew closer, holding up her find between two knuckles, "Look! I thought I saw something shiny!"

          A pair of sunglasses,  half-opened and gleaming; Phoenix dug in his briefcase for a zip-top bag, gratitude swelling warm at Maya's careful, printless grip. So much for not seeming to listen to him. "Good, where was it?"

          "Just over there, they looked like someone threw them. And if Stewart was running ..."

          The glasses landed in the bag with a short, sharp rustle; daylight grabbed them, and yellow tint shone through the dark plastic.

          "Do you think they mean anything, Nick?"

          She plainly didn't mean it as a question -- she pried at him with her eyes.

          "Maybe. Why?"

          Fingertips rising to her mouth, Maya wondered, "It's just that Stewart wouldn't tell us about his work, and--" Her eyes widened. "And in the cab with Stella, you decided you were going to solve a problem, instead of just being all quiet and grumpy about it, something was different!"

          He tried to connect the pieces; they refused to mesh. Phoenix held Maya's fiery gaze.

          "And the sunglasses, they're--" She flung her hands down. "Agents, Nick! Agents were here!"

          "What?! It can't--" And as he spluttered it, the pieces fit: sleek shades and Stewart's mention of a suit, his tight-guarded secrets and his reluctant confession. My job is helping people. But that was tabloid fare, rumours and fiction, how could--

          "And Stella in the cab!" Maya clenched fists. "Maybe they're both Agents, you were different and there was music! Don't tell me you didn't hear it!"

          Stella's fingers tapping, spinning, conducting and the tune he couldn't place. But how was forming an idle tune anything like a heroes' life-changing powers? How could that be real? Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried, "Maya--"

          "Look, we can-- We can ask Stewart!" Digging in her pockets, Maya said, "Ask him and see if he has a Psyche Lock, I think there's enough power left. I tried to recharge it." She drew the magatama out, gripped it and her face fell to aching regret. "I just haven't gotten that training yet, I'm sorry."

          For all she learned, more always lay ahead -- but that held true for everyone. Phoenix softened, warmed inside and sighed. "All right. We can ask him." Because not asking would mean saying no to Maya. He'd never be cold enough for that.

          She nodded, and pressed the magatama into his hands; it still glowed ocean-green, still tingled with medium's energy. "We'd better hurry, then!"

          And as Maya's grip closed on his wrist and she began to drag, as the magatama sat smooth in his grasp and brought womens' smiles to his edges of awareness, Phoenix believed, just a little. For all he had seen and done, what was another miracle?

            

          They found Stella where they had left her -- leaning on the detention center wall, smiling encouragement.

          "Well, did you get what you need?"

          "We sure did," Maya chirped, and tilted her head, "But you can't always get what you want."

          Stella lit again, the same golden satisfaction as when she tapped notes in the cab. An old rhythm drifted through Phoenix's thoughts -- maybe they followed the right path after all.

 

          When Stewart returned to the visitation chair -- still clutching his shoes, placing the bag careful on the table before him -- he moved carefully, and met Phoenix's eyes like a challenge.

          "Got somethin' to ask me, Mr. Wright?"

          "Just believe, Nick," Maya murmured.

          Phoenix nodded. "I do." He didn't know who the answer was meant for -- it didn't matter. He slipped a hand into his pocket, and palmed the magatama.

 

          The world changed when he borrowed Feys' talents; an extra sense served him, another dimension of awareness. Auras blended, colour and sound forming a haunting-dark song where they met. The rattle of chains filled Phoenix's head -- three Psyche Locks bound Stewart, steely-defiant.

          "If ya think you know somethin'," Stewart offered, "Shoot."

           Nerves prickled on Phoenix's skin, a wave of emotion not his. Hiding something, came Pearl's echo, protecting something. He could nearly see the little girl by his side, watching with more wisdom than age.

          "You're keeping something from me, something you don't want anyone to know. Maybe it's about your job?"

          "Yeah, I was workin' in the park that morning." Stewart stared, and a shudder darted through the chains. "Is that really important?"

          "It's very important. We found running footprints on the forest pathway, and--" A glance to the shoes -- sure enough, sand gathered in the bag's corners. "They belong to you. " 

          Chains tremored, tumbles ground in one of the Locks. Stewart chewed his lip.

          "I was in a hurry, what's weird about that?"

          Phoenix shook his head. "You were arrested outside the park, weren't you? Running down a hikers' path, headed toward some back alleys? You said you were wearing a suit and those good shoes -- that doesn't sound like a park employee to me."

          A jolt through reality and one Lock gave way, dissapating smoke-fragments around Stewart.

          "Yeah, you're right, Mr. Wright. S'not a very good story, is it?" Raking a hand through his thick hair -- and there was more evidence, a glimpse before blond buried it again -- Stewart smiled wry. "Okay. What d'you think I was doin', then?" 

          Being an urban legend, right alongside the lake monsters and UFOs. But who was Phoenix to look down on such things and then scry souls with a medium's precious jewel? Reality was subjective and the evidence lined up; he placed the sunglasses on the table between them, near the plexiglass. He had to be sure.

          "Are these yours?"

          A strange pulse, fear and relief blended to neutral pale. Stewart's careful smile didn't falter. "What makes ya think that?"

          Not all secrets are painful, Mr. Nick, Pearl murmured, but then why would they be secrets at all? "We found these in the park, thrown aside from the path. If these sunglasses were part of a distinctive uniform, and you didn't want to be recognized, you'd need to get rid of them while you ran."

          Shrugging -- too stiff, stirring more pale feelings -- Stewart replied, "Ehh, I wear shades once in a while."

          Phoenix smirked. "More than once in a while. The evidence is right there on your face, you have a tan line from sunglasses." A faint mark at best, across his nose and temples, but enough, more than enough.

          A twitch through the locks, tumbles clicking into place; Stewart paused for thought and the magatama's tune filled the space between them. "Awright, they're mine." He leaned back, smile spreading wider, knowing. "But what're ya gettin' at, Mr. Wright? D'you really know what I do?"

 

          It all came to this: a target in the mists, blazing pain through his soul if the shot didn't fly true. Grip tightening on the magatama, taking a breath to gather steel, Phoenix said, "You were wearing a suit and sunglasses, and you help people but can't say how. If you're anything like your friend, Stella Nocturne, if you help people the same way ..." The magics pulled him, tugged eager toward the conclusion and each note sang clearer. It had to be true; music could be a gift and a driving force.

          "You're an Elite Beat Agent. "  

         

          Cracking metal as the two Locks shattered, spinning away in glittering shards: relief won out and swelled and Stewart's eyes closed, the chains snaked off him and rattled into nothingness.

          "Glad you think so."

          Magatama's spell faded, and the world sank back to plain grey walls. Stewart shifted to pull a wallet from his back pocket, and pressed it open against the glass -- not a wallet at all, but a code number and the gold luster of a badge. His smile shone real in his eyes.

 

          "Agent J, here."

 

 

 

Chapter 3