Part three! Thanks to everyone actually reading this xD much love.
Also, I apologize for my French. I've been in French immersion since kindergarten, and while I understand it really well, and speak pretty well, I still have a hell of a time writing sometimes xD;
Disclaimer: Ace attorney belongs to Capcom~
A complete quiet, save the dull humming of the engine and the muffled clamour of traffic outside, had settled between them as they crawled through the densely packed rush-hour commuters towards the precinct. The prosecutor's eyes darted from rear-view mirror to the absolute mess of traffic surrounding him from all sides. From what he could see, an accident between a taxi and a pickup truck was what kept him stranded, not to mention the two men shouting at each other on the street median. Edgeworth sighed, and drummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel as he searched for an opening to escape the blocked street.
It was after a seeming eternity of anxious silence that Danielle finally spoke.
"I don't think he did it."
The statement was immediately swallowed by the silence, and Danielle sighed, resting her head on her fist as she turned her attention to the sunny day creeping by slowly outside of the car window. From the cautionary glances between the road and rear view mirror, his eyes flickered occasionally in his passenger's direction. She was a strongly built woman, of average height if note for the added few inches given by the thick heels of her black sandals. Her light brown eyes, though turned from him, were visible through their reflection in the car window. She was fighting to keep them open, a combination of the sun, the quiet, and the previous night's ordeal appeared to have left her weary.
"I go by the evidence," he started returning his attention to the crawl of cars. "If your... assumption is correct, and Mister Duncan is innocent, the evidence will verify it."
"Hm," she replied sleepily, swinging away from the window, and forcing herself to sit straight. Her attempt to wake herself backfired, and she now sank against the seat instead of the window. "I'm sorry. I didn't sleep very well last night," she chuckled weakly, eyes fluttering shut again. "I'll try and pull myself together."
He glanced back at the woman, furrowing his brow. "I could take you home, if you're not feeling well...."
"I just need some coffee, I'll be fine, really..." This was mumbled dreamily, and was far from reassuring. She made no complaint but the wince as her head hit the headrest, the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the bruises he now notes along her legs where she'd collapsed against the sidewalk sat uneasily with the prosecutor. Edgeworth shook his head, and hit his turn signal, finally seeing an opportunity to pull out of the traffic jam.
"I don't mean to be pushy, Miss Laurent, but I really must insist. You're not looking well–"
"Gee, thanks."
"– and given the shock you've had, I think it's fair to say that you need rest, if not therapy. I believe you're entitled to an afternoon off."
She chuckled, listlessly again. "I... think it might be best if I did go sleep a little... but I don't need therapy, Mister Edgeworth. I'm... a bit more jumpy than I remember, but I'm alright, really."
He quirked a sliver eyebrow. "Surely fearing for your life has shaken you? Thinking that you're about to die is certainly traumatic..." He cleared his throat, realizing that perhaps it was best not to draw from experience that he would rather not have to explain to a near-complete stranger. "But yes, where am I taking you? If you'd be so kind as to give me your address..." She protested, but Edgeworth countered her arguments. With the half hour they'd lost in traffic already, dropping her off would hardly be a waste of time, and so she conceded her address. He winced as she mumbled the location of an apartment building in a rather disagreeable portion of the city; nevertheless, Edgeworth turned the car in the proper direction.
She appeared to have regained a bit of her consciousness, and sat guiltily, toying with the wooden beaded bracelets around her wrists."You're being awfully kind to someone who's probably wrecked your case."
"Nonsense," the man smirked, shaking his head, "there is no such thing as a ruined case, provided that the truth comes out. If I wasn't able to bounce back from a minor setback like this one, I would hardly deserve to be called a prosecutor." He laughed to himself under his breath, as they turned around an unfamiliar corner. "Besides, the forensics lab will be done processing the evidence by tomorrow. They took the clothing the defendant was caught wearing," he reexamined the wavy brown hair, almost golden where the sunlight hit it, that fell around her face and down her back. "They're bound to find something of yours on that sweater, and once they do," he smiled more fondly, "even Wright won't be able to weasel his way out of the obvious conclusion."
The stupor seemed to have completely left her, and she smiled wryly."And if it doesn't?"
He acknowledged the possibility with an graceful inclination of his head. "Miles Edgeworth always finds the guilty party. Occasionally, that involves a 'not guilty' verdict."
"Ah," she returned to toying with the childish bracelets, smiling. "I see."
"Miss Laurent, if you wouldn't mind, I believe you will find my cell phone in the glove compartment. Since you should call in sick as quickly as possible, could you please inform detective Gumshoe that I'll be arriving very late, and without you?"
She complied, and pulled the device from the glove box, turned it on, and searched for the detective's number, trying not to be too nosy of the other numbers stored there. The phone rang again, and again, but the detective never answered.
The prosecutor, puzzled, glanced at the woman with his phone. "Is he not in?" She shook her head, and the creases between his brows deepened. "Odd... perhaps he left it somewhere. No matter...I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume it means he's hard at work somewhere."
It was after several minutes of directions into increasingly dingy streets that she finally asked him to stop, in front of a rather dishevelled set of apartments nestled between a convenience store and a parking lot in equal states of disrepair. "Here," she unhooked her seatbelt and took hold of her bag, stepping quickly from the car. "Thank you for the ride," she said, before shutting the car door carefully, "I really appreciate it." He realized he was being ridiculous as he contemplated walking her to the door, in broad daylight; however, a cry halted her just short of the doorway as a figure emerged from the convenience store, and made an angry beeline for her.
"Hey! You! Yes, you, you little brat, come back here! I want a word!"
He threw open his car door, narrowly avoiding a passing cyclist, and darted towards the altercation. Upon closer inspection, it was an older woman, and from her clothing and the odd hour, he could assume that this was a nurse returning home after a shift. The woman jabbed an accusing finger in the perplexed brunette's face. "Just what do you think you're doing letting your dog run loose around the building?" she raged. "That animal is your responsibility young lady. You cannot let it free in the hallway. It could get out of the building, get hit by a car, get– "
"D-daisy?" she stammered, eyes wide. "But she was on the couch when I left this morning... I locked the door, I'm sure of it, I would never..."
"Excuse me," Edgeworth cut in, his scowl seeming to startle the other woman out of her fury. "Is there a problem?"
"Y-yes, there is," she replied once she had recovered. "This idiot left her door wide open. Her dog got out, no surprise. I took the poor thing in, and I have half a mind to keep her!" She raised her other hand, indicating the box of dog treats visible through the plastic bag in which it was held. "Not to mention the god awful racket Jim next door says you were making a while ago."
"Ma'am," Edgeworth began steadily as a sort of uneasiness sank into his stomach. "Miss Laurent has been out all day, I can attest to that."
"Oh!" The woman's eyes widened in surprise, "then, that means... oh my, I'm terribly sorry... Someone must have broken in?"
"Ma'am, when was this?"
"Well, I found the dog about ten minutes ago, when I came home. Jim says he heard the racket about ten minutes before that, so..."
"Thank you. Miss–" his blood ran cold. "Miss Laurent?" The front door hadn't quite settled on its hinges. The prosecutor kicked himself internally. How could he have let her take off like this? He broke into a run after, only to stop dead when it occurred to him that he had no idea where he was headed. The nurse proved to be very helpful, and directed him to apartment 504.
He found the stairwell marked around a corner. Surely for five floors, going by foot would be more practical? He assured himself of this, and began the sprint to floor five, taking the grimy cement stairs two at a time.
She had beaten him there by a moment, and was paused by the only open door in the dingy hallway, and took no notice of him when he reached her. She was transfixed by the state of the tiny apartment the doorway looked into. Her small television, and some change on the nearby kitchen counter was left in place– this had not been a burglary; however, the door had clearly been kicked in, and every other door and cupboard had been thrown open, and furniture had been overturned.
"I believe," he began, careful to keep his voice even as he placed his hands on her shoulders and steered her quickly towards the stairwell, "that we should get you out of here, immediately."
"I had honestly hoped that I'd just forgotten to shut the door..." voice shaking slightly, she glanced back at him for some form of reassurance.
"Everything is going to be alright," he intoned, voice measured. "Duncan is in custody, so this could be completely unrelated, somehow. I'll call for police assistance as soon as–" His phone, which he had thrust into his pocket after Danielle's unsuccessful attempt to contact Gumshoe, began to ring, blasting garish computerized notes emphatically. He answered with one hand, careful to keep the other on the young woman's shoulder. "Prosecutor Ed–"
"Mister Edgeworth, sir!" the detective cut him off, frantically. "There's a problem, sir. A really, really big problem."
"And what–"
"Duncan's escaped, sir!"
"How the devil–!"
"It was while he was being transported from the courthouse to the detention centre, sir! Some idiot named Officer MacArthur was responsible for cuffing the guy, but apparently he screwed up. The suspect got one hand free, and ducked out of the car at a red light. MacArthur took off after him, and now we can't find him either."
"That... makes what I had to report a fair bit more troubling," the prosecutor frowned, gritting his teeth, and tightening his grip slightly on Danielle's arm. "I opted to drive Miss Laurent home, to rest. Someone has broken into, and ransacked her apartment. Nothing was taken."
"So, you mean...?"
"Whoever it was..." he said, quietly, hoping that the echo of their feet in the concrete stairwell would drown out his voice. Not that it mattered in the slightest. The psychologist would have undoubtedly have drawn the same conclusions as he had. "Whoever did this was most likely searching for her. Serial killers have been known to be unsatisfied with unfinished business..."
"Somebody's gotta protect her. We can look after her, right, Mister Edgeworth, sir?"
"I suppose.... We do have an investigation to complete, Detective, but I doubt that she would get underfoot."
"Sure thing, pal! Tell Miss Danielle that we won't rest until we've got this guy back behind bars. Also, that Maggey says hi."
He muttered a hasty agreement and greeting before hanging up, turning his attention back to the young woman who seemed to have steadied herself significantly in the past few moments. She stopped on the landing between the fourth and third floor, resisting when he pushed gently to urge her onwards. "I'd like to stay, if that's at all possible."
Edgeworth shook his head sternly."I would advise against it, Miss Laurent. It would be best to return you to the precinct at once–"
"I believe I could be helpful. You are investigating my apartment, after all. I know where everything's supposed to be."
Edgeworth sighed. Judging by the sudden bright glint in her formerly dull eyes, the woman was fully awake now, and considerably less passive. She was steadfast, and showed little signs of resigning herself to being scared away, and he had to admit that she made a point. It would be valuable to have help from someone who knew the former state of the room. "Fine," he conceded, narrowing his eyes at the grin her received in return. "However, I'll ask that we wait down stairs, away from the crime scene, until Detective Gumshoe arrives. I'm not exactly equipped to handle a threat, and I am responsible for your safety."
She nodded amicably, and started back down the stairs of her own accord.
"Oh, Mister Edgeworth?" She turned, giggling impishly, looking up at him from the following landing. "Was your ring tone what I think it is?"
***
Gumshoe navigated with a great deal of difficulty around the toppled furniture in the already tiny apartment. Various forensic officers hopped around the disarray, searching, lifting prints, and snapping photos. Nothing of any interest had turned up in almost an hour of looking; however, There was a clear footprint bashed into the door. It was a size eleven, consistent with their other findings, and consistent with Duncan. The problem was the general shape of the imprint. It didn't seem compatible with the sneakers he had been wearing in court. A more structured, rigid shoe seemed apparent, but the shape crushed into splintered wood might very well seem a bit distorted, and so Edgeworth hesitated to call it conflicting.
The steely haired man could not, despite his best intentions, find nothing out of the ordinary, save a forensic technician leaving the woman's kitchen with a sandwich that he had not had as he went inside. Miss Laurent had been very useful in restoring things to their original state, helping to clarify the intruder's movements.
As he scrutinized every inch of the rooms with a well trained eye, the only real oddity he could see was the state of the framed photos on the wall. They showed the same few children, in varying stages of growth, with a variety of adults.
"Looking for something?"
He jumped, whirling around to find Danielle situated directly behind him, and in the small space of the hallway, accidentally collided with her slightly as he turned. She flinched as his shin struck her own bruised calf, and the prosecutor blurted a less-than-eloquent apology instinctively, clearing his throat and correcting with a more collected, 'excuse me.'
"No worries," she had discarded the black sandals by the door, and was considerably shorter in her bare feet, and faint red lines crossed her ankles where they had been fastened.
"I was simply admiring your photographs," he stated as he justified the intrusion, though he couldn't quite meet her eye as he said it. "Who are these people?"
"My... my family... families, I suppose." She added the plural as an afterthought, head inclined as she took a step closer, beside him, to examine them as well. "These are my birth parents." She tapped on the frame of the picture farthest to the left, the beads on her wrist clicking together blithely.
"I'd been wondering about those..." Gumshoe poked his head into the tiny hallway, scratching bashfully at the back of his neck with a large hand, before lumbering to join them when she failed to protest his doing so. "Gee, I'm really sorry to hear about that..."
She closed her eyes, and shook her head, tucking a loose strand of golden brown hair behind her ear. "It's alright, Detective. I never really knew them... they were both surgeons. They died in that respiratory-virus epidemic, not long after I was born."
A light seemed to go on in the hulking Detective's memory. "Oooooh. Hey, right, I kinda remember that. Wasn't that just, you know," Gumshoe motioned upwards, "that didn't get this far south, did it?"
"Nous sommes d'origine Québécois, Détective."
Gumshoe quirked a thick eyebrow. "Ok, pal, I have no idea what you said, but it's certainly better than the last French guy I spoke with."
"Her family comes from the especially Francophone region of Canada," Edgeworth rolled his eyes, "And from what I've heard, I highly doubt that Mister Armstrong was fluent..."
The photograph seemed to have been taken at the couple's home. It was fairly cut off at the top, the odd positioning indicating the amateur use of a timer feature. A smiling man and woman, both with brown hair, stood in what appeared to be a fenced in backyard. The man, Danielle's father, shared her dark eyes and sunny brown hair, and rested a toddler with darker black-brown hair like the mother's in his arms against his hip. The mother rested a baby, which was presumably his charge, in her arms. Both the boys in the picture shared her blue eyes. The older son, perhaps ten, grinned at the camera from his mother's side. "Jacques– er, sorry, Jacob now," she indicated the younger with a tap of her nail against the glass, "and Michel."
"Anyway, mon Grand-mère, maternelle was our living relative, at the time. She'd moved down here to get away from the cold. My brothers and I lived with her for the next five years, but she died of natural causes, and we were placed into a foster home. We... were bounced around a lot, hence the number of different parents. There was a group home and Francophone couple they found for us, and then another woman in the first year alone. There have been seven, in total. These guys adopted us finally," she beamed, indicating a middle-eastern couple photographed with her younger brother and herself, at what appeared to be the young man's seventeenth birthday party. "The Raos are lovely."
The bizarre oddity apparent in the photographs was nagging at him, and he regretted the question as it passed his pale lips without much consideration."Your eldest brother simply disappears after this photo," he indicated one of the more centra pictures, showing a kindergarten aged girl among a what was most likely a ten year old Jacob, and the sandy haired boy in his mid- to late teenage years. "Was he taking the photos? Off to college?"
For the first time since it returned, her cheery expression faltered, and she took a step away from the photos, eyes now turned suddenly towards the commotion in the central room. "Not... quite, Mister Edgeworth. I'd best get back to...." she disappeared around the corner, and into the small kitchen as her comment trailed off.
"Mister Edgeworth, sir?"
"Yes, Detective?"
"Uh... I think you've upset her."
Edgeworth winced, crossing his arms defensively across his chest sorely. "That certainly wasn't my intention..."
A sudden cry from the living room caught both of the men's attention, and they dashed towards the excited forensics technician. "I've found something!" he cried, from behind an overturned chair. He held up, triumphantly, an evidence bag, containing three hairs, of a few inches in length. "They're definitely red. Our suspect's a redhead, right?"
It was generally concluded that with this discovery, the place had been swept clean of anything of interest, and it was deemed most useful to return to the precinct to collect the results of the forensic tests on the evidence, after a brief pause to visit Danielle's neighbour, and assure that her pet would be looked after while her home was a crime scene. The three paused when they returned to Edgeworth's car, and the two available seats.
"I...kinda hopped a ride with one of the forensics guys..." Gumshoe confessed. "But hey, you know..." he peered into the back window of the prosecutor's car, "I bet if you rearranged stuff back there– well, I sure wouldn't fit, pal, but we'd have more than enough room for Miss Danielle." Despite the lawyer's protests, Gumshoe set to work playing spare-tire tetris with the contents of the back seat.
"I don't understand. It looks like you have a fairly roomy trunk... is it full?"
Edgeworth bit his lip, and shook his head brusquely. "I don't use that trunk anymore, and have a perfectly reasonably reason for not doing so."
"Oh?" despite her prodding, the prosecutor said nothing, and hopped behind the wheel of the sports car and Gumshoe stepped away from the back.
"Here we go!" he exclaimed happily. He'd managed to shove everything into one side, and behind the front seats, and though it involved keeping her book bag in her lap and her feet on a small tool box and first kit, she did indeed fit.
***
"You're an awfully brave woman, aren't you?"
She smiled fondly, glancing over from her papers at the blond man who had wandered into her office. "Not so much, Officer. I don't think I had time to be frightened."
The sound of the door clicking shut, and the snap of the lock turning into place made her jump, and whirl back around again, as MacArthur strode closer, smiling, towards the chair set up against the side of the office. "You don't mind me locking the door, do you? For privacy," he said sheepishly, "you understand, don't you, Miss? I'd be awfully embarrassing if anyone overheard. Is anyone else even on this floor at this hour?"
"Not really..." she inclined her head, and glanced down at the clock mounted on the wall. "It's empty by now..." It was indeed getting late. She'd been hard at work going over evaluations from other cases, and the odd officer or detective who wandered into her room, though most had gone home by now. He had surprised her, and a chill passed down her spine as he took a seat beside her, despite his bashful smile. Clearly the day, and previous night's events had left her more skittish than she'd first thought.
"I screwed up big time, didn't I? Again," he lamented shoulders slumping. "The first time I arrest the bastard, Harris's gun goes missing from the evidence. Second time we catch Duncan, he gets away from me."
"Best not to dwell on those things, officer..." She reassured, turning from her things to pay him her full attention.
"This whole thing's such a mess... is it just me who's so shaken up?" he stammered, pale eyebrows knitting together worriedly. "Is this normal, or am I cracking up?"
"No, no," the young woman sat with her knees together, just below the hem of her skirt, sandalled feet leaned against the legs of her chair. "Many people are experiencing anxiety. It's only normal in a situation like this. But if you think you need more help than I can give, I could refer you to a psychiatrist. Are you having trouble sleeping, or–"
"It's just," he leaned in more closely, "I'm worried that I'm a... you know, a pansy, for taking this so hard. How is everyone else feeling?"
She shook her head, smiling rather uncertainly. "Now, you know I can't discuss anyone else."
"Because you know, Danielle," he rested his elbow on her desk, "you're an awfully big help around here, with all this going on–"
"T-thank you–" she stammered, leaning back away, against the other side of her desk, and furrowed her brows at him when he stood, and advanced further into her space.
"And, you know, it would just be a terrible shame for everyone here if anything were to happen to you– "
Both the officer and psychiatrist jumped as a mighty thud against the door rang out through the small office. "Hey, Miss Danielle, are you in there?" Gumshoe's booming, jovial voice cut straight through the locked door as he continues knocking vigorously. "Mister Edgeworth thinks we should head back to his office now. He's gotta put everything together for his case tomorrow."
"I suppose our time is up, then," said MacArthur, beaming as he took a step away, clearing room between her desk and the door, as she hurriedly gathered her things into the messenger bag, and pushed it open, stepping out into the hallway, and flicking off the light behind her.
"You know, Detective," said MacArthur, an uncertain smile stretched across his pale features, shoulders slumped submissively, "since you and the prosecutor have a case to manage, I guard the witness for tonight. I'd take really good care of her, I promise. Just... you know, gimme a chance to prove myself again? I won't muck this up too," he placed a hand on Danielle's shoulder, which she jerked away from his touch. He laughed it off, taking a step back. "Gee, you are jumpy today."
"Uh..." the detective scratched at his chin, and then the back of his neck again as he contemplated the request. "Well, I was assigned to guard her, and it's a bit late to be changing the game plan–"
"No, no, I get it. You think I'm incompetent," his grin clashed starkly with his words, and startled his superior.
"Well... uh, no, that's not it. It's just awful late, and Mister Edgeworth and I are gonna be up working on the case anyway, so it's really no trouble to watch her too."
"Suit yourself," he replied, taking a few steps backwards, and waving a listless goodbye, before turning on his heel and heading towards the far end of the hall, swallowed by the darkness at the unlit opposite end.
Danielle shuddered, as another swift chill sped down her back as she stared down the darkened hallway. Gumshoe's thick eyebrows knitted in concern. "Cold, pal?"
"No," she assured, staring, bemused at the floor tiles and biting her lip, one hand twisting the beads around the opposite wrist absently. "I'm just... tired, that's all. I'm still all fuzzy. It's nothing," she forced a smile, and started towards the stairwell. "Let's get going."
Hope you're liking it so far! Thanks! :D
