A/N: argh This scene was really hard to write. Really really hard. And I'm so bad at writting Hyotei, gomen!

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Act I: Just Killed A Man (continued...)

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Scene II: Collecting the Suspects

He skimmed over the paperwork while the cab headed north. It took a few hours to reach the crime scene, a remotely placed capital class mansion suitable only for the inherited elite. Reviewing the victim's file, it only took a couple minutes for him to catalogue what he was dealing with -

Atobe Keigo, late twenties, self-proclaimed aristocrat extraordinaire, one of the top executives in the business world. A favorite for the cover of the Wall Street Journal (something about attracting more female subscribers). Business rivals and jealous husbands up the wazoo.

- which was practically nothing. He knew from academic experience and numerous simulations that this kind of data only took you one place, and that would be nowhere.

Sniffing, he eyed the looming ebony gates which laced out fancifully in somewhat Victorian design. The metal twists and curls resembled a spider's artifice web, set out to catch unknowing visitors and detectives in horrifically tangled strands of fate.

Somehow, he couldn't help but feel he was being left out of something. ISLID was the world's premier investigations department, and its intelligence division proclaimed itself one of the best, outdoing even the CIA (not that they impressed anyone nowadays, since Iraq), so surely more information about the flashy diva should have been available. But besides finding hints that Atobe had a few dibs in so-called 'shady' transactions, Ryouma didn't know what to expect.

"Oi, Echizen!" Ryouma was jolted out of his reverie by a call from his left. He turned to see a sturdily built, spiky haired guy - what's his name again? - jogging towards him and waving.

"Um... you are..." Paying off the driver, he sent the cab off on its way.

"I told you, call me Momo-chan!" The rectangular faced youth beamed, hands on hips in an all too cheerful manner.

"Right, Momo-sempai, what is..." he waved to the general chaos around him, "all this?!"

"Uh..."

Some of the people running around wore navy blue police uniforms like Momoshiro indicating they belonged at the scene of a major investigation, but many of them seemed to be the mansion's staff, young woman adorned in frilly stereotypical maid's outfits, stiff looking men wearing gaudy black suits, and some in casual business attire that were just... loitering. No yellow tape or red warning cones were anywhere in site. Typically, the mansion should have been cleared out to make way for the investigators, and well, it was ISLID's field agent's job to direct the local police to do so.

"I take it you're the field agent," Ryouma wryly stated, figuring that would explain it.

An overly friendly hand pounded on his back, the older youth grinning down at him, as if to cover his growing sweatdrop. "Ah well, the workers here refuse to leave. This place is actually pretty big, and they say they don't really have any other place to go. Well uh, we're clearing out the minor guys, but you'll want to interview the staff managers anyways right? So yeah, it all works out fine! Heheh."

"Besides," he brazenly encouraged the glaring detective to move ahead of him, "we'd have a lot of trouble without the guide. Can't say I really like the guy, but this place is uh... yeah, big."

An ostentatious hacking cut off the young detective's stark glare, and gold orbs swiveled toward the source to come across a bent over, auburn haired man holding an unlabeled wine bottle a quarter empty in his hand. The straight cut of his bangs formed around his face like an M, blending sea blue eyes into cream tanned skin.

"Your convoy," he hiccupped, "has arrived. With the illustrious name of Mukahi Gakuto." A waving index finger flexed pointedly at Momoshiro. "And by the way, I hate you too."

Rolling his eyes before his sempai could start up, Ryouma groaned, "Can't you just give me directions?"

"Look," the redhead charged, swishing languidly the contents of his bottle, "I have only one job in this friggin' goddamn hell hole. And that is to make sure whoever shows up doesn't get lost here forever." Another hiccup, and he swaggered an outstretched arm for emphasis. "Not that I give a damn, but this place is a hundred square acres. Some moron thought one person could use it."

He swung his hip melodramatically outwards and tapped a finger to his lips. "Oh yeah, that would be my boss." His following uncouth laugh set Ryouma's eyebrow twitched.

"Heh, but now your boss is dead," Momoshiro pounced, eager to swing in one of his own.

"Pft," again with the swinging of the wine bottle. Ryouma considered grabbing at it and smashing it to the ground, but Mukahi quickly followed up, "Atobe's the kinda guy who wouldn't die even if you killed 'im." Finally he took a swig, "If ya ask me, he'll be draggin' his prima donna ass in tomorra and start ordering us all back ta hell."

Ryouma and Momo exchanged glances, and Momo just shrugged while Ryouma tried not to cringe at the drunk's rapidly degrading English.

Finally they managed to actually move somewhere, and after twenty minutes of walking Ryouma had - regrettably - come to understand why Momo insisted they need a guide. It wasn't just the land size; whoever had designed the grounds had done so with the intent of making visitors miserable. For one, the dozens of structures used to house servants, housekeepers, and managers, were built directly into the hills. Sometimes you would enter on the first floor, then have to exit on the third floor which had suddenly become ground level. Opulent gardens exceeded any sort of aesthetic needs, covered in towering bush mazes, glitzy rose collections, and impractical stepping-stone paths. If not for countless years of physical training at the academy, Ryouma was sure his legs would be throbbing and sore from climbing hundreds of stairs and inclines.

It was a total labyrinth. It wasn't a place made to live; it was a place made to get lost.

There weren't any maps, since apparently most of it had only been built in the last few years. Apparently Atobe had begun to move all his business closer to him, at least in terms of the management, whatever that 'business' was... but Ryouma was quickly beginning to discover that finding out would probably be more difficult than trying to get Vice Chief Tezuka to crack a smile.

First they came across Atobe's personal secretary, an imperturbable man with royal blue hair that glossed smugly along with his contumelious smirk. When Ryouma tried to question him, he'd haughtily pushed at his thin framed glasses and cooed that Atobe's métier had nothing to do with his personal life (and death), that he was in a hurry and if Ryouma wanted to talk he could solicit one of the lower secretaries to make an appointment. The nouveau detective put this Oshitari Yuushi on two lists; his list of suspects and his list of people he hated.

Then at the entrance to the main house, they encountered... or rather, passed by, Atobe's body guard. The enormous dark skinned man sat blubbering on a mahogany stool, a disturbingly ridiculous sight considering this one called Kabaji Munehiro looked like a bull sitting on a mushroom wailing like a goose. Ryouma prided himself on the fitting (yet still absurd) analogy.

Upon trying to interview him, a few grunts and distinguishable usu's came out between sobs, and when Ryouma declared he'd come back later, a sobering Mukahi chortled that Kabaji would never give more than that in terms of words, so the detective would just be wasting his time. Luckily drunks are immune to golden eyed death glares, or else ISLID would have had a second body to deal with.

While heading through the lower level halls, a bronze haired man run past rather flustered, only responding to Ryouma's inquisitive demands by calling that he in a hurry to run a errand and his ETA was seventeen hours. Mukahi brushed off the man with the name Taki, of whom Ryouma stored carefully both name and face, since the redhead had known almost no names in regards to the minor staff; so if he recognized someone even slightly, said someone must have some importance.

On the third story they came across a set of wide, double doors that stood out due to its simple practicality. Unlike the other rooms styled with the marble and mahogany that seemed reflectively characteristic of the owner, these doors were obviously metal, a ferrous isle in a sea of whimsical glamour.

"Ah, the secur'ty room," the redhead gargled. "Shishido n' Ohtori practically locked 'emselves in there when atoibaba were found."

"Hm...I want to talk to them." Ryouma recalled from the files that Shishido Ryo was the head of security and Ohtori Choutaro was the head of maintenance. The estate was like a tiny nation that needed its own cabinet to keep it running.

"Hey, inamoratas!" Gakuto knocked the door cumbrously with his whine bottle, prompting Momo and Ryouma to stay back a couple feet lest it shatter. "Shmective's here ta see ya!"

Before they could actually see anyone, an exasperated voice howled, "I told you to stop calling us that!" as it's owner tore open the door. "Who's the brat?" it continued, a dirt-haired, snappy-faced prick glaring down at them. Well, that's how Ryouma decided to describe him, after taking one good glance at him.

Small endurance scars scratched in and around his cheeks and forehead, underscored by the tight, irritated frown that pulled down at his lips, as if to charge, 'What do you want?!' at the intruders. An expression that Ryouma distinctly remembered only he was allowed to brew. On top of that he was wearing a baseball cap, which was supposed to be the Ryouma's trademark damnit, and he was wearing it wrong on top of that, with the bill swung backwards. Not cool, definitely not cool.

"Shishido-san, please don't be mean," a lighter, supplicant voice called from within. "They're probably here because of Atobe-san." A white-haired, amiable man appeared behind the gruff brunette, eyebrows crinkling together apologetically. "Hello, I'm Ohtori Choutaro, and this is my bo- Shishido Ryo. Are you the ones sent from ISLID?"

Finally, someone willing to talk to them! ...well, the drunk didn't count.

The shortest of the group extended an orthodox hand, serious gold eyes boring upwardly at the two. "Detective Echizen Ryouma." It wasn't really his nature to enact such an outdated gesture, but some harsh experiences at the academy taught him to initially get on good terms with those he found reasonable.

"Ah...," Ohtori politely shook hands, then made his averse partner do so as well. "I heard that ISLID doesn't have any boundaries regarding age, but I wasn't expecting an investigator so young!"

"Hehe," Momo glowered mischievously, "And how old do you think our boy wonder- OW!"

Ryoma swiftly took hold of the conversation while the quasi farceur nursed his aching shins. The last thing said boy wonder wanted a reminder of was his first day at ISLID, where that stupid medical assistant Oyster or whatever his name was thought he was still in junior high.

"Can you tell me, just what's going on with all the staff?" He truly doubted the august style of the property was managed by the riotous crew he'd seen rampaging about in utter disarray.

Rubbing his head a bit fretfully, Ohtori started to explain, "It was a real disaster. We were actually in the middle of-"

"I know it's my fault!"

A fist pounding hard against the door frame accompanied the brunette's sudden outburst. "Security was especially high that day! I'm the one who sets everything up, I'm the one responsible if something like this happens!"

"Shishido-san!" his companion cried in teary horror, "Please, we know you were trying your best-"

"Hold it!" the detective's unexpected projection brought the two to a halt. "... are you saying you were expecting something to happen?!"

A shifty silence settled for a moment. Shishido and Ohtori exchanged glances, a curious uncertainty notable in their eyes. Finally the gentler man said, "I'm sorry, Echizen-san. I think... we, and the staff as well, we're all still in shock right now. Shishido-san and I... and Mukahi-san and the other staff members as well, we were raised by the Atobe family in order to take over these roles..... Atobe-san was not only our boss, he was our childhood friend."

Ryouma glared unsympathetically. "If he was your friend, and you know something, then I need you to-"

"A-hem," that tweeky readhead had the nerve to interrupt him! Mukahi seemed the type that didn't like to be left out. "I was supposed to be showing you snoopers to Atobe's room, and I'd like to finish what I'm supposed to do. I haven't got all day you know."

Ryouma and Momo simultaneously rolled their eyes, wondering what else the drunk could possibly have to do, except maybe puke or pass out, but decided to let him have his way. Questioning could come later. The crime scene, however, should always be inspected as soon as possible; it was the most likely thing to get messed up over time.

Requesting that the two drama queens come along, Ryouma and co followed the tumultuous redhead across the floral patterned carpet and up to the next level. A nudge from Momo had Ryouma noticing the two tagalongs timidly holding hands, and he decided to let off the interrogation for a little bit longer. Despite rumors of his general nonchalance, he did have a heart, and he knew how it felt to loose someone... knew all too well, all too bitterly.

To his surprise, the door they stopped before held even more disparity then the security room's. It was simple, white, undecorated and with a humdrum gold sheen handle that you could find on any ordinary bedroom door. Yes, that was just the problem, it was ... normal, absurdly so for the grandiose image Ryouma'd been painting of the man Atobe.

"Oi Jiro!" Mukahi rapped on the door, "I know you're there!" He twisted the door handle, and seemed surprised at finding it unlocked. Ryouma took careful note of such quirks; it was a base tactic, watching suspects enter the crime scene and tracing their reactions.

The room they entered was just what one would expect - in a normal house, that is. A normal cloth couch fashioned in the room's center, above a commonplace leaf patterned rug that covered most of the light wooden floor. To the side a small liquor cabinet stood half-hidden by a round, three legged table. Natural light poured explicitly across the room's current occupant, unfiltered by the south wall which was entirely a window. Said occupant snored ungraciously on the floor, reddish brown hair sprawled messily against the couch's side, in sync with sprawled out limbs and unkempt clothes.

"Jiro-san!" a concerned Ohtori cried from behind, "Jiro-san, wake up! Mukahi-san, he hasn't been here this whole time has he?!"

"And this is...?" Ryouma eyed their flaky chauffeur wearily, sharply chastising through a glare.

"Another one of Atobe's guards. ... I think." The redhead scrunched his eyelids shut, more from confoundment than any sort of useful contemplation. "Oi Shishido, what did Jirou do again?"

The brunette only snorted, eagle eyeing his concerned companion who was shaking the snoring figure widely.

"He wasn't here when we cleared the place out," Momo quickly said, preemptively defending himself from oncoming death glares.

A few barks from Ryouma and the Ohtori and Shishido together lifted up Jirou and carried him off. Finally the detective turned his attention to inspecting the room. He noticed on the far side opposite the liquor cabinet another door, also fairly plain. The window wall seemed to continue on into the adjacent room. Peering towards the luminous glass, he could see out across a long yard, an area he realized they hadn't passed through. We must have come from the other direction, he noted, also sighting another set of ebony gates that signified the perimeter of the territory some three-hundred meters off. Most the view, however, was blocked by the thick, spiraling branches of a conifer, climbing up even further beyond the level and perhaps even beyond the roof, he realized, as if succeeding the tower of Babel in a stretch towards the heavens.

"So, who gets all this now that the boss is gone?" He directed his question towards a disgruntled Mukahi, who had somehow finished his bottle and was now struggling to find a new source of poison in the fortunately locked liquor cabinet.

"Hiyoshi Wakato," the redhead stated unhesitatingly. "Pretty certain he'll be pushed up in Atobe's place. They've always moved him up whenever Atobe got promoted."

"Heh..." a nice motive. Not that murderers birthed from motive alone. "And that door leads to?"

"Atobe's bedroom," Momo's hardy voice cut in. "The actual crime scene."

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A/N: ; Ehehehe, sorry I just had to post this here. It is getting absurdly long. This scene is supposed to be about one-forth this length, and the act has a whole nother scene that's far more important after this. Sorry this one rambles on so long --;; Please review! I promise it'll get better very very soon. ;;

Next! Scene III: The Main Suspect

Finally, we'll get to see Fuji! ... I hope. ;; sniff And I love Fuji so much too...