prima facie : (adjective phrase; Latin, meaning first face, equivalent to on the face of it) used in civil and criminal law to signify that, upon initial examination, sufficient evidence exists to support a case or argument; a typical requirement for court proceedings, and the basis upon which initial arrests are made and charges filed

Chapter II
Stepping Stones

.{*}.

July 8, 2017, 10:43AM
Santa Monica
Olympus Tower

The address that Amaryllis had given him was in Santa Monica, right on the cusp of the water. After a quick GPS search to confirm the route, Phoenix cycled back to the office. He only stayed long enough to lock up his bike, run up to the loft apartment, and change out of his shirt and tie into a plain cotton tee- a grudging concession to the heat- before throwing his blazer back on, attorney's badge glinting in the lapel like a miniature sun, and calling a cab.

Half an hour later, he stepped out into the shadow of a soaring high-rise, highly polished and commercial as a sponsored Instagram post, sunlight glinting off the countless windows.

The hubristically-named Olympus Tower was a luxury apartment building, catering to the endless carousel of corporate professionals whose six-figure salary required them to move to LA for a few months of the year. The place was a literal stone's throw away from the beach, evidenced by the sand tracked onto the sidewalk, teeming with tourists and locals in board-shorts and bikinis; briefly, Phoenix wondered how many properties had seen their market value tank after the tower's construction, oceanfront vistas blocked by a charming wall of concrete, steel and glass. Buying the airspace rights must have been a bitch of a negotiation- I pity the lawyers who dealt with that one. Ugh, civil litigation. The weather was, at least, more bearable than it was Downtown. A cool wind sliced off the Pacific, and everything caught in the shade of the palm trees or the skyscraper was chilled to the temperature of shaved ice.

Amaryllis had thought ahead, including the door code in her note. Punching it into the keypad, Phoenix entered the building and caught an elevator up to the twelfth floor, finding the apartment easily, its numbers picked out in steel lettering. After a few seconds, the electronic lock snapped open under the smart-key he had picked up from holding, and he turned the handle.

From the moment he stepped inside, it wasn't what he had been expecting.

Wha-?

Phoenix immediately recognised the tell-tale rasp beneath his shoes, scraping on the wooden floors- beach sand.

Before he could be surprised, he caught sight of a surfboard on his periphery, propped against the wall on his right, curved fibreglass gleaming like ceramic. Glancing through the open-plan living space, a wetsuit- sleek as a selkie's sealskin- was hung out to dry on the balcony, the folding doors propped open to the sound of the ocean and a seasalt-laced breeze.

Hadn't pegged her as a surfer, Phoenix thought, brushing a finger against the surfboard. A shower of sand fell away under his touch, crystallised salt coming away on his skin in a fine powder.

Phoenix scanned the entryway, the door clicking shut behind him. On his left was a short hallway, two doors left ajar and leading which he assumed were the bathroom and bedroom. There was a mirror mounted beside the front door, strategically positioned to throw off light and for a last check of the reflection before leaving the apartment, the sleek intercom system installed on the opposite side. A row of shoes was scattered haphazardly against the wall, as though kicked off and toed into place distractedly: blue-suede ballet flats with worn-smooth soles, another newer pair that had been laser-cut to mimic white lace, cork wedge heels with soft linen ribbon ties, leather ankle boots with silver hardware dripping loops of chains, midnight-blue sandals with a low metallic-gold block heel, turquoise-beaded sandals encrusted in dry sand, d'Orsay heels made of coppery satin, red Converse high-tops.

I read in a detective novel once that you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes, Phoenix recalled. But I really have no idea what this is supposed to say about Amaryllis They look pretty typical to me.

Except for, maybe- these? I wonder…

He bent down to one of the d'Orsay shoes- the most formal and expensive-looking pair- and checked the brand name printed on the curved arch.

He stared at the label for a long moment.

Without a word, Phoenix set the shoe down.

No idea what I was expecting from that, he thought blandly. I live and work with a girl who wears zōri sandals everywhere, I'm not going to know any brands from her. I think I could recognise a pair of Louis Vuittons- or, wait, is it Louboutins? Whatever, the ones with the red sole. And maybe some of the huge designer labels, like Gucci or Chanel. But literally nothing else.

Never mind- I should just hurry up and get what I came for.

Shaking his head clear, Phoenix entered the apartment proper.

"Oh. Huh. Okay."

It wasn't the obnoxiously large, echoing penthouse that he had been expecting. Nor did it have that impersonal, silently judgemental air often rendered by the weird obsession that rich people seemed to have with militant minimalism and unsettling swathes of empty space.

Instead, it was- nice. It felt comfortable, as in the definition of an authentic relaxed home rather than the phrased used when someone was trying to downplay their net worth. The floors were a pale golden hardwood, softened by a dense white rug in the living room, the walls ivory and accented by seafoam and silvers in the soft furnishings and generic artworks. Phoenix's footsteps resonated slightly when he walked through, but the space didn't feel extravagant- it was a little more generous per square footage than most, but was modest enough to fit a single person living alone. And there were touches of warmth, of personality everywhere, ruining any impression of a showroom apartment; everywhere he looked, he caught glimpses of the young woman who lived there, a fledgling experimentally feathering her first nest.

An insanely soft-looking coverlet was tossed on the loveseat, the colour of iced coffee, made from a silky synthetic fur and large enough to engulf two people with length to spare, draping off the sofa and onto the buffed floorboards. Throw pillows in jewel-tone teal were scattered across the sofa, crushed and creased as though someone had just risen from lounging there to grab a drink. An acoustic guitar was propped upright in the armchair, set aside for just a moment rather than returned to its case. A string of cheap fairy-lights looped around the frameless glass mirror, its ungainly battery pack hidden on a nearby table behind a stack of law textbooks, spines cracked from frequent reading- probably belonging to the Themis friend she had mentioned. The coffee table was covered with a sheaf of notes, pinned under a hardback notebook and a near-empty glass of orange juice- a lipbalm-print clouding the rim- corners of pages fluttering and threatening to scatter in the breeze from the open balcony door.

Before he knew what he was doing, Phoenix stepped closer.

He could see handwritten lines of- poetry? Some were struck out, or amended, suggestions for alternate phrases crammed wherever there was space, scrawled in the margins, bars of music and chords penned in, floating unmoored in aether. Ah- song lyrics, then? The pages crinkled under the dense pencil, almost embossed, a spill of unfiltered inspiration. The script was wilder and sharper- freer, more uninhibited- than in the note she had given to Phoenix.

I love music, Amaryllis had confessed, like a secret.

Phoenix could imagine her camped on the floor between the sofa and the low table, guitar resting across her lap- stunning curls slipping over her face as she scribbled down a new refrain, keenly focused and loose-limbed with catharsis, the reverberation of a chord lingering like woodsmoke.

With a frission of guilt-spiked adrenaline, Phoenix knelt, and lifted the magnetic-latch cover of the notebook, flipping through the pages.

The lyrics within were more polished, penned into complete verses. And they were caustic, and confrontational, conflicted and angry in that distinctly adolescent flavour that became bitterly-belted rock anthems. He flicked through, catching snatches of unheard songs.

¦ Spitting blood and breaking lines
¦ I'd make excuses but I'm losing time
¦ And we both know your sins outnumber mine
¦
¦ It's one hell of a show trial
¦ And according to this court
¦ I'm guilty as charged
¦ Guilty as charged

–

¦ Crack my spine and kiss me 'til I bleed
¦ I can't stand it when you're kind
¦ I can't help but hate you when you're good to me
¦
¦ Break my heart, like a lock cracked open
¦ I'll bleed out my devotion
¦ Darling, fuck the safety
¦ I'm begging you to break me
¦
¦ I'll take the pain, I'll take the hurt
¦ Grind me down into the dirt
¦ Oh, darling, fuck the safety
¦ Just go ahead
¦ Go ahead and break me

–

¦ Break the mould and make it new
¦ Use up the pain that you've been through
¦
¦ It's a trial by fire
¦ They say it gets you higher
¦ When it really makes you feel it
¦ And the burn makes it real, it's
¦
¦ A trial by fire
¦ Let it take you higher
¦ As the flame tests the gold
¦ Brings out the secrets left untold
¦ Let's see what burns

Phoenix let the cover fall shut.

"Not bad," he murmured, rising to his feet, fighting off a shiver.

Past the living room, behind the natural boundary created by back of the sofa, was the sleek chrome and dark granite of the kitchen, installed into the far corner, perpendicular to the wall of floor length windows overlooking the surf. The direction of the windows and position of the sun left most of the apartment in cool shadow, but shafts of late morning light caught wherever it slanted through, glinting on the bright silver cabinet handles, glazing the glass-topped dining table set near the balcony.

Phoenix unfolded Amaryllis' memo, checking the details.

¦ If you're visiting the crime scene, best to turn a cherry from sour to sweet –
¦ Santa Monica, Olympus Tower, Apartment 1221
¦ Door code – 121001#
¦ Lower kitchen cupboard, left side of the sink- two bags (Summerton Farm Gourmet Gerbil
¦ Treats)
¦ To be delivered to Cherry Pye, costume designer, likely the Eclipse: late twenties, blush-
¦ pink pixie cut, yellow playsuit, white blouse, red stockings. Probably threatening someone
¦ with fabric shears

That last identifying feature made him raise an eyebrow, but Phoenix had honestly dealt with worse. At least the fabric scissors weren't a ranged weapon, in theory; all he had to do was keep a slight distance and a clear path to an exit.

Phoenix headed into the kitchen, skirting the breakfast bar, and checked the cupboard next to the sink. There was a used teacup and saucer on the counter, a beautiful set of fine bone china with an elegant motif of royal-blue and metallic gold filigree. Automatically, Phoenix peeked inside- and choked on a laugh.

Under the dried dregs of herbal tea were three words, painted onto the bottom of the teacup in gothic calligraphic script: you've been poisoned.

Considering the situation, I really should not find that funny… But I also can't help but think that it suits Amaryllis pretty perfectly. After all- it belongs to her, it looks like she lives alone, and she was probably the one drinking out of it.

Shaking his head, Phoenix opened the cupboard underneath. The two bags were on the top shelf, in clear view- easily mistaken for some kind of trendy organic snack found at an overpriced niche grocery store, rather than pet treats, but whatever, none of my business, rich people are weird- and he grabbed both, packing them into his satchel.

"Alright. That was easy enough."

It was a little strange that Amaryllis would ask fir such a simple favour in exchange for providing the letter of request. Phoenix briefly entertained the thought that there was more to it, but there wasn't much point in overthinking it.

As he was heading out, Phoenix paused.

The doors to the bathroom and bedroom were propped open by a few inches, circulating air.

An impulse- one that uncannily spoke with Maya's cadence- prodded at him.

One of the most unfortunate lessons he had learned as a defence attorney was that a little disregard for privacy went a long way. It went against the grain of common decency, but shameless curiosity had led him to stumble across valuable evidence in the past.

Just a quick look can't hurt, right? No rummaging around or anything.

Nudging one of the doors open slightly wider, Phoenix peered through the gap.

The bathroom was clean and modern, set in chrome and pale blue tile. Matte-dried droplets stained the bottom of the mirror over the sink. A curved clear screen ensconced the shower, pops of colour from various cosmetics bottles and cleaning products scattered across the shelves.

Pulling back, he crossed to the other door. Out of some semblance of respect for Amaryllis' privacy, he remained on the threshold, pressing the door ajar.

The bedroom was a square box of sun-bleached white. The linen curtains were pulled back, the windows cracked open, hardwood floors gleaming under the sunlight that lapped into the room like the shallows of waves sweeping across smooth sand, lending the space something that simultaneously felt airy and safe. A double bed slotted into the far corner, the sheets ivory, printed with distressed mandalas in silver and gold. Positioned as it was underneath the windows, Phoenix imagined that, at night, with her head on the pillows, Amaryllis could watch the glimmer of the brightest stars appearing in the sky, valiantly struggling to pierce through the veil of light pollution. To the left of the headboard, two guitars were mounted upright on the wall. One was a classic Fender Stratocaster, the body sleek as onyx, the other a cherry bass, the same colour and lustre as its owner's tresses; a third set of padded hooks were left empty to accommodate one more, probably for the acoustic guitar he had seen in the living room. A slim laptop and a few books were stacked on the desk. A short silk kimono and a hooded sweatshirt were draped over the back of the chair. A deflated backpack was shoved against the storage chest set at the foot of the bed.

It was so mundane.

It almost felt little too real, from the creases in the imperfectly-made bedcovers, to the clothes loosely folded and tossed aside on the chest, to the pens and charger wires scattered across the desk. A glimpse into her private space, and there was no mystique left, no enigmatic veneer, something unknowable made mortal.

Phoenix let the door fall back onto its prop, his thoughts already halfway out of the apartment.

Something clattered to the floor.

Phoenix cursed under his breath. Edging the door back open, he ducked his head inside.

What was that?

There was a tall dresser behind the door. Beside it, something had fallen to the wooden floor.

A riding crop?

Leaning inside, Phoenix picked it up. The short whip was crafted from roseate-gold leather, the faint orange fragrance of saddle soap clinging to it; its leather components were rendered pliant by use, but there was plenty of snap corded into its fibreglass length, speaking of its high quality.

Turning it over with a roll of his fingers, Phoenix wondered at what it was doing in Amaryllis' apartment. He could easily believe that she knew how to ride, given her background; involvement with horses seemed like a pre-requisite for being a member of the upper classes. But he hadn't seen any riding boots by the door. Phoenix couldn't think of any nearby stables, either, or at least none that were easily accessible from where they were in the city.

Hm? Hold on a second…

Picking out a swirled texture on the handle, Phoenix rotated it until it faced him.

Embossed into the grip, pressed into the leather in swooping cursive lettering, was a monogram.

~ F v K ~

"FVK," Phoenix murmured, his brow creasing. "Huh- FVK. Why is that familiar? FVK- FVK- where have I seen that before? I could swear I've-"

- that the prosecutor assigned to my case has personal reasons for pursuing a guilty verdict with particular vehemence. Not that they're in short supply on the regular, but you see my point-

Phoenix stilled.

No. No way.

He hadn't paid too much attention to it, at the time- he was preoccupied with the heap of evidence threatening to bury his potential client six feet under before he even stepped into the courtroom. Even later, when Amaryllis had told him about the diplomatic aspects of the case and the political pressure on the prosecution, his mind had been too busy melting with the revelation that he was talking to literal goddamn aristocracy to realise that none of that really constituted personal reasons.

Staring at the riding crop in his hands, the leather began to look increasingly familiar.

- spent half of our childhoods in countries across continental Europe- Germany, Switzerland, France, mostly-

And Phoenix was acquainted with a German prosecutor who had the initials FVK, and wielded a whip as though it were an extension of her arm, and possessed uncommon viciousness in the courtroom.

It could just be coincidence, Phoenix thought, but those initials- what are the chances? If they know each other somehow- if she's the prosecutor for this case, then that might be why Amaryllis referred to the prosecutor's personal reasons for wanting a conviction so badly. Did something happen between them? A falling-out? Some kind of grudge? And if there is some bad blood between them, why does Amaryllis have this?

Although, keeping a memento of your arch nemesis feels like a very aristocratic thing to do. Like the classy equivalent of the photo on the dartboard.

There were more questions than accessible answers, at the moment.

Wavering for a moment, Phoenix took out his phone. Snapping a few photos of the riding crop- including one with the monogram in clear focus- he replaced it where it had probably been resting against the dresser. He would ask Amaryllis about it later, he decided, stepping out of the apartment.

The door clicked shut behind him, locking automatically.

July 8, 2017, 11:25AM
Eclipse Theatre
Backstage Area

"You again, pal?!"

Phoenix startled at the incredulous bellow, spinning on his heel- but relaxed once he saw the source.

"Oh. Hey, Detective," he said casually, slotting a spare theatre program into his inner blazer pocket.

Getting through the police perimeter around the Eclipse- a convincingly small, independent theatre from the exterior- had gone smoothly. The pin in his lapel and formal letter of request was sufficient to grant him entry, though he wasn't blind to the wary look that the uniformed officer shot him as he ducked under the police tape. He had obviously been recognised, probably from the Skye-Gant case; ever since the conviction of the Chief of Police based on evidence Phoenix had exposed, the LAPD as a whole seemed uncertain as to whether they should be treating him with grudging respect, or as an imminent threat, and had mostly settled somewhere very uncomfortable on the fence between.

Of course, it was hardly his fault that their intense, oddly genial and highly respected superior had turned out to be a corrupt bastard with a god complex and a disturbing willingness to murder and blackmail his subordinates, but pointing that out to their faces would probably be counterproductive.

With this particular member of the LAPD, Phoenix had no such qualms.

Detective Dick Gumshoe was solid as a cinderblock, subtle as a sledgehammer, and expressive and eager as a gundog on a hunt. A dusty olive trench coat, creased suit, loose tie, square shoulders and unkempt dark hair- the tufts on the left side of his forehead perpetually refusing to lie flat- made him both distinctive and a walking cliché. Despite the belligerent exterior, his manner possessing all the abrasiveness of industrial-grade sandpaper, Gumshoe had a core of marshmallow and a heart of twenty-four carat gold, even if it had taken a while for Phoenix to get a glimpse of it. During their first encounter, Gumshoe had initially mistaken him for Phoenix's erstwhile client, Larry Butz- who he misnamed Harry Butz, and referred to as a murderer, something that Phoenix didn't take kindly to considering that Larry, while a certifiable idiot, was one of his closest friends, and had been acquitted weeks ago. Then, after being corrected regarding Phoenix's identity, Gumshoe had proceeded to gloat about how no sane attorney would take the case, and Maya Fey was as good as convicted.

It wasn't the most auspicious first meeting. Nor was their second: Phoenix, alias no sane attorney, had taken the case, cross-examined the detective, and torn his credibility apart on the stand.

Not a great start.

But then, a month later, Gumshoe narrowly saved Phoenix and Maya from getting disappeared after a television producer had sicced her mafia henchmen on them. In the following December, that trial had found Gumshoe firmly on their side, proving himself a stalwart ally. And then, during the Skye case in February, Gumshoe had risked his job in the pursuit of the truth, helping Phoenix obtain crucial evidence in the process. Over the course of a year, their rapport had steadily mellowed to the point where Gumshoe had been sincerely apologetic for having to arrest Maya for the second time. He had been invited over to the office to celebrate, after she was exonerated, and had accepted with a joyful sniffle.

Consequently, Phoenix wasn't terribly alarmed by the outraged expression or heaving shoulders. He was used to it by now- the bark without the bite.

"Don't you hey, Detective me, pal!" Gumshoe retorted in a below. Phoenix pressed the pad of his finger into his ear to rid it of the quiet, high-pitched whine that followed. "Seriously, are you the only defence attorney in LA or something?!"

I should be asking you that! Are you the only homicide detective in the city? At least you've probably had cases that don't involve me!

"If it's any consolation," he said instead, handing over the letter of request and projecting an aura of placid forbearance that always seemed to work with the detective, "it wasn't deliberate."

Gumshoe grumbled, unfolding and scanning the letter.

After a moment, he heaved a deep sigh, rubbing the back of his head with a wince.

"Geez," he sighed. "You really like the unwinnable ones, huh, pal?"

Phoenix smirked, replacing the document in his satchel with a shrug. "Sue me."

"Oh, ha-ha, very funny, pal," Gumshoe said, glowering without heat. Phoenix smiled back pleasantly. "Well, I'm guessing you're going to want to check out the scene of the crime."

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Guess not," he said, shoulders sloping forward into a shrug. "Bound to need to let you in sooner or later. The techies should be done by now, let me check."

With a wave of his hand, Gumshoe led Phoenix further backstage.

Cloaked stage doors and a sheer drop of curtains, soft and heavy as lead, masked the ugly innards of the theatre's workings. Behind them was a cramped warren, built parallel to the unsuspecting audience in the central house. A narrow walkway looped around dressing areas and makeup stations, clustered with lightweight clothing rails, costumes of various cut and glitz shoved into place and slipping from their hangers. Boxes of props were shoved aside under tables and into corners, cables taped down along the walls in heavy ropes, everything smudged with remnants of pancake makeup and a miasma of deodorant and hairspray. It seemed that everything had been dropped last night and left where it fell, leaving the chaotic and slightly depressing remains of the production, like a shed snakeskin.

The police presence was concentrated down a single branching hallway. Forensics had finished with the scene, and were packing up the last of their equipment; a quick inquiry from Gumshoe reported that a few major pieces of evidence remained on site, but everything had been processed, meaning that any tampering would be made immediately obvious by the broken forensic seals. Gumshoe volunteered to supervise, preserving the chain of custody while Phoenix investigated.

Slipping on a pair of shoe covers and latex gloves, the room was cleared, and the detective and the defence attorney stepped inside.

The dressing room was compact. There was barely enough space to take a few steps in any direction, even less with both Phoenix and Gumshoe occupying it. An oversized dressing table and makeup-specked mirror engulfed the far wall, accommodating several evidence packets, each sealed with a strip of evidence tape and stashed amongst the canisters and cosmetics. A faceless polystyrene mannequin head presided over the disparate collection, set with a silky platinum blonde wig, cropped short and crisp with hairspray, fringe slicing across one eye in a generically edgy cut. Several dozen hairpins were scattered around its base. Phoenix pictured Amaryllis briskly peeling the wig off after the show, pulling the pins out of the tightly coiled braids underneath, letting her natural hair down with a huff of relief.

He could only imagine how long it had taken to gather up every last strand of her bright hair. At least, Phoenix thought distractedly, her eyebrows and lashes were a natural dark brown. They would have looked wicked against the glacial blonde.

Phoenix scanned the rest of the room.

A row of brass hooks lined the left wall, with what he assumed to be Amaryllis' costume distributed across several hangers. It was nothing unusual, for a theatre costume- every item could have been worn on a city street and not have been out of place. At the forefront was a black dress, thick straps framing a square neckline, bodice fitted and skirt pleated girlishly. Next to it was a wine-red blouse, narrow lapels dipping into a sharp plunge, white satin ribbons tied in bows at the elbow-length cuffs. Closest to the door was the long drape of a double-breasted camel-toned coat, and a silk scarf. A pair of low court heels, the same blush-pink as the gauzy scarf, was tucked against the wall underneath the hooks.

The rest of the room was featureless, save for the chair tucked tightly under the dressing table, and a door on the right, cracked open on its hinges.

That's… weird.

For the supposed primary scene of a homicide, it was unnaturally clean. Phoenix couldn't even see the white tape or rope outline of the corpse.

"This," Phoenix said, slowly, "is the crime scene?"

"Yep! Well, sort of. The actual murder went down in the en suite bathroom, there," Gumshoe said, taking the pencil stub tucked behind his ear and jabbing it towards the door, consulting his notepad. "This was the suspect's personal dressing room. She got one to herself- the biggest. Perks of the starring role, I guess."

"Right." Phoenix turned to Gumshoe, adjusting his latex gloves. Okay, first thing's first. "So, I haven't heard anything about the cause of death. Mind if I get a quick look at the autopsy report?"

"Ah," Gumshoe deflated, "well, uh, about that. That- might be a bit difficult."

"Difficult? Why?"

The detective shifted on his feet awkwardly.

"Uh. The truth is, pal- I don't have it. The coroner's report, that is." Under Phoenix's increasingly pointed, suspicious look, he elaborated hastily. "I mean, no one does! It isn't finished yet!"

Phoenix stared at him.

"It isn't finished yet."

Incredulity rendered the words flat and blunt as a butter knife.

The only time that Phoenix could ever recall the autopsy report taking more than twelve hours to be completed was during the incident at Gourd Lake. The corpse had been retrieved from the water in the early hours of the morning, and even then, the main hurdle had been the identification of the victim. A preliminary report regarding the cause of death had still been available before noon. On the other hand, some prosecutors had an irritating tendency to withhold evidence from opposing counsel, with excuses that the analysis wasn't complete or that that it hadn't been proven relevant to the case yet, and therefore couldn't be submitted as lawful evidence.

Gumshoe had the decency to wince, knowing better than most what Phoenix was thinking, and how plausible it was.

"Look, I know how it sounds, pal- but it's the truth, I swear! Actually, there's been a backlog at the morgue for a while now."

"Oh?"

"Yeah! Our coroner's the best in the business, hands down, and she work's fast, pal, but she's been saying for months that if they want her to keep up with the pace and workload, then they need to put enough in the budget for her assistant to go full-time," Gumshoe explained, growing increasingly animated. Phoenix guessed that it wasn't often that he had an excuse to share law enforcement insider gossip with an outsider- not that he was complaining. A glimpse at the chaos inside the LAPD and its associates made him feel as though his life was almost normal. "Their assistant handles a lot of the admin- you know, paperwork, taking notes during autopsies, running samples up to the lab for testing, that kind of stuff- but she also wants to start training them up as a future medical examiner."

Phoenix nodded. "Sure, makes sense."

"Right? But on a part-time schedule, there's barely enough hours to get the basics done. Except the bosses decided they'd rather have their big fancy office refurbished instead, and now, they're really paying for it." Gumshoe chuckled, a grin lifting his square features, shoulders quaking. "Heh, I give it a month before they cave. Anyway, that's why it's taking longer than usual to get the autopsy report back. Our coroner's making a point, and to be honest, pretty much everyone at the precinct is on her side. Plus, this one was, uh-" He hesitated, grimacing emphatically. "Messy. Dr Goulloyne wanted a little extra time to make sure the cause of death was accurate."

"I see." Phoenix knew the detective well enough that he didn't think it was a lie. Gumshoe was an absurdly honest person. It was a natural side-effect of being so intensely eager to help, Phoenix thought.

"Oh! But, for now," Gumshoe brightened, checking the internal pockets of his trench coat, "I've got a spare of the crime scene photo, if it helps. Seems pretty obvious what killed the victim, but I'm not going to argue with anyone who holds a scalpel like that. Aha! Here we go." Extracting the photo from the depths of his coat- thick card curved and glossy with the weight of freshly-printed ink- he offered it to Phoenix. "Uh, fair warning, pal. It's pretty graphic."

Privately, Phoenix thought that nothing could be more graphic that coming across the scene of his mentor's murder.

With a silent nod, he accepted the photo, and flipped it over.

Amaryllis had been telling the truth. She and her sister shared the same distinctive red hair- although Ruby's was a dash more cinnamon and ginger than Amaryllis' strong, full-bodied claret.

It was hard to tell, though, with the way that the strands almost blended into the gore of the crime scene.

The body of Ruby Olivia Steele was framed against a wall of cold white tile. She was laid on her side, half-turned towards the ceiling, curling in on herself by slight degrees. Her right arm was extended unnaturally, stretched out beneath her head. The fall of her fiery hair almost obscured her face. And the blood- a thin film was streaked around her on the ceramic like a sunburst, strangely diluted, impressions of handprints and the weft of fabric sealed and frozen in the carnage. It was clotted on her fingers, smudged across her jaw, congealed in the burnished silk of her sleeveless dress and its trailing waterfall cravat. The stain bloomed thickest and darkest around her chest, turning the silver and peach fabric a deep, ominous mauve.

"She was stabbed?" Phoenix guessed.

"Multiple times," Gumshoe confirmed grimly. "They lost count during the preliminary investigation, but- looks like at least a dozen stab wounds."

Phoenix supressed a wince, mouth twisting at the corner- though he wasn't exactly surprised.

"Like I said, pretty obvious."

"And the victim's identity has been verified?" Phoenix asked, looking up from the photo.

"Yep. Our suspect confirmed it, we're just waiting for a call from the British Embassy to be absolutely sure. But we checked her personal possessions- found her hotel cardkey, so we sent some uniforms over, and they found her passport in her room. So unless it's a case of really, really thorough identity theft-" Gumshoe shrugged, taking out another photograph. "Here. Victim's passport photo. You'll get one with the autopsy later, but I've got a spare."

"Oh." Phoenix straightened, pleasantly surprised. "Thanks, Detective."

"No problem. It's just taking up space with me, anyway."

Gumshoe blithely handed over the enlarged photo, supplying Phoenix with his first clear look at the victim.

If he had been expecting to see a shimmer of Amaryllis's reflection in her sister, he would have been disappointed. An oval face, rounded features, thick coppery waves that skimmed her shoulders, an echo of the soft-carved, slightly doughy beauty standards of classical sculptures- Ruby Steele gazed out with large grey eyes, anodyne and doll-like, her mouth a rosebud pout, her nose a delicate curve, fine as bone china, a Victorian dream. Her skintone was a shade cooler than Amaryllis', more pale sepia than sun-glow topaz. If Amaryllis was a living, breathing Rossetti, then Ruby was a Botticelli; the pliant, curving patrician form idolised by the Greco-Romans to the stark, brooding ferocity of Pre-Raphaelite obsession.

It was like trying to compare apples to oranges- or afternoon tea, cut roses and Venetian lace to crystal wineglasses, black marble and aged leather.

"There's not much of a resemblance between them," Phoenix observed.

As an only child, his frame of reference was limited when it came to similarities between siblings. But in Maya, sometimes he thought he saw something of her older sister- in that particular incline of her head, and the mischievous, pert grin that appeared when she thought something deserved teasing. The Fey smile, as he privately thought of it. He had seen a photo of Misty Fey, once, and the subtle curve of her lips through the grain told him where they had inherited it from.

In Ruby, he couldn't see anything of Amaryllis. He wondered if it was different, in life. Maybe, in the right light, Amaryllis' hard edges caught a soft shadow. Maybe Ruby had arched her eyebrow with the same cool magnetism as her sister.

Somehow, he doubted it.

"Yeah, I thought that too. Aside from the red hair, obviously. So, uh. Anyway, pal." Gumshoe suddenly cleared his throat, looking around them furtively. Phoenix raised his eyebrows. We're the only ones in the room, Detective. "How much do you, er- know- about the victim and the defendant-?"

"I know about the whole aristocracy thing, if that's what you're asking," Phoenix replied wearily, tucking the photos into his satchel.

"It's crazy, right, pal?!" Gumshoe erupted, sending Phoenix rocking back on his heels. He wondered if the detective had been waiting all morning for an opportunity to talk about it. "A real-life countess! I'm investigating the murder of a real-life countess! Heck, I arrested a real-life countess! It's like something out of a movie, or a mystery novel!"

Well, we are in LA. "Uh-huh. Pretty crazy."

"But that's not what I wanted to talk about," he said, sobering into a look of concern. "Look, pal, this is going to get bad. The higher-ups want this solved quick, but if there's any doubt about the verdict there'll be hell to pay with the Brits. The new chief prosecutor's keeping the DA's reputation together by a thread and really can't afford a scandal right now, and Governor Quist is up for re-election next year, so he's putting on the pressure, and if this gets federal attention, I don't want to think about the fallout. This is gonna get ugly. You sure you want to get in the middle of this?"

Phoenix smiled. "Thanks for the heads-up," he said sincerely, "but- I took this case on special request. I can't afford to be scared off that easily."

Gumshoe nodded resignedly, having anticipated his answer- then froze.

"Wait. On special request- don't tell me-! You," his voice dropped conspiratorially, to Phoenix's mounting bewilderment. "You got a call from the Queen of England and-"

"Wh-what?! No! How did you even get to that conclus- it was Maya!" Phoenix choked out. "Maya wanted the case!"

"Oh. Ohh. Hah, well, that makes way more sense, pal!" Gumshoe chortled, while Phoenix stared at him in blank disbelief. "Heh. Well, be careful, anyway. They're out for blood on this one."

"Figures," Phoenix muttered, before straightening. "Speaking of which- who's the prosecution?"

"You can probably guess," Gumshoe said, tension strung through his tone like barbed wire. "Chief Prosecutor Yeon wanted a European- you know, someone neutral so that no one could complain about bias. So she assigned Miss von Karma to it. Not that she needed any persuading, actually- it was kind of strange, how fast she showed up…"

"Great," he said distractedly, his chagrin at having to face von Karma 2.0 again drowned out by the grim satisfaction of his theory being all but proven correct.

FVK. Franziska von Karma.

Despite the freshly ravenous curiosity gnawing at him, eager to finish sketching out the connection, Phoenix was nowhere near done with the crime scene.

No autopsy report yet, but a likely cause of death. Okay, then, that means-

"Do you have the murder weapon?"

"Yep! Over there on the table, pal," Gumshoe said, directing Phoenix with the end of his pencil to a large, clear canister, its cap sealed with red forensic tape. "It was still stuck in the victim's body when we arrived. It's been processed, so feel free to go ahead and take a look."

Phoenix crossed over to the table, and picked up the container. The cylinder was made from thick, rigid plastic, designed for collecting sharp instruments that would puncture conventional evidence bags. Inside it was a surprisingly delicate weapon.

It was a solid but slender golden spindle, not unlike a knitting needle- tapered to a stiletto point at one end. The other end was bedecked with a spray of small blossoms, clustered together on the same metallic branch, each flower crafted from mother-of-pearl and dyed with a dab of cerise-pink at the centre. A short, fine chain was strung from the base of the flowers.

"Uh, Detective?" Phoenix glanced over at Gumshoe. "What- is this?"

Gumshoe sighed heavily. "Apparently," he said, consulting his notebook and sounding as baffled as Phoenix, "it's an ornamental hairstick. It was Miss von Karma who identified it, actually- no one else had a clue. You take long hair, twist it up, and stick that through it to hold it in place, like one giant hairpin. Pointy end goes in, flowery end sticks out."

"Huh." On closer examination, Phoenix could see the swipe of dried blood on the lower half of the hairstick, creating a dark patina, the metal gleaming through the stain. A few droplets were studded on the enamel flowers. "Well, that's new."

"You're telling me. That thing can be pretty deadly if you get some power behind it, though. The tip is actually really sharp."

"Still," Phoenix said, performing a visual sweep of the room. Unconventional murder weapon- maybe a weapon of convenience? That would blow a hole in any case for premeditation. Might buy me time on the first day of trial. "Strange choice. Any idea where it came from?"

"Sure do, pal! That was our first lead! It's part of a set." Gumshoe stepped around him, and rapped his knuckles on another piece of evidence proudly. Visible through the clear plastic and embedded label was a narrow wooden box, carved from polished cherrywood, the strata of its grain flooded with dark, rich red. It reminded Phoenix a little of an incense burner. The dimensions were definitely long and wide enough to serve as a presentation case for the hairsticks, with a tall solid base that created its own built-in plinth. "They're a matching pair- we found the other one still inside. Seems like they belonged to the victim. We dusted the case for prints, only found hers."

Phoenix supressed a grin. Yes! Now we're getting somewhere!

"What about the murder weapon itself?"

"We only found one set of prints- partials, matching the suspect's right hand." Gumshoe hesitated. "And, uh, we knew they were there immediately, since- well, the prints were in blood. DNA matches the victim. The suspect's hands were still covered in blood when we arrested her."

Phoenix tried not to wilt, his victory disintegrating.

The forensics report giveth, and the forensic reports taketh away…

Before they could spiral too far, his thoughts snagged on a not-so-minor detail.

"You said partials?"

"Yeah. Small rounded surfaces like that aren't great for retrieving full prints. And the blood was clotting and pretty thick, so some of them are badly blotted. The clearest they pulled was from the ring finger. The techs say it's about forty percent of what you'd expect if you just," Gumshoe firmly pressed the pad of his gloved finger against the dressing table, demonstratively. "You know, like that."

That doesn't sound conclusive… Phoenix remembered the crash course on forensics that he had received, a few months ago, courtesy of an enthusiastic nearly-sixteen year old. Over the course of a few days, Ema Skye had taught him a lot about basic forensic techniques, showing him the tell-tale chemiluminescent magic of luminol, and how a dusting of fingerprinting powder snagged on invisible traces of a person's presence. It was actually fascinating, not to mention kind of fun once he got into it, helped by the fact that Ema was so passionate about it.

Between court sessions, she had explained the theory behind fingerprinting; friction ridges on the pads of the fingers created detailed, near-unique patterns, but the flexibility of the skin meant that two prints from the same finger were never perfectly identical, and two unrelated people could have nearly identical prints- meaning that there was always a margin of error, and that the courts preferred a complete, clear print to narrow it. Ema even explained the difference between latent, patent and plastic prints- while grousing about how detectives called all fingerprints latents, when that's just wrong, Mr Wright, they're being lazy and refusing to use the correct scientific terminology- though Phoenix still wasn't sure he understood the difference.

In moments such as these, Phoenix was grateful for Ema's intense zeal for forensics.

A single forty percent partial, with smudging- and they want to argue positive identification? Ema might fly back to the US solely to yell at me about scientific probability if I don't tear that one apart.

It was another chink in the armour, another avenue of possibility, and Phoenix had made cases out of less in the past.

Setting the canister back down on the table, Phoenix's gaze snagged on a sheaf of paper, stapled together along the spine, corners creased and curled from frequent thumbing. It was devoid of evidence tagging, apparently dismissed as immaterial.

Printed across the topmost page was a title in simple, evenly-spaced typeface.

H-E-A-R-T-S-T-R-I-N-G-S

"Is this her script?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, probably. We checked it, out but, it doesn't seem related. Go ahead and take a look if you want."

"Thanks."

Lifting the cover, Phoenix flicked through. Almost every single page was stiff, crinkled with dried highlighter ink and thick-pressed pencil. Swipes of colour bracketed blocks of text, painted as a swatch over a single recurring character name- Lorelei.

Amaryllis' character, Phoenix remembered from the spare program he had picked up from the foyer, having taken note of the principal characters. The protagonist of Heartstrings- a musical genius and prodigy composer being hailed as the New Mozart. Navigating the complex politics of her prestigious music school, she tries to find her voice without succumbing to the pressure of expectation, while dealing with polished rival Cecily and mysterious love interest Linus.

From the memo and the notes in her apartment, Phoenix immediately recognised Amaryllis' strong, loping hand. Countless annotations were packed into the margins, attached to lines of dialogue and stage directions. A quick skim-read revealed them to be directorial notes- detailed, and most likely of her own creation, expanding on gestures, internal thoughts, vocal tones, quirks that augmented scripted actions and bought the character to life in the space between the lines. There were only a few sections of pristine page, where Lorelei wasn't in the scene. Those few were accompanied by minimal remarks such as minor costume change, or collect instrument.

So she was onstage for almost the entire show, Phoenix concluded, letting the pages fall, and when she wasn't, she was occupied with something. That's a perfect alibi. If I can somehow prove that the murder took place when there were literally hundreds of witnesses to verify her whereabouts- no, first, I need to figure out how much they have on Amaryllis. They have the murder weapon and clear opportunity- but what else?

"It was a pretty quick arrest, right?" Phoenix asked offhandedly.

"Oh, yeah," Gumshoe confirmed easily, "we put cuffs on her almost as soon as we got here. I mean, we had plenty of evidence. There was a witness right there who literally caught her red-handed."

"Right. The eyewitness. They must have been one of the cast or crew, right?" Phoenix prompted, aiming for an air of vague, insignificant interest.

"Sorry, pal," the detective said with a grin. "Being prepped at the Prosecutor's Office as we speak. Can't tell you any more than I already have, we're on lockdown for this one."

Of course, he sighed internally, leaning against the dressing table. He shouldn't have expected anything less from von Karma; she would probably keep the witness under armed guard until the second she put them on the stand, and coach them to keep their mouth shut about anything inconvenient to her case under threat of becoming acquainted with her bullwhip.

Still, being locked out of the loop was a familiar situation, and Phoenix knew how to work around it.

"I take it you didn't make an arrest based on the word of a single witness, though."

Gumshoe looked affronted by the suggestion. Gotcha.

"Of course not, pal! Who do you think we are?! Actually, it was something at the scene-" he nodded towards the bathroom, "can't see it in the photo I gave you, but- well, it pretty much convinced us that we had our man. Er, woman. Might as well see for yourself. Seems our victim left us a clue."

Phoenix hesitated, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. After a moment of indecision, he moved, stepping towards the bathroom.

Swinging the door open, he flicked the light switch on with a single gloved finger. The overhead bulbs warmed and flickered on.

There was a certain distance rendered by the impassive lens of a camera, one that separated the observer of a photograph from the scene it had captured.

In person, the sight of the crime scene struck deep, like a kitchen knife to the eye socket.

The floor was bathed in a wash of blood, smeared by a violent struggle. The corpse had been removed by the coroner, an unnatural void in the stain and a serrated outline of white tape marking where the victim fell. The bathroom itself was more of a wetroom; every inch of the limited space had be utilised, tiled from wall to wall, a flimsy curtain installed to separate the sink, toilet and mirror from the spray instead of a defined shower cubicle.

Beyond the borders of the photograph, Phoenix could see how the blood had seeped across the sloped floor, away from Ruby's court heels and towards the shower drain, thinner and more diluted the closer its proximity to the grate.

It took Phoenix a few seconds before he noticed it.

There was a strange daubing of blood, inches from the silhouette of Ruby's right hand- the one that had been extended, even as the rest of her curled in on itself.

Phoenix knelt. Near the tips of where Ruby's fingers had been, oxidised and darkened, was a dying message.

J-A-M-I-E - A

The final letter, after the A, was unfinished- a single stem, with a faltering downward arch, marking the moment its author lost the last of her strength and succumbed to her injuries. The shape it made was akin to an upright scythe. How fitting, Phoenix thought with a ripple of dark humour.

"Jamie A," Phoenix read aloud, forearm resting across his knee, swivelling on the balls of his feet to look at Gumshoe, who was hovering in the open doorway. "What does it mean?"

Gumshoe spluttered. "What does it-?! Come on, pal, you can't be serious! That's her name! Jaime! And that, there- it's an A and the start of an M, as in Amaryllis! The victim wrote her killer's name in her dying moments, pal!"

Phoenix started. He had forgotten that Amaryllis wasn't actually his client's first name.

Then it sunk in, like rubbing alcohol in an open wound.

A message in blood, left by a dying victim.

Again.

The parallels were beginning to stack up, and Phoenix wasn't sure what it meant.

Of course, while a dying message in blood seemed as damning as it could get, Phoenix had learned to season supposedly decisive evidence heavily with salt before he was willing to swallow it. In Maya's trial, the witness had been lying through her teeth, and the message had been faked by the true culprit in an attempt to cover his tracks. The other message in blood, from the Skye case, had been exactly the same- forged, to throw suspicion on an innocent party.

Coincidentally, both killers were remorseless blackmailers who had committed murder to shut the victim up. Redd White and Damon Gant must get along swimmingly if they shared a jail cell.

Still, Phoenix wasn't willing to bet everything on getting lucky a third time.

"Is this everything?"

Lifting his head, Gumshoe somehow managed to look both smug and apologetic.

An ominous chill skittered across Phoenix's shoulders.

Bad, his instincts decided eloquently. Much bad. Very bad.

But he had never gotten anywhere by ignoring the facts. Obliterating them with contradictions, sure, but information was the currency of the courtroom, and he needed more before he could transmute it into less.

He sighed deeply. "Just show me."

Snapping the bathroom light off, Phoenix followed Gumshoe as they exited the dressing room, stripping off his latex gloves as they walked. They retraced their previous path back down the hallway, halting at the mouth of where the narrow passage broke away into the open main area, like a stream reaching a coastal delta.

"Right," Gumshoe said, gesturing up to where the far wall met the ceiling. "See that, pal?"

Phoenix followed his line of sight.

Mounted high on the wall, its white casing blending into the paint so that the eye would usually pass clean over it, was a security camera.

"Yeah," he said, the gears already turning in his mind like the workings of a flour mill, grinding raw input to finely sifted conclusions. "Still photos or running footage?"

"Footage- full colour, high resolution. See, this is the only way in or out of this hallway," Gumshoe explained, "and that camera is set up to monitor it. It's kind of an unofficial restricted area. Only the three main cast members, a props coordinator, and the head costume designer were allowed down here- and the victim, who had a VIP pass."

"Let me guess," Phoenix intoned dryly, "no one else was caught entering or leaving the area except for those specific people."

"Got it in one, pal."

Phoenix bought a hand to his jaw, trying to calculate whether this would help or hinder his case. Barring the existence of any secret passageways, absurdly spacious air vents, or disguises convincing enough to pass muster on high-resolution footage, the pool of potential suspects had just dried up like a reservoir in a drought. Conversely, however- he could now count the number of candidates for the identity of the real killer on one hand, making it far easier for him to identify and corner the real culprit.

Since Amaryllis was innocent, it had to be one of the others allowed access to the hallway.

And there was only one static camera. If there was a blind spot, or the view was blocked, no matter how briefly- that was another advantage, another window of opportunity for him to break open.

"Mind if I get a copy of the footage? Oh," Phoenix cut himself off. "And before I forget, I'd like to check something on the defendant's phone, if that's possible."

"Yeah, no problem," Gumshoe said with a solicitous shrug, coat shifting across his shoulders with the motion. "Come down to the station later. The tech guys are doing their digital forensics thing- you know, checking deleted data and search history and stuff like that- but you should be able to get five minutes. I'll have a copy of the security footage made by then."

"Thanks, Detective," Phoenix said with genuine warmth, "I appreciate it."

Gumshoe grinned, his whole frame lifting with pride. "Heh, like I said, pal-"

"Detective Gumshoe, sir!"

A uniformed officer hovered a few yards away, holding a tablet.

Gumshoe raised a hand in acknowledgement. "Be there in a sec!" He called back, turning to Phoenix. "Well, duty calls, pal. You need anything else before I head off?"

Phoenix remembered the packages in his satchel. "Actually," he said, "is any of the cast or crew still around? I'm looking for the costume designer, specifically."

"The costume designer? Huh. As a matter of fact-" Gumshoe turned, nodding down the restricted hallway, "door right at the end of the hall, can't miss it. We told her she could head home after she was questioned last night, but she kind of, uh- refused. She didn't see anything important to do with the crime, but you're welcome to talk to her if you want. Not sure what you're going to get out of her, though. Bit of a tough cookie, that one."

Turn a cherry from sour to sweet, Phoenix recalled from Amaryllis' memo. Perhaps, while she wasn't opening any doors for him, she was willing to toss him the keys- if he was willing to catch them.

"Right. Thanks for all your help, Detective."

"No problem, pal. But, uh, hey," Gumshoe leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper, "be careful. I mean, I don't think she'll be at the scene again anytime soon, since she was here earlier- but if you see you-know-who around, try to steer clear. She's still on the warpath, after last time."

"Got it," Phoenix said quietly. "You be careful too, Detective. I can't imagine this case is going to be any easier for you."

"Heh, don't worry about me, pal! I do this for a living, remember?"

With a cheery wave, Gumshoe stepped away to see what his colleague wanted, leaving Phoenix to his own devices.