Chapter 35

Daddy's Gone

He rolled down the window and grinned at her as she and that Mei girl got out of the car. He'd sat up in the front passenger seat with Wellington. Franziska made a face at him and put her hands on his door.

"Are you sure you don't want to come along? You can take off that ugly shirt and get a massage," she said.

"That's creepy," he said, "And this shirt isn't ugly—one mustn't wear patterns with patterns."

"Miles, you're an idiot," Franziska said walking toward the door to the spa resort. The Mei girl turned back and waved at him.

"Bye, Mister Edgeworth! Thanks for this!"

Miles closed the tinted window and sat back in his seat. He looked at Wellington and grinned. The old man raised an eyebrow at him.

"What time should I return?" Wellington asked.

"No later than four," Miles said, "Unless I call—or she calls. If either of us calls, make sure you pick up the other as well."

"Very good, sir," Wellington said, "Do enjoy yourself, today."

"Yeah," Miles said, "I have to meet those detectives at some point, but I'll get a few good drives in before they show up."

Wellington smiled and Miles gave him a nod and exited the black Lincoln. He went round to the trunk and after Wellington opened it from inside the car, he reached in and took out his clubs and his golf shoes. He slammed the trunk closed and watched Wellington drive away.

He was still making his way into the clubhouse when he saw the battered unmarked Crown Vic pull into the driveway. He paused and waited for Gumshoe to come out and walk with him into the building.

"Let me carry your clubs for you, Mister Edgeworth," Gumshoe said.

"Um," Miles said, "Okay."

He let Gumshoe take the bag and shifted the shoes to his other hand. He held the door open for the detective and his clubs and followed him in.

"Miles Edgeworth," the attendant greeted him from not far off of the doorway, "I'm surprised to see you here—on a Wednesday too."

"Hello, Andy," Miles said and he gestured toward detective Gumshoe, "He's with me."

"That's fine Miles," Andy said, "Did you sign in?"

"I'll do that now," Miles said, "I needed a place to have a meeting—is the Black Forest room available?"

"Miles," Andy said, "You've basically got the run of the place—at least until after three."

Miles nodded and set his hands on the belt of his garish checkered shorts.

"What time did you need the conference room?" Andy asked pulling out a log book from under the desk.

"I'm not sure," Miles looked at Gumshoe.

"They said they'd come around lunchtime—eleven or eleven-thirty," Gumshoe said, he seemed apprehensive in his current surroundings.

Miles gave Andy a crooked smile, "There you go."

"Very good," Andy said, "How long do you want the room?"

"Three-thirty—just to be safe," Miles said, "Who's out on the range?"

"Just Mister Evermoore," Andy said, "and Carlos is out there to take care of anything you need."

"Thank you," Miles said, he nodded at Gumshoe and led him outside into the courtyard.

"Wow, Pal," Gumshoe said looking around and gaping at the manicured grounds and the clean facilities. There was a stucco wall made to look like the old Spanish ranch style that surrounded several tennis courts and a white fence surrounding a large swimming pool, complete with a bar.

Miles didn't spare him a glance, but sat down in one of the real-wood Adirondack chairs set up on the courtyard patio and took off the brown leather boat shoes he had on. He pulled his socks out of his pocket and slid them on and then he pulled on his golf shoes and took a moment to tighten them.

The chair beside him creaked a little as Gumshoe sat down. Miles reached over him and took his golf bag. In the pocket he kept a small tube of sunscreen.

"This is a very nice place," Gumshoe said.

Miles chuckled at him, "It's not bad."

"How much do you pay to be a member here?"

Miles looked up at him from where he'd been putting sunscreen on his legs, "Ah… I forget."

"Wow, pal," Gumshoe said, "I'll bet only the richest people come here. Do you see movie stars? Famous people?"

Miles only smiled at him and slather some of the lotion on his nose, "Max Tailor pays my membership. He's got it extended out to the next four years."

"I never heard of him," Gumshoe said.

"He's a very important business owner in the area," Miles said, now sliding on a pair of gloves, "I'm going to the driving range."

He slung his golf bag over his shoulder, Gumshoe scrambled out of his chair to grab them back but Miles stopped him with a look, "Just relax Gumshoe, keep an eye out for Marshall and Goodman. If you're thirsty, you can ask Andy to get you a drink."

Gumshoe stared at him in sycophantic awe, "Really, Mister Edgeworth? Can I order whatever I want?"

"Sure—" Miles began, "I mean no. You are on the job, after all. No alcohol."

"Oh I wasn't going to—" Gumshoe mumbled and Miles gave him a wary sidelong glance before departing for the driving range.

He chose a station as far a way from Mister Evermoore as he could manage and set his golf bag on a stand. He chose his driver carefully and thanked Carlos when the man brought him a bucket of balls.

He let them fly. This was nice—nothing to think about except the angle at which he should hit the ball; the placement of his feet; how he'd turn his hip and the release in his follow through. He enjoyed the solitude and the personal challenge—for about forty minutes.

"Miles Edgeworth," Mister Evermoore had a very Southern accent. He might've been at home during the Civil War—sipping Mint Juleps on the porch of his plantation house—while the Nation fell apart around him.

"Eh, hello," Miles said not bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice as he turned away from the net.

"You're a very garish young man, herm" he made that weird noise in his throat that always grated on Miles, "But I like it. I reckon Tiger Woods has a shirt like that."

Miles made a face at him—really?

"Herm erm," the man rumbled, "What are you drinking, dear son? I'll have Carlos bring out—"

"Mister Evermoore," Miles said, "I'm not drinking anything."

"But you should be! I reckon it's been hotter this week than it has been for a while—you must stay hydrated! I reckon I learned that from my days in the Army."

Miles glared at him impatiently, wondering if Mister Evermoore was in the Confederate Army. Somewhere out on the grounds the rumble of a large mower began running—adding more pain and discomfort to his day.

"I've been watching your drive, Miles," the old man said shaking his jowls and pausing to finish the drink in his hand—definitely a mint julep.

"You've got very good form," Miles' frown only deepened at the compliment, "I reckon you'd do very well at Blackhorse…"

Miles could feel his nose growing stuffy and his eyes grow dry as the old man droned on about the PGA tour and the amateur opens that might be Miles' big chance to break out in the golf world—not that he ever planned to give up the law for something so silly as professional sports. Somehow the conversation slipped over to Georgia and the Masters—then Chatham County and the War of Northern Aggression.

Miles sneezed at him and the old man stopped.

"I'm sorry," Miles said.

"As you were, private!"

Really? Miles felt his phone buzz in his pocket and surreptitiously searched for it while Mister Evermoore droned on about the blast of cannons and the fire at the armory—damn. He had gloves on and couldn't answer the phone. Miles smiled and nodded and yanked off a glove with his teeth. The phone rang again and Miles answered without checking the caller ID.

"Edgeword," Really? His face was clogged—he desperately needed to go inside and take some antihistamine.

"Where have you been?" Miles wasn't sure if he was relieved to hear him, but Phoenix Wright was definitely a welcome distraction.

He awoke with Franziska behind him and pressed obscenely close to him. His pajamas were still on, but she'd shoved his shirts up and had her hand on his belly. Miles blushed and tried to twist out of her grasp. His arms and hands stung from several cuts roughly bandaged. Miles groaned.

"Hmmm," Franziska said staring up at him in a way that made him feel slimy.

He stood and pulled away from her.

"Miles," Franziska said and she sat up, "Are you okay?"

He looked at her. He didn't know what to say. His eyes roved once around the room before going back to his sister, "I'm fine."

He dropped down beside the bed and began doing push ups on the floor. Franziska slid off of the bed and stepped on his back.

"Don't, you'll start to bleed again," she said her voice soggy with concern. Miles dropped down on his belly and lay there. He wanted to be anybody but Miles Edgeworth right now.

"Get up, little brother," she said.

He hesitated and then stood up slowly, his eyes stung. He wanted to roll up in his sheets and cry. But she was there.

Franziska put her arms around his waist and squeezed him, "You're perfect Miles, you can skip a day."

"There's no such thing," he said in a barely audible croak. But he returned the affection, wrapping one arm around her thin shoulders.

"I have to walk Pess," he said, "right after I brush my teeth."

"Miles," her voice raised in protest.

"You can come with me," he said, "Maybe we'll get brunch. What time do you have to be at the airport?"

"Four," she said, "My flight takes off at six-thirty three tonight."

"I can't make up for yesterday," he said—trying not to choke on his words, "But we can take the next several hours and try our best."

"You won't go to work at all today?"

Miles wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to walk into that office again, "I won't."

"Pinkie swear?" Franziska said holding up her hand and extending her little finger.

"That's not a binding agreement," Miles said—not to mention his hands were too cut up for that to be comfortable. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead and turned to enter the bathroom. He paused in dismay just inside the bathroom door when she tried to follow him in. He turned to glare at her.

"Franziska…"

"What? I just want to make sure you…"

Miles frowned, "Nothing's wrong. I'll see you in a few minutes."

She looked up at him with a grating amount of concern and hesitated before walking out of his room. You brought this on yourself, Miles Edgeworth…

It was early still when they got out, but most people had already headed to work and the streets were relatively deserted. Franziska held Pess' leash, so he didn't have to cause himself any more pain.

It was comforting, walking with his little sister—she'd ever been a joy, a distraction—and this was more like the way it used to be. Before she grew up; before… Before everything…

"Brüderchen," she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and looked up at him, "What are you thinking about?"

He swallowed—she had her father's eyes. He managed a sigh and smiled at Franziska, "I was thinking 'how much I'd missed you'. Little Franzy Fran."

She pulled away from him and punched him in the arm. She waved the end of Pess' leash at him, "Go dog! Attack!"

"Are you hungry?" Miles said.

"Yes."

"There's a bakery around the corner—"

"That sounds nice," Franziska said.

When they arrived Miles opened the door for her, "I'm going to run across the street and get some water for Pess."

"Miles is this some kind of trick—"

"No," he said, "I'm going to be right there—see? You can watch me if you want or you can look at the shelf and decide what you want."

She gave him a worried look as he left and jogged across the street with Pess at his heel. Before he went into the convenience store he glanced at her figure in the bakery window.

She'd settled at one of the bistro tables outside of the bakery, and he found her reading a newspaper drinking tea from a paper cup with a box of various Danish sitting in the center of the table.

"Well, you certainly like Danish," he quipped and set several water bottles on the table.

"I love Danish," Franziska said in a bland tone. He looked at her quizzically and she picked up one of the pastries and took a large greedy bite out of it.

"Mmmm," she purred, "Mumpf hoom."

Miles opened one of the water bottles and knelt to offer it to Pess.

"Miles," Franziska said, "I told the woman in the store that you were going to pay. You'd better get in there before I get arrested."

He was already giving Pess a second water bottle, "Okay."

"Is that really your sister, Miles?" the clerk asked. Miles nodded and turned to watch her through the window—Franziska was feeding Danish to Pess.

"She's very lovely," the woman continued, "But you two look nothing alike—I never would have guessed."

Miles shrugged and took his tea and his change, "We can't all be lucky, right?"

"Franziska, please don't feed her those," Miles said and sat across from her, "She'll get sick."

"But she likes it," Franziska said, "Besides, you feed her everything."

Miles grabbed a pastry from the box and bit into it.

"Miles, that's the one I was feeding to Pess."

He paused for a moment and then continued.

"Gross," she said.

In spite of his slobbered-on Danish, Miles was starting to find the experience very pleasant. The weather was cooler; there were birds and things making noise. Franziska was getting along with his dog. Why couldn't it be like this for the entire visit? He was beginning to wish she wouldn't leave.

Miles put down his paper cup and sat up, startling both Pess and Franziska. He cleared his throat. And dug inside the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a long plain white box with a ribbon.

Franziska's face lit up.

"So," Miles began, "I know we've had some trouble recently with that riding crop. I wanted to tell you, that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done what I've done."

He held the box out to her and she reached for it with the kind of avarice only Franziska could possess and still look cute, "Miles! You shouldn't have."

Miles scooted his chair back surreptitiously while she undid the ribbon excitedly. Franziska's excitement cooled abruptly when she stared into the gift box. Miles had to lean forward to grab another pastry;. he was smiling as he leaned back in his seat.

"Miles," Franziska said angrily, "This is a fly swatter…"

He grinned, "It's pink. Don't you like—"

She jumped up and swung it at him—WAP! WAP! WAP! That was so much more tolerable than the riding crop. She stopped and sat holding it in her hands.

"It's kind of cute," she said with heavy disappointment.

Miles had his mouth full but he held up his hand to get her attention and then pulled a small velvet box from within his coat. She grinned again.

The chain was simple, braided silver of a very fine gauge, with and heirloom horse head pendant with a blue base. He watched her study it—Maddy had picked it out for her last year—but he didn't have to mention that. Franziska turned it in her hands—her silence was making him nervous.

"I love it," she said, "Oh Miles it's so lovely. Come, I want to wear it now."

He moved so their chairs were closer together and she held the box up to him. He frowned when he saw the bandages on his fingers. Franziska turned to see why he was stalling. She made an impatient noise and took it out of the box. She held the chain and pendant up to her neck and he caught the ends before they fell. She used one hand to lift her hair and hold it up. It hurt—a lot—but he managed to get the clasp open long enough to hook both ends of the chain together. He kept his fingers there on the back of her delicate neck and blanked out. His breath caught in his throat. Involuntarily, his thumb began to trace circles around the spinous process—the last cervical vertebrae—where it stood out at the bend of her neck. She let her hair fall and turned slowly to look at him.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he replied. Miles closed his eyes; he could feel the weight of her as she leaned forward to—

Miles jumped when his phone rang. He looked at the phone and then at Franziska, she was glaring daggers at him.

"It's not work," he said by way of explanation and put the phone to his ear, "Edgeworth."

"That doesn't make it any better!" She shouted at him. Pess barked at the rise in commotion. Miles had to leave the two of them.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Damon Gant was glaring down at him with a large wicked grin. Miles was only grateful his desk stood between them.

"Don't think you can stay above this," Gant said, "Now, what did Goodman tell you?"

Of course this would happen. How could he be so stupid?

"He just said he was curious about something—he didn't specify. The case is closed so I didn't think—"

"Don't play stupid, Edgeworth," Gant said.

Miles sighed and let his breath out slowly. He met the big Police Chief's stare, "What do you want to hear Chief? I don't have a reason to lie about this."

Damon Gant frowned and dropped his arms. He put his head down and stared at Miles over his colored spectacles.

"You were the prosecutor on that case," Gant said, "Don't pretend that you are completely unawares as to why Detective Goodman—"

"The evidence list," Edgeworth blurted out, "He said he thought it had been tampered with."

Miles bit his lip. Rumors of tampered evidence had been circulating about him for years. In his effort to make a quick conviction he might have overlooked certain things. But he'd never done anything wrong. Not on purpose.

Gant laughed and slapped the desk in front of him, "So what else is new Edgeworth?"

"I didn't—I presented the case I was given. I never—"

Gant wagged a finger at him and shook his head chidingly, "You can't hide behind Von Karma anymore."

Miles glared at the man. But he felt his own conviction crumbling. The man is right. He couldn't play ignorant anymore. He'd turned a blind eye so many times. All in the name f justice. And now...?

"Joe Darke killed six people," Edgeworth said, "It made no difference whether we had ALL the evidence or not. We had enough evidence."

Gant laughed boisterously at that, "Good boy Worthy! I knew I could trust you."

Miles frowned. Why was Gant so concerned about that case?

Gant reached over and slapped Miles hard on his shoulder. Miles almost lost his balance. He didn't look up at Gant as the big police Chief turned to leave his office. Grinning like a cat that had just eaten a mouse.

When the door slammed shut after Gant Miles dropped his head in his hands. The Chief was right, Von Karma wasn't there to take the brunt of this. He was alone. Alone and responsible.

Miles sighed and ran his hands over his face. He felt sick to his stomach. He reached over his desk and pulled one of the bound casefiles still sitting on his desk toward him. He flipped it open and stared at the docket filing in the front. Prosecutor Manfred Von Karma.

Just how far did this go? Von Karma shot his father over one accusation—that was fifteen years ago.

"I'm no better than he is," Miles said under his breath.

His phone buzzed in his pocket but Miles ignored it. There was truth to be discovered.

She screamed at him all the way home—he almost called Wellington to come pick her up. But he had to be sure of it first, no sense in getting her upset over nothing. They'd flown him here to a hospital—but it was too late by the time they landed. It was a suicide, they said, based on the note he left for Miles Edgeworth.

Franziska didn't need to see this, Miles told himself as he made his way toward the hospital. A detective met him at the lobby and another hospital worker escorted the two of them to the morgue. She didn't need to see this.

"The guards found him earlier this morning," the detective—one Miles didn't recognize—told him as they walked, "he just hanged himself—kneeling on the floor of his cell."

Miles nodded—he'd done this before right? Autopsy reports and examinations of a victim—why was this so much more frightening?

"Anyway, it's pretty cut and dry—this was a suicide," the detective said nonchalant.

Miles felt his apprehension rise when they entered the morgue, their steps echoing on the cold metal floor as they walked toward the back where three gurneys still had sheet wrapped bodies lying on them. The coroner's assistant wheeled one forward and unceremoniously flipped the sheet over revealing Manfred Von Karma's corpse.

Miles stared. He was barely recognizable—his face red, congested; tongue protruding white and dried up—yep definitely him.

Miles swallowed—he'd never hoped to see the old man in such a state. "Yes, that's him."

"Great!" the detective said slapping Miles on the shoulder.

Miles followed the detective to his precinct to give a statement so they could finish some paperwork and then he went immediately home.

"Miles!" Franziska said, "What happened?"

He hesitated and then entered the flat—he didn't need to do this out in the corridor where everyone could hear.

"Franziska, please sit down," Miles said—surprisingly, she complied with no protest, "Your father is dead."

"What?" she said looking at him incredulously.

"He-well, he killed himself this morning," Miles said, "I'm sorry Franziska."

"My Papa…" she said.

"Uh… I'm going to cancel your flight—and I'll get a hold of Heidi."

"…he's dead…?"

"This is going to be very complicated," Miles said, "So I need you to—"

She burst into tears. Miles stared at her for a moment and joined her on the divan, he didn't have any words of comfort—so he said nothing. But he wrapped his arms around her and held her. Suddenly she was his little sister again, and all he wanted was for her to stop crying.

He held her until her crying started to dissipate, then beckoned Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Kucharka to put her to bed. He still had a lot to take care of. Franziska's flights were cancelled indefinitely—but the airline refused to refund on such short notice. Miles would have to book new flights for her. He picked up the phone and dialed. This was probably the most gut wrenching phone call he'd ever made.

"Allo!"

"Heidi? It's Miles."

A/N: Thanks for Reading!

Flashbacks—both from the previous day—filling in some of the gaps.

Von Karma is dead. Ding! Dong!

UPDATED JULY112015- Major edit to the second flashback to match with changes in the previous chapters.