Finch had never answered that question. Asked: “Why did you leave Ethan Bliss alive?”

Stark nodded in appreciation. “My question is better than yours, but, still—good for you, changing the subject. I took out his team because I don’t like surprises, and Bliss seems full of them. Why’d I leave him alive? Well, maybe I thought Bliss made enticing bait. Maybe I wanted to see who would come creeping around if I left him alive … and here you are.”

The smile was a little too painted on, the comment too blunt.

“What did Bliss promise you? And where can I find him?”

Stark sighed. “You’re not getting it, Finch. Bliss reminds me of a toy I once had. A mechanical toy. By the time I got it, who could tell what the hell it was or what it was supposed to do. Its uniform or fur or whatever it had wasn’t there anymore. It had no eyes, just eyeholes. Mostly it mumbled and marched in place when you wound it up. Who knows what Bliss started out as. I doubt he even remembers. So, where is he? It doesn’t matter to me. And if you take my advice you won’t let it matter to you, either.”

Sudden anger burned in Finch’s chest, kindling for pride. “I’m not here to ask your advice.”

“Oh, but you are, Detective. You want to question me about that nasty double murder you’re investigating. You want to know things only I can tell you. What is that but asking advice?” The black flame lit up his eyes. Lent his speech a subdued yet incandescent fury.

Finch leaned forward, into the teeth of Stark’s strength. “What do you know about the murders?”

Stark chuckled. “Finchy—that’s what Wyte calls you, I think. Finchy, I’ve been here two months. Why would you think I’d know anything about the murders, except that they occurred? Why, I’m just an immigrant, still getting my land legs. Imagine how many questions I have for you.”

Finch reached a decision. Slowly pulled the photo of the dead man from his jacket pocket. Slid it across the desk.

“Do you know this man?” The more questions Finch asked the fewer he’d have to answer. Or so he hoped.

Stark made a show of examining the photo, waved it at Bosun, who said, “Already saw it,” and went back to his whittling. Stark returned the photo to Finch.

“No. I don’t know him. But he looks peculiar. Like he’s having a very bad day, and it might get worse. Like he’s also sick of this freak show you call a city. Like he might just have decided to hang it all up and go on vacation.”

“Is that so?” Finch said, staring at the painting on the wall. “Maybe you should leave with him.” The blood. The bullet holes. Did Stark actually know anything? Tried to set aside his irritation. Knew he was just sick of Stark insulting his city.