“Don’t try to be clever—it doesn’t suit you. Here comes another one,” Stark said, glaring over Finch’s shoulder.

Bosun had finished his next carving in record time. Set it on the desk with something akin to sincerity. A man with a mushroom head. Wyte?

“What about the words bellum omnium contra omnes?” Finch asked. “Why did you ask Bliss about them?” Bosun had already seen that, too.

“Bosun,” Stark said, “did you ask Bliss about that mouthful? Bella … bella … Finchy, a little help?”

“Bellum omnium contra omnes.”

“No,” Bosun said. “Don’t know what that means. Just nailed him to a wall. Didn’t ask him anything.”

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie,” Bosun said, smacking Finch across the back of the head.

Stark spread his hands in a cryptic gesture. “See, Detective? You really don’t understand who you’re dealing with at all. But now I’ve got a question: Why didn’t you arrest Bliss? Bosun says you and Wyte came out of his apartment empty-handed. When Bosun went back inside, Bliss wasn’t there. Where’d he go? Did you reach some kind of agreement with him? Except if you had, you wouldn’t be asking me where he’d hidden himself.”

Confirmation that Bosun had been following them.

“What would I arrest him for? He was the victim. He’d been tortured and his men liquidated.”

“Torture’s a strong word, Finch,” Stark said. “And you’re not telling me everything, I’d be willing to bet. You Ambergrisians are naturally clever. Like a fox is clever. Like a rat is clever.”

Ignored Stark. Changed tactics. Asked, “Why did you come here?”

“Vacation.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“As long as my vacation lasts.”

“Why did you target Bliss?”

“For fun.”

“Do you have any information about the double murder we’re investigating?”

“In the apartment on Manzikert Avenue? No.”

“Do you like the camps enough to live in them for the rest of your life?”

Stark rose suddenly, seeming to increase threefold in height. “Threats, Detective? Come on! You can do better than that. You have no other clues. You’re getting pressure to solve the case. Or maybe not. Maybe you just want to know what’s going on because it’s eating you alive, not understanding what you’re looking at. Such a big mystery, so many ways to disappoint your bosses, only one way to please them. But, then, I’m not here to guess at your motivations.”

“Again, then, why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Stark said, gesturing at the blood, the bullet holes. “I’m here to fucking clean house. Clean house and, along the way, maybe make my mark. Nothing wrong with a man turning a profit and helping his country at the same time.” Stark pulled a file out of a desk drawer, tossed it across to Finch. Then leaned forward, hands on the chair. “Here’s a little something to help us both.”

Finch picked up the file. “What’s this?”

“A transcript of a … conversation … two Stockton operatives had a couple of weeks ago. With a gray cap.”