Still ringing.

Wyte, searching through drawers: “I’ve got an extra pair of shoes somewhere. Too big, but…”

Still ringing. He’d try later.

“If you find them, I’ll take them,” Finch said. No hesitation. Didn’t want to take another step without something on his feet. Too easy to pick up something nasty. Sudden memory of his father kneeling to tie his shoelaces. Eight? Nine? Saying, “Mud between your toes in the river, no one cares. Set one foot outside this house onto the street, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Sounds of his grandparents in the background, arguing about something long forgotten. Father’s bristly face inches from his, mouth transformed by a smile. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” Never knew when that meant his father had to meet someone, or if it really was just a walk.

Finch called another number. A number Sintra had given him. None of the phones on their way back had worked. Felt a helpless need to tell her she might be in danger. That “a man named Stark” might be following her.

Experienced an odd relief when no one picked up. Because, really, how could he tell her? Without telling her too much?

All you have to do is play along with Stark and he won’t touch her.

How had Stark known about Sintra? Bosun casing the hotel? Then following her home? Along with the unworthy thought: Maybe that’s what you should do.

A perverse pang of jealousy.

A sound of triumph from Wyte, who had produced a scuffed old pair of shoes. “Socks still in them!”

Wyte tossed them at his feet. Wyte had left his fingerprints all over the socks. Blotches of red and black. With a grimace, Finch put on the socks, then the shoes. Too big, but they’d serve.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” In a whisper: “Now we just have to get new guns. There might be some in the supply cabinet, but Skinner has the key on his desk.”

“Lost your guns, too?” Never live it down.

Finch shook his head. “No. I’m going to get a real gun. Something more reliable. I’m done with guns that leak.”

Wyte raised an eyebrow at that. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“If I put a bullet in Stark, I want it to count.”

“If you put a bullet in Stark, make sure you’ve got a good reason. And that you’ve taken care of his men,” Wyte said.

Finch had no answer for that. He looked around. Blakely was by the coffee maker. Laughing at something Gustat had said. Dapple was hiding behind his desk, pretending to work. Trembling. Let the gray caps figure that one out from their surveillance. Skinner and Albin had disappeared for the moment. Good. No one except Wyte was watching.

Picked up the file. Opened it. Saw the Stockton logo. TOP SECRET stamped in red across the top. Scrawled note from Stark, in a spidery script: “My gift to you, Finch. Let me know when you crack the case. If it doesn’t crack you first.” Bastard.