Stark made a tall space look small. A height that warranted a girth that could have been muscle or fat. Or both. The truth of it hidden by a trench coat. Frankwrithe & Lewden army issue. With old medals from the Kalif’s empire pinned there: black glint with a hint of gold against the steep gray of the trench coat. A hawk face, with dark pupils swimming in too much white. A strong nose and a chin that jutted: two halves of the same beak. A knife in his left boot sheathed in a silver scabbard that shone as if polished every hour. Finch mistrusted that knife immediately. Reminded him of the squeaky floors at 239 Manzikert Avenue. Look at the knife while the blow comes from somewhere else. What else did the trench coat hide? A sword?

Stark didn’t come forward. Didn’t offer his hand. Just stood there. The painting behind him. Now Finch saw that Stark hadn’t been trying to hide the bullet holes, the blood. Instead, the painting had been placed between them.

“Sit,” Bosun growled, shoving Finch forward into a chair. Stark sat down behind the desk. Bosun stood to the side, reaching for a piece of dark wood on the desk. One of many. Started carving. Quick, accurate cuts. So fast his hands were a blur.

“Where’s Wyte?” Finch asked.

Stark pursed his lips, ignored him, and said, “What did you think would happen? I’m curious. You thought you two would just walk in here, into my place, and you’d take me away to your shitty little station for questioning? Come back with an army if you want that, and come in shooting.”

Finch, pressing: “What have you done with Wyte?”

Stark stared to the side, exhaled loudly. He seemed to breathe through his mouth. “John Finch. Why do you think people are so stupid?”

“Are they? Stupid?” Finch said, too aware of his bare feet. The floor was cold.

“Take my predecessors,” Stark said. “They knew I was coming. They knew their superiors weren’t pleased with them. Yet they took no precautions. They were still here when I arrived. I think they deserved what they got, don’t you?”

Anger rising. “If you’ve hurt my partner…”

Stark dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand. “Don’t start making threats you can’t back up. Wyte is fine. You’ll see him soon enough. But he’s a tad too … fungal … for my liking. Or yours, from what I’ve heard.”

“What about my gun?”

Stark smiled, revealing teeth stained red. Finch recognized the signs of addiction to a stimulant found in the bark from a tree that grew in both Ambergris and Stockton.