“What am I looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

Wyte didn’t seem to care. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two there and back. Maybe a little more if I check in with some of my snitches along the way.” His expression had become tighter, more defined. As if Finch was filling him with purpose, the thing encroaching on Wyte beaten back. For now.

Finch clapped him on the shoulder as they went inside. Wyte grabbed his coat. Lumbered over to Skinner’s desk, swiped the key as Skinner watched. Went over to the supply cabinet. No longer caring what they thought. Got a gun, loaded it, and headed for the door with what almost looked like a skip in his step.

Blakely stared at the door Wyte had disappeared through: “What, you finally agreed to marry him?” With a leer.

Finch ignored him. Time to call Rath again.

Rath’s voice crackled and hissed through the bad connection. Sounded like she was buried deep in a watery cave.

“Finch,” she said. “I’ve got news. I think I’ve found out about—”

“What I wanted to know?” he said. Before she could say “the dead man.”

“Yes.”

A prickle of excitement. Along with a sobering wave of caution. He still didn’t know for sure who had given up Sintra to Stark.

Kept his voice calm. “I’ll come by after work.” Fought the urge to say he’d be right there.

“You don’t want to know now?” Disappointment in her voice.

“Busy. I’ll catch up with you later.” Hoping she’d understand. They’re listening.

Click. Either Rath had hung up or the line had gone out.

A sudden elation wouldn’t leave him. Made him give out a little laugh. Even though he knew it was premature. Usually you knew who the dead person was to begin with. The trail was three days cold by now.

How to frame it all for Heretic?

Finch thumbed through Stark’s report again. Thought about his encounter with Stark on the boat. Bliss’s disappearance. Bliss’s appearance in the memory bulb dream.

What could he tell Heretic?

Blakely, Skinner, and Gustat were working at their desks. Once upon a time, he might’ve consulted with them. But the Wyte situation made that impossible now. Sometimes he thought they even liked Wyte better than him. Wyte couldn’t help it. Finch could help it. Didn’t have to side with Wyte.

The phone rang. He stared at the receiver for a second. Sintra? Rathven?

Finch picked it up.

“Hello.”

“Finchy!” Stark’s voice. Strong and smooth. A shock hearing it on his station phone. “I see you’ve read the transcript of our little drama, since Wyte’s already hotfooting it over to where Number One and Number Two heroically sacrificed for the greater good.”