“It’s not enough that I can’t bend over without the two of you close enough to wipe my fucking ass,” Barr was still shouting. “It’s not enough that you’ve got that fucking lunatic for a client.”

North straightened in the chair. The fog of thoughts about Regina and Mark blew clear, and his attention was fully fixed on Barr. “What? What about Fennmore?”

Barr’s lip drew back in disgust. “Walk me through this. Every fucking step of it. I want to know how you’ve managed to shit on every possible piece of evidence in this whole case. Did you buy a fucking tourist map?”

“What do you know about Fennmore? Why’s he a lunatic?”

“I ought to have both of you inside the station for the next twelve hours. I ought to see if you’ve got something interesting to say then.”

“Matthew Fennmore—”

“Shut. Up.” Barr seemed to bring himself under control with a great deal of effort. “Did he have it?”

“What?”

“Did Sevcik have the flash drive? If you took it, McKinney, I’ll know. If you so much as breathed on it, I’ll know. If you ventilated your partner’s asshole shoving it up his chute because you thought you could keep it safe, I’ll fucking know. I’ll fucking cut off your fingers and send them to forensics just to see if you’ve got fucking pocket lint under your nails if I have to.”

“What—”

“Did he have it?” The words were half-roar, half scream.

“I didn’t touch him. Shouldn’t you be out there right now? Shouldn’t you be looking at the body, trying to figure out what happened, instead of having a one-man pissing contest in here?”

Barr took a half-step, reached the wall of the tiny space, spun, and dragged both hands through the bush of dark hair. He looked like a man coming apart, a man who’d been under strain so long that he didn’t even notice that the seams were giving, the stitches popping, the whole assemblage about to tear.

“Walk me through it,” Barr finally said. “All of it.”

North did. He left out what he could, like entering Mark’s apartment, but he kept the general outline accurate. Barr asked a few questions, but for the most part, he listened. The ragged intensity in the other man didn’t seem to ease; if anything, it got worse.

When North finished, Barr only took a few more of those aborted attempts at pacing. Then he froze, wound up, and punched the wall. His fist went clean through the drywall, and Barr screamed, “Fuck,” and then he dragged his hand free—scrapes and blood showing through the white drift of dust—and said, “Stay the fuck here.”

He was gone maybe fifteen minutes before Detective Reck stepped into the office. As usual, Reck looked like he’d just finished filming some sort of beach-bum-turned-office-drone shoot: the high-end suit, the darkly sandy hair, the easy grace of an athlete moving under the mass of muscle. He came around the desk and sat on the edge. Up close, North noticed a pallor under Reck’s tan, the shadows under Reck’s eyes, a tic in one eyelid. He didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy.