North wrapped up his account, and Reck made a few notes and tucked the pad away, and then North said, “The waitress told me Mark Sevcik was in here last night for dinner. He was a regular; she remembered him eating alone last night. And there’s security footage,” he nodded at the monitor, “of someone waiting for him outside last night.”

“Jesus. Did you tell Barr?”

“I’m telling you because I want to know if Mark Sevcik was killed last night.”

“You found him, didn’t you?”

“I’m asking about last night.”

Reck rubbed his chin. “That’s for the ME to decide.”

“I’m asking you about last night, Reck. I’m asking you. You saw the body up close, didn’t you? I only had a quick look.”

For another moment, Reck said nothing. Then he let out a slow breath. “Rigor was fully set. And livor is consistent with his position.”

North’s brain raced. In the most general terms, rigor reached its peak twenty-four hours after death. Livor—the settling of blood, and the subsequent discoloration of flesh at the lowest part of the body—became fixed somewhere between eight and twelve hours after death. That meant Mark Sevcik had been lying in that position for at least eight hours after death, and he’d been dead anywhere between twelve hours and a full day. All of it was consistent with the waitress’s story about Mark eating at the restaurant last night and with the video timestamp of Regina Rex waiting with the gun and shepherding Mark into the night.

It took North a moment to realize that Reck was still there. The detective rocked once, as though about to stand, and then he just sat there, big hands folded between his knees. A struggle worked its way through Reck’s rugged features, and when he spoke, his voice was low and uncertain.

“You know what your partner did when we came back from seeing the body? After forensics got here, I mean.”

“Something typically Shaw, I assume. He probably offered to smudge the whole fucking place to clear out bad vibes.”

“He asked me if I was ok. And he said he wasn’t ok, and it was ok if I wasn’t either. He asked if he could get me something. He asked if I had someone to talk to.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t ask if you needed help processing everything.”

Reck’s face was eerily still, his gaze fixed on North. “Is that really who he is?”

“What do you care? Do you want to date him? Because you can fucking get in line behind Matty fucking Fennmore.”

Reck’s big hands twisted once. “Is that who he is, really? Or is his whole thing, is it some kind of bullshit routine you guys play?”

“What are you asking? Jesus. You really are into him, aren’t you?”

“Answer my question.” Reck’s hands turned again. “And I’ll answer yours.”

“That’s Shaw. A hundred percent. It’s like a fucking free-love commune had a baby with the American Psychological Association.”