Blank looks. Not getting it. Much easier to think of the gray caps as some implacable force. Like the weather. Something that can’t be fought. Because the fact is: if the gray caps want, they can disappear your friends, your family. It doesn’t take unlimited resources to do that.
Wyte and Finch aren’t allowed at the hideout anymore. Once it became clear Wyte would never really get rid of his affliction. Ever since Finch decided to back him anyway.
5
Finch and Wyte returned to the station in time to witness the end of a rare fight. Blakely and Dapple had gone at it. Under the glow of spectral lamps, the gaze of the tiny windows. Not caring if the gray caps were watching.
Blakely faced them. Standing on the mottled green carpet right where it reached the desks. Nose bloodied. Dapple with his back to them. Hair rising in tufts like he’d been startled. Fists up, too. Albin watching from his desk. A peculiar look of interest and boredom on his face.
Back when it had mattered, Dapple had been a Hoegbotton man. Blakely had been with Frankwrithe & Lewden. Both stared at each other now across a battlefield of other people’s betrayal.
The other detectives gathered around.
“I won’t do it,” Dapple was saying.
“You’ve done it plenty of times before. Looked behind the curtain,” Blakely said with a kind of cruel confidence. “What’s different now?”
“I was forced to those other times. None of you did anything to help.”
Finch doubted the fight had started there. Or that either remembered what it had really been about. Blakely was famous for baiting others. Daring them to look behind that damned curtain. Enter the haunted house. Walk through the graveyard at night.
After Stark and Bosun, Finch felt like he was watching Blakely and Dapple from on high. Heard Wyte mutter from behind him, “Dumb fucks.”
Blakely saw them first. Lowered his hands. Tension losing out to puzzlement.
“What happened to your shoes, Finch?” Said with contempt.
Dapple turned, looked too. His eyes were red.
“Nothing as exciting as what was happening here,” Finch said, pushing through them, Wyte tightlipped behind him. Over his shoulder, “Whatever play you’re practicing for, I’m not paying to go see it.”
That got a laugh, though not from Blakely or Dapple. Spared Finch from having to talk about his shoes.
As he and Wyte sat down, Finch tossing Stark’s file onto his desk, they got plenty of stares. Looks that said you’ll get questions later. For now, though, the Blakely-Dapple spat was still more interesting. Skinner was already trying to get them going again, asking Dapple, “Are you just going to take that from him?”
On top of the clutter on Finch’s desk: a note to call Rathven. Felt a spark of excitement. Picked up the receiver. Dialed the number. Waited while it rang. Stomach growling. Didn’t think he could take more gray cap rations, though. Might wait to eat until he got home. Hunger focused his thoughts. Made him sharper. For a while.
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.
“What is it?” Wyte asked.
“I don’t know.” And he didn’t. Not really.
He started to read, hesitated, then began handing pages to Wyte as he finished them. Wanted to say, “Don’t share this with anyone.” Instead said, “Remember, Wyte, you told me not to protect you…”
And, if you have made a deal with Stark, you’ll just be feeding back to him what he already knows …
REPORT 2A-ATC-001
Originating Agents: Classified, pending investigation
Interrogation location: 22 East Lake Street
Transcription: Classified
Details:
* 14.3 minutes of a damaged 60-minute tape.
* Breaks in the tape—of unknown length—are indicated in the transcript by “***.”
* Brackets around a word or phrase indicate poor sound quality and therefore doubts as to the actual word or phrase.
* There are three voices on the tape, labeled Agent #1, Agent #2, and Subject.
* * *
Agent #1: Is that thing turned on?
Agent #2: Of course it’s fucking well turned on. It might say something we need to remember.
Agent #1: Then remember it. Don’t put it on tape …
Agent #2: No. I want it all on the tape. So we don’t [forget] …
Agent #1: That Stark’s orders?