Page 2 of Concluded (The Bureau #13)

P ortland, Oregon

“I can’t do it.” Dee had to speak loudly to be heard over the whir of the nearby espresso machine and the lively chatter of other customers.

The man gave Dee a petulant glare. “My cousin said you sold one to her friend.”

“Then one of them is lying. I don’t sell love charms.” Dee leaned back in his chair. Rent was due soon, and his wallet was thin. “I’ve got one to improve your luck and one to boost your confidence. Those might help you win someone over.”

But the man remained perched on the edge of his seat, arms crossed. “That’s not the same thing.”

In the past, Dee would have pasted on a sincere-looking smile and amped up his charisma.

He would have made himself—and by extension, his wares—seem so appealing that the man would have practically begged for the chance to buy whatever Dee was willing to sell.

Now, though, despite the looming rent, Dee couldn’t muster the energy for it.

He spoke plainly instead, barely bothering to hide his disdain.

“Look, let’s ignore the fact that love charms are morally repugnant, what with the consent issue and everything.

I’m guessing you don’t care about that. But also, they never work out well long-term.

Sure, the object of your affection may fall for you, but it’s…

artificial. Like fake flavoring. Doesn’t feel quite right.

And in the end it usually turns bitter and even nasty. ”

The barista called out for a customer named Pearl, a toddler screeched something unintelligible at its parents, and a bus on the street outside engaged its air brakes with an ear-splitting squeal.

Dee thought about the packet of gummies he’d finished off the previous night and wished he’d saved one for today.

The man glowered. “I want a love charm.”

“I don’t have one to sell you.”

“My cousin said .”

Dee shrugged.

After a long pause, the man got to his feet. “You’re a fraud.”

“If I was, I’d sell you a useless trinket and tell you it was a love charm. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Loser.” The man stomped off, abandoning the latte he’d barely touched.

“Well, fuck,” Dee muttered. That’s what he got for being honest.

Anger simmered inside him—at the would-be customer who’d just left, yes, but even more at himself.

He should’ve just sold the bastard a love charm.

He had done it before, and he’d probably need to do it again very soon if he didn’t drum up some cash.

Morals were all well and good, but they didn’t pay the rent.

He’d rather be a devil with a full belly and a warm bed than an angel out on the streets.

He finished his Americano because he’d already paid for the damn thing, then he grabbed his well-worn messenger bag and ventured out into the midafternoon gloom.

Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t always rainy during Portland winters.

In fact, the previous week had seen a run of chilly but clear-skied days.

But now the clouds and mist were back. Dee’s mood had been foul even when the sun shone, and now his outlook was worse.

He felt grimy from the inside out, his withered soul an unreasonably heavy burden.

Even though his apartment was only a few blocks away, the trek felt miles long.

He was almost home when he realized that someone was following him.

There were no other pedestrians visible, and all of the cars were quickly passing by, but Dee had been tailed before and the sensation was unmistakable, an unreachable itch between his shoulder blades.

Well, he had nothing much worth stealing, and if push came to shove—literally—he could put up a decent fight.

Hell, in his current state he might welcome a skirmish, and he probably wouldn’t even care if he got the worst of it.

A blade or a bullet didn’t seem as terrible as they once had.

In any case, nobody accosted him before he reached his place.

His apartment was in the center of a C-shaped brick building constructed a century earlier.

The central courtyard, filled with blooming roses in the summer, was gray and deserted now, with moss growing on the paving stones.

As always, he had to jiggle the lock to get it to function and then push hard on the perpetually stuck door.

He tossed the messenger bag onto the couch and then stood in the middle of the living room, unsure what he wanted to do next.

It wasn’t a bad apartment. Small, yes, with a cramped bedroom and a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in.

It didn’t get much natural light even on sunny days.

But the wood floors and trim were original, as were the glass doorknobs and leaded glass windows, all giving the apartment a sense of permanency.

It was quiet too, with walls so well insulated that he rarely heard his neighbors.

There were shops and restaurants within walking distance, and the rent was reasonable by local standards—although that didn’t matter when you were broke.

Finally he collapsed onto the couch and stared at nothing, wishing he still smoked. He’d take it up again, except he couldn’t afford cigarettes. Or more gummies.

Gods, how had he ended up mired down like this? Was it even worth trying to fight his way free?

He’d nearly sunk into a nap when a heavy knock sounded on the front door, launching Dee to his feet. It was a cop’s knock.

“Fuck me sideways,” Dee muttered wearily as he went to answer.

Instead of a uniform, the guy at the door wore dark slacks, a white dress shirt, a long wool overcoat, and an old-fashioned hat.

He looked more like a character from a noir movie than a cop.

Also, he seemed a little too old for law enforcement.

Early sixties, maybe, and still handsome, with a full head of white hair.

He was on the short side, and he was grinning widely as if something about Dee amused him.

“Dee Martell?”

“Who wants to know?”

The smile didn’t fade. “I do. And if you’ll let me in out of the rain, I’ll explain why.

” The man had the kind of old-fashioned New York accent you didn’t hear all that often anymore.

He sounded as if he should be standing on the Lower East Side in a vintage movie, not in Portland in the twenty-first century.

“I don’t want to buy anything, and I’m not converting.”

That brought a chuckle. “My people don’t believe in evangelizing. And even if we did, I don’t think I’d be anyone’s first choice to do it. C’mon, kid. Let me in and I’ll tell you everything.”

Although Dee was tempted to slam the door in his face, he was also curious. And fuck it—he didn’t have anything better to do with his afternoon. Maybe this guy would buy a charm from him.

As soon as Dee stepped aside, the man came in. He hung his coat and hat on the rack near the door, revealing a body that was surprisingly good for someone his age. His compact muscles and trim waist reminded Dee of a gymnast.

The visitor glanced around and nodded, as if the apartment pleased him. “Nice place. Those modern houses, I guess they’re practical, but they lack soul. They lack spirit .” He laughed, although Dee didn’t understand the joke. Then he stuck out his hand and they shook. “Abe Ferencz.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Ferencz?”

“Call me Abe.” For the first time, Abe looked entirely serious. “And you can do a great deal. Maybe.”

“Can you just?—”

“I’m here on behalf of the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. You heard of ’em?”

Dee slowly shook his head. They didn’t sound friendly.

“Look, if you’re here ’cause I skipped probation, that was a long time ago.

I don’t think apprehending me is a real priority for the great state of Wisconsin.

” Or New Jersey or Tennessee, but those had been in the more distant past and so he didn’t mention them.

“The Bureau doesn’t care about whatever you did to offend Wisconsin.”

That was a small relief. Dee squinted at him. “Aren’t you kinda past retirement age?”

Clearly not offended, Abe’s hearty laugh echoed.

“You have no idea, boychik. I retired from the Bureau years ago. But I get a little bored sometimes, since my partner died. I do some contract work for them now and then. Right now, the chief is tied up in some kind of mishegas and his agents are spread thin, so he hired me to come visit with you.”

“About what?”

Instead of answering, Abe strode to the couch and sat down as if he owned the place.

There was something odd about him, although Dee couldn’t put his finger on it.

Maybe it was his eyes—warm and brown, but brighter than they ought to be.

“You don’t happen to have any whiskey, do you?

” Abe asked. “Or any other liquor will do.”

“Your boss know you drink on the job?”

“My last boss drank more than I do, and that’s saying something. The new one doesn’t drink at all.”

Dee folded his arms. “Well, neither do I.” Alcohol didn’t agree with him. It made him unpleasantly dizzy without truly getting him high. Screwed-up brain chemistry, probably. According to his father, Dee’s mother had been the same way. Drugs worked just fine, though.

Abe sighed. “Shoulda brought my own. Okay, I’ll make this quick. I’m here because of your charms. And I don’t mean that handsome face of yours.”

Shit. Not again. Dee threw himself heavily onto the other end of the couch.

“They’re just rocks and stuff, okay? I don’t give my clients any substances that might harm them, I don’t encourage my clients to do anything illegal.

Yeah, they might be a little poorer when they leave me, but I’m not charging that much.

And people spend money on useless shit all the time. ”

“Oh, sheifale , we don’t care about your charms that don’t work.” Abe stared at him for a moment through eyes that seemed ancient. “We care about the ones that do.”

Although Dee’s gut clenched, he tried to keep an even tone. “I don’t know what you mean.”