Conned: A Bureau Story (The Bureau Book 6)

by Kim Fielding

  Abe grunted and sat back in his chair, as if he’d known this all along.

  Although Abe offered to pay for their dinners, Thomas refused. Abe had provided dinner the night before and breakfast this morning, and Thomas still had money from Townsend in his pocket. By the time they got out onto the street, the fog had gathered, muffling the sounds of streetcars and tires.

  “I’m going to my flat now, and you’re going to your nice little house.”

  To Thomas’s surprise, Abe nodded. “All right. I could use some rest.”

  “Don’t let anyone in, not even if you know them. Especially if you know them.”

  Abe’s eyes danced with amusement, flickering flames in the night’s chill. “I can defend myself.”

  “What happened to Gage and Zook wasn’t stage artifice.”

  “You were there at my last show, weren’t you?”

  “So?”

  Abe stepped closer and lowered his voice. “That trick where I catch the bullet? I wasn’t lying when I said others have died doing that.”

  “Well, you won’t catch a real bullet from a real killer. Or dodge his knife.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Do you want to die?”

  Abe paused as if he were truly considering the answer. “Not especially. But I know death, and there are things in life that scare me more.”

  “Like what?”

  Instead of answering, Abe tipped his hat and walked away.

  Most likely due to all the excellent meals he’d had lately, Thomas slept heavily. When the quiet click of his door woke him, he shot out of bed and dove for his gun. Fortunately he recognized the intruder before pulling the trigger.

  “You pick locks as well.”

  “Of course I do,” said Abe. “It’s one of the first things I learned.”

  Thomas returned the gun to his bedside table and shambled to the bathroom, where he took a long piss and scrubbed his face at the sink. He returned to the main room to find Abe sitting on the edge of the bed. The clock read 8:17. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept so late.

  “Why are you here?” Thomas wanted a shower, but it was Monday morning and he wanted answers even more. He began to pull on fresh clothing.

  “So I can go with you.”

  “Go where?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You’re so bloody infuriating! Just because we fucked doesn’t mean you can attach yourself to me like a limpet on a rock.”

  Abe fell back on the mattress and deliberately bounced a few times as if testing the springiness. “No. But we can do it again if you want. I’m game.”

  “I’ve work to do.”

  Now Abe popped back up, expression serious. “You have a plan. You came up with it last night over dinner—I could see it in your eyes—but I don’t know what it is. So now you’re going to tell me and I’m going to help you.”

  Thomas was beginning to wonder if mind reading was one of Abe’s talents. It made Thomas uneasy that Abe was so clearly wise to him, especially when Thomas was still unsure how to distinguish Abe’s lies from his truths. But he also didn’t want to waste time in arguments he’d lose.

  He finished buttoning his shirt and fastened his trousers, and then he rolled and lit a cigarette. “You’ve already been drinking, haven’t you?”

  “But I’m not drunk.”

  Thomas pulled a chair close to the bed, as if he were a guest in his own home, and lowered himself into it with a sigh. “I’ve been going about this case backwards.”

  “How so?”

  “Chasing dead ends about who Gage knew, that’s messy. Better if I start by knowing the killer’s motive, and then I can narrow it down from there.”

  “Interesting.” Abe stood and walked the few steps to the open window. He turned his back to it and leaned against the casing, lower lip caught between his teeth. “I thought you said the motive was robbery.”

  “No, your Rosie said that. I simply didn’t rule it out. Gage’s room was thoroughly tossed when I found him. Someone was searching for something. But Zook’s place was untouched, so I’m thinking maybe he got offed because he was a witness.”

  “But Zook wasn’t murdered at Roy’s place.”

  Thomas watched smoke rise lazily from the end of his cigarette. “I think the killer showed up at Roy’s place while Zook was there. And Roy lets him in because he knows the fellow. They both send Zook packing. Then….” He made a slicing motion across his throat. “Roy dies. Maybe they argued first, I don’t know. The killer ransacks the room in search of whatever. Maybe finds it. But then he realizes that Zook can place him at the scene of the crime, so he goes after him too.” It was helpful to think out loud like this; he’d never tried it before.

  “How does the killer know where Zook lives?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe they’re acquainted. Maybe Gage told him at some point. Or… Zook’s got a phone, so maybe the killer got his address from the operator. Or rang Zook himself and asked.” Still too many unknowns, but it was a step in the right direction.

  “So it’s not necessarily a robbery per se. Roy might have had something the killer wanted. Some of Zook’s jewelry?”

  “Perhaps. I think I know how to find out.”

  Abe straightened up and stepped away from the window. “How?”

  “We’re going to my office. I need to make a call.”

  “If you hadn’t tracked Roy, he’d be alive now.” Abe sat on the edge of Thomas’s desk, glaring at him.

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Because it’s just a coincidence that you tell this Townsend fellow where Roy is and within hours Roy’s dead.”

  “Unlikely. But if I hadn’t done it, another detective would. Besides, how was I to know this would be the result?” Thomas pushed away a pang of conscience as he said that. He’d known from the start that Townsend’s story about mentoring the boy was nonsense, and although he hadn’t expected murder as the outcome, he’d suspected that Gage wasn’t going to be nurtured in Townsend’s bosom.

  “Did Townsend kill them?” Abe asked.

  “If he did, I don’t understand why he’d pay me good money to investigate.”

  “To deflect suspicion?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Could be.”

  “So, what? You’re going to wave your gun at him until he confesses?”

  “It’s often a productive technique.”

  “Not with me.” Abe huffed and launched himself off the desk and toward the bookshelf as if an old edition of the California Penal Code fascinated him. He trailed a finger along the wood as if checking for dust. Thomas knew him well enough by now; the set of Abe’s shoulders showed he was having trouble getting out something he wanted to say. And since there was very little he had trouble saying, this was probably important.

  “I can help with Townsend.” Abe kept his back to Thomas as he spoke.

  “You’ve a gun to point at him as well?”

  “The only gun I own is the one I use in my show, and I keep it locked up tight.”

  Thomas wondered whether it operated like a real gun, shooting real bullets that would actually kill someone. But that was immaterial now, and anyway, Abe might not tell him. “How can you help?”

  “Spirits are… powerful. I’ve told you that.” Still averting his gaze from Thomas, Abe returned to the open window and stared through it, perhaps watching the pigeons on the window ledges across the street or the fog tendrils melting away to blue sky. “If a spirit possesses me, I become powerful too.”

  “You don’t age properly.”

  “That’s part of it, yes. With Birdie’s help I could… persuade Townsend to give us some information.”

  “Persuade?” Thomas’s heart beat slowly and steadily.

  “It’s not pleasant, and it doesn’t always work. I’ve seen it done three times. Done it once myself.” He shuddered. “It’s one reason I moved here—to get away from the people in New York who would have… have used me as a tool.”
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br />   “Because you have too pure a soul to get mixed up with that lot.”

  Still facing away, Abe made a sound that might or might not have been a laugh. “Nothing pure about me. But they were using dybbuks, and that….” Another shudder, this one more violent. “I came here out of self-preservation.”

  “And yet you’re willing to do this with Townsend.”

  Abe looked over his shoulder. “Birdie is not a dybbuk. An ibbur’s still rough, but it’s not nearly as bad.”

  “If you’re willing and it’ll get me some answers, I’m all for it.” Better than wearing away the soles of his shoes and getting nowhere. And also better than pointing a gun, although he’d keep his handy nonetheless.

  After a moment, Abe wandered to the other window, which had an identical view but was closed. He twisted the lock and tried to lift the sash, which had evidently been painted shut. After a short period of tugging and grunting, it broke free and he slid the window open, leaning out so far that Thomas was faintly worried he’d fall. Despite that concern, Thomas admired the curve of Abe’s arse under the taut fabric of his trousers. Perhaps that was Abe’s intent.

  “You do realize,” Abe said after ducking back inside, “he’s not going to pay you anymore after today.”

  “That had occurred to me.”

  “Then why go through with this?”

  “Because if I don’t, it’s unlikely I’ll solve the case.”

  Abe shrugged. “So just walk away.”

  “I told him I’d find the murderer, and I will.”

  “Even if nobody pays for your work?” When Thomas didn’t answer, Abe prowled closer, his gaze sharp. “A mensch.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a genuine mensch. I didn’t think I’d ever meet one.”

  Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, Thomas busied himself with tobacco and paper. “I don’t know what that means.”

  Abe smiled enigmatically and returned to the bookcase and the penal code.

  “Section 286,” Thomas said as he lit his cigarette.

  “What’s that?”

  “The crime against nature.”

  Abe laughed. “Do you plan to bring me down to the police station for that, detective?”

  Thomas’s response was waylaid by heavy footsteps in the hallway. A moment later the outer door opened and Townsend sailed through from the outer office. “Mr. Donne, I don’t— Oh.” He stopped in his tracks and raised his eyebrows at Abe. “I wasn’t aware you had company.”

  Still holding his cigarette, Thomas stood and crossed to the center of the room. “Herbert Townsend, meet Abe France.”

  “The magician!” Townsend appeared more surprised than alarmed as he shook Abe’s hand. “I’ve heard you’re quite talented.”

  Abe had a relaxed smile. “Thank you, sir. I’d be honored if you’d attend one of my shows. Just let me know when you’ll be coming and I’ll reserve the best seat in the house.”

  “Ah. I’d be delighted.”

  It was an odd little dance: neither man trusting the other, yet each pretending an effortless bonhomie. A showman and a politician at their finest. Thomas could never enact that charade so well.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  Townsend hung his coat and hat and sat down. Abe took the chair beside him, and Thomas planted himself behind his desk, pulling a bottle of Bacardi and three glasses from the drawer. Although Abe shook his head before Thomas poured, Townsend seemed eager for his portion. “I don’t know that I can abide a teetotaler,” he said jovially, nudging at Abe’s empty glass with one fat finger.

  “I’m no supporter of the temperance movement. But I do avoid liquor before I work.”

  A masterful lie, Thomas thought, especially because it was the literal truth: alcohol would inhibit Abe’s spiritual abilities, and he was planning to use those abilities soon. But Townsend no doubt assumed Abe was simply referring to a preference for remaining sober before performing a show or séance.

  In any case, Townsend seemed satisfied with Abe’s explanation. He took a careful sip of his rum. “I assume you’ve called me here for a good reason, Donne.”

  “Zook’s dead.”

  “Yes, yes.” Townsend attempted and abandoned a sorrowful expression. “Munroe told me. Such a shame.”

  “That’s two, Mr. Townsend. Two dead young men. And I’d like to make sure it doesn’t become three.”

  Townsend’s face went red. “If this is an attempt to extort a larger fee, Mr. Donne—”

  “My fee’s good enough. All I want is information.”

  Some of the unhealthy color faded from Townsend’s cheeks, and he went from offended to wary. “What sort of information? I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “You’ve told me what you want me to know, but lies won’t help me catch the killer. I doubt you really care who did in Gage, or Zook for that matter. Tell me what you’re really after and I might have a hope of solving this thing.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Unlike Abe, Townsend was a poor liar. He probably got through life with a combination of bluster, power, and wealth, not needing much skill at prevarication.

  Thomas discovered he’d finished his cigarette so he rolled another. Abe sat with uncharacteristic quiet, his hands folded in his lap like an obedient schoolboy. Looking at that innocent face, nobody would guess the depths of his potential wickedness.

  “When you first hired me, I assumed Gage had something on you. Blackmail. Or maybe he’d stolen money from you. But now I think he stole something more important than money, something that’s important to someone else too. What did he take?”

  “Nothing,” Townsend lied. “I simply want justice done.”

  “I doubt you care one whit about justice. You care about yourself. And that’s fair enough—most people do. But I need you to come clean.”

  Townsend finished his rum and slammed the glass onto the desk. It took him a moment to heave himself out of the chair. “I’m disappointed, Mr. Donne. I’d truly hoped this could evolve into a long-term professional relationship.” He started for the coat rack.

  “Don’t leave yet, Mr. Townsend.”

  It was Abe who’d spoken, but the accent came from neither Budapest nor New York but instead from London. The voice was higher too, and younger, with none of the melancholy that touched even the jokes Abe made. Hearing it made Thomas’s heartbeat turn thready and weak.

  Thomas and Townsend both stared at Abe, who remained in his chair. His eyes had turned the color of a summer sky, and his lips curled crookedly, exactly like the lips Thomas had kissed a decade earlier.

  “What the devil!” Townsend exclaimed.

  Abe stood and walked toward Townsend, but instead of his usual agile grace, his movements were slightly jerky and gangly, like a youth not quite used to newly long limbs. And he glowed. Not visibly—no true light emanated from him—but there was an eerie brightness to him. Thomas was positive that even if the room had been utterly dark, he could have seen Abe.

  Townsend leaned back with a look of horror as Abe approached, but he seemed unable to move from where he’d stopped. “Sit down,” Abe said.

  “Noooo.” Townsend’s moan was terrible to hear, especially from the throat of a man usually so confident. But he walked to the chair like a puppet badly worked, and he folded into it with a crash and a groan.

  Abe danced around the room. He took a moment to gaze out the window—“Pigeons here too,” he said with a laugh—before skipping to Thomas’s side and bending close. He gave the cheek a light caress, nearly stopping Thomas’s breath. “Maturity suits you, Tommy. But your eyes are so cold.”

  “Birdie….”

  “It’s not so bad as all that. Dying, that was appalling. But being dead? It’s easier than life, really. Fewer worries.”

  A ragged noise tore from Thomas’s throat, but Birdie merely tapped Thomas’s nose and stood upright. “Must get on with it. It’s quite a strain for poor Avi.” He moved nimbly out of
Thomas’s reach and back to the other side of the desk, where he loomed over Townsend.

  “What is this?” Townsend sounded as if he were being pressed to death, and his complexion was pale as whey.

  “What was it, Herbert? What did poor Roy Gage take from you?”

  “This is not—”

  “Herbert.” Birdie narrowed his eyes the way he used to before taking aim at a distant target or deciding whether to place a new bet or to fold. Then he flickered—an image so bright Thomas gasped and covered his eyes—before settling back into Abe’s familiar form. But now there was a raggedness to his edges that made Thomas’s eyes hurt if he looked too closely.

  Townsend wailed. He sounded like a mortally wounded animal, and his hands gripped the armrests of the chair so hard that the wood cracked. Eyes wide, his jaw worked up and down soundlessly and his tongue went in and out a few times. Finally a word thin as gossamer came from his mouth. “Aaamuuulet.”

  “What amulet?” Birdie was implacable.

  “Princccce of Gandhaaaaaara.”

  “Do you have it back now?”

  “Noooooo,” Townsend sobbed.

  “Do you know who has it?”

  “Noooooo. Please. Stop.”

  Birdie looked at Thomas. For a terrifying moment, Thomas thought he was going to be interrogated similarly, but Birdie only raised his eyebrows. “Enough, Tommy?”

  “Enough.” Thomas fought back the urge to vomit.

  “Go,” Birdie said to Townsend. “And you’ll honor your promise to pay when he finds the culprit?”

  Townsend nodded and then slumped suddenly in his seat, the puppet strings cut. A moment later, he stumbled to his feet and, after clutching the chair for support, lurched his way to the coat rack. He dropped his hat twice before getting it onto his head. Although he was obviously eager to leave, he paused in the doorway and turned around. “Find me the amulet, and keep that away from me.” He jerked his head toward Birdie. “And I’ll pay you fifty thousand.” He made his way out of the office on unsteady feet, slamming the door hard.