“So you weren’t friends or anything of that nature?”
“Goodness, no! Frankly, I didn’t like the man. Bit of a blowhard, not very bright, and hiding behind that ridiculous mustache. But, as I say, tomorrow’s announcement loomed.”
Jackson could see Maggie was eager to ask a question. His nod to her was barely perceptible. She jumped in.
“If you so disliked him, why did you grant him interviews?”
Pelachi took a moment to admire Maggie, then offered his most charming smile. “Because he always announced my soothsaying—on the Web—moments before the announcement. And I was always correct. Helped feed the myth.”
Jackson smiled. “Your candor is disarming, Mr. Pelachi.”
“Candor is who I am, Sergeant-Major.” He smiled as he stood, a signal the interview was over. Jackson complied, and in moments, he and Maggie were back on the sidewalk at Fourteenth and L.
She looked to him. “Nothing much new there. Or was there?”
“There may have been a great deal. But time is short. So we shall be forced to split up. Not only because the operation is now time-critical, but also I believe you’ve shown sufficient progress to warrant command of your own reconnaissance patrol.”
He handed her the donor list. “Somewhere in there is a donor. Someone unlike the others. He—or she—will have given twice, three times at most, always at the same time of the month. The sums will have increased slightly. But it will have an oddity. I need the dates of the transactions.”
Dismayed, she held the thick file up, leafed the pages. “There’s hundreds of names here. Maybe thousands. How do I—?”
But he was already striding across the street, slowing just long enough to toss over his shoulder, “If you’re a good field officer, you’ll find the right shortcut. Just remember: size, shape, shadow, color, movement.” Then he turned back. “It might be a familiar name.”
“Should I check on how they’re doing finding Mr. Edison?”
“Don’t bother! They’re wasting their time!”
And on that enigmatic certainty, he disappeared, melding into the midday crowds.
Sergeant-Major Jackson knew when he was being deceived, and there was no doubt about this one. He had spent over an hour with Gerry Rivers’s immediate superior at the wire service, the rather bookish Will Diamond—thick glasses, male pattern baldness and an annoying habit of incessantly clicking his retractable ballpoint pen. Click-click.
“So is it fair to say Mr. Rivers was a beat reporter, your man at the Fed?”
Click-click. “Fair? Who knows what’s fair nowadays, eh, Warrant Officer?”
“Perhaps you might try?”
Click-click. “Rivers didn’t really have a beat. He kinda floated. But he did do the Fed announcements. Exclusively, you might say.”
“Because he excelled at that analysis?”
Click-click. “Not really. He was pretty average. To be honest about it, he was a pushy pain in the ass. I tried to can him once.”
Jackson waited for more, but all he got was Click-click. The man was obtuse. “Tried?”
Click-click. “Yeah. But upstairs said no. Keep him where he is for now, they said. Temporary, they said. Three, almost four years ago.”
“Did they explain why?” Jackson asked, steeling his nerves for the noise of the ballpoint. But none came—and Jackson wondered if the noise, or the silence, was deliberately intended to throw him off. He stared at Diamond.
“Nah. I figured he had photographs of the publisher.”
“I see. One last thing, if you would indulge me: Rabbi Eliezar Burman? Were you acquainted with the gentleman?”
Click-click. “Nah. But he’s a big deal in the Jewish community so I guess our paths must’ve crossed. But I wouldn’t claim to know him.”
“To your knowledge, would the late Mr. Rivers have done so?”
Jackson took it as unease that the answer came quickly, even before the clicking started, the two mingling. “Can’t [click] imagine that.” Click.
Trying to forget the sound of the clicking pen had slowed Jackson’s afternoon work, and by the time he was done touring various government offices collecting the information he needed, it was twilight in the white canyons of the District’s federal buildings. But he had learned a little about Rivers and his employers, enough to perhaps make a difference if his suspicions began to show validity.
But now darkness was closing as he strode down near-empty G Street in Washington’s Southeast quadrant, his sharp, military-time footfalls echoing off the buildings, some empty and derelict, others timidly showing small yellow lamps. As he moved, he kept his senses sharp, not missing the shadows that seemed alive, or the infrequent darting silhouette ahead. As he turned into Ninth Street, he knew he was entering a world that, particularly at night, was inhospitable to strangers, particularly one such as himself. About midway down the block he could sense the two men following him. Ignoring the urge—if there was any—to walk faster, he held his pace until, after a few moments, he could hear the faint sound of music from an otherwise apparently deserted town house on his left.
He turned in quickly, rapped sharply on the door. After a moment a small sliding door opened to reveal the face of a burly African American who exuded not a trace of warmth.
“It’s the Sarn’t-Major,” Jackson said softly, noting the footsteps following him had stopped. The opaque face was quickly obscured by the man’s huge hand directing a flashlight beam into Jackson’s face. The soldier did not blink. The African American beamed.
“It sure as hell is you!” The door swung open and Jackson stepped inside. Once the door was properly closed and locked, the huge bouncer embraced the Sergeant-Major warmly. “Been too damned long, Sarn’t-Major.”
Jackson smiled true appreciation at the warmth. “It has that, Sergeant.”
“Your man’s in the back. He’ll be happy for the sight of you.”
Jackson strode through the large anteroom, a bar-cum-club, its walls completely covered with photographs of soldiers, many taken in Vietnam but even more from Iraq and Afghanistan. The ceiling was a tapestry of military shoulder patches, captured enemy flags—and pinups of beautiful women in various stages of undress. As he strode to the back, he received respectful nods and smiles from nearly all of the select group of African American men, some seated at tables, talking, laughing, sipping beer; others gathered around a huge flat-screen television with the Wizards-Lakers game; others just fixed on the Al Green ballad from the antique jukebox. He returned every one with direct eye contact, a nod, and a smile. He reached a curtain at the rear, pulled it aside, and knocked a rhythmic code on the door it concealed. Almost instantly, it swung open to admit Jackson, quickly closing behind him.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting; it was a semi-office with two muscular men occupying chairs in opposite corners, as if for protection. The slim, attractive black man behind the desk was already on his feet and coming around the desk, a huge smile on his face. Jackson couldn’t help but beam as broadly as he ever had.
“P.K.! Good to see you, brother. How are you?”
“All the better for laying eyes on you, blood.” The use of the most intimate term of familiarity in a Vietnam-era black soldier’s vocabulary was not lost on the Sergeant-Major. He embraced P.K. and then they sat in armchairs away from the desk.
P.K. turned to one of his guards. “Whisky for an honored guest. The good stuff.” The man crossed to the desk and P.K. settled his eyes on Jackson. “How’s the struggle, Bob?”
“Better than it was, not as good as it could be.”
“Telling me my own story.”
The guard put down two glasses and a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Oban from the famed Western Highlands. “And the ice.” The man scurried off. “So what misfortune brought me the good luck of entertaining you?”
Jackson grinned. “Do I only show up when I need help?”
P.K. laughed. “I reckon! This is no resort
area. I wouldn’t pay a visit myself except as I needed. Besides, we’re proud to be your irregular troops, Bob. You’ve never been on the wrong side. So what’s up?”
Jackson reached inside his shirt, withdrew the envelope with the photographs of the stolen silver Torah dressings.
P.K. studied them. “Heard they robbed the synagogue over at Sixth and I. This the loot?”
Jackson nodded. “One police theory is it’s a random robbery, common in the neighborhood. In which case, the silver should already be in the hands of a fence. And no doubt you’d know about it.”
“I would. But I don’t. Besides, the bad guys who work that turf wouldn’t touch this. They’re pros and they’d know better.”
“You think so?”
“I’d bet on it. They don’t hit churches or synagogues. And this building is both.”
“It is.” Jackson nodded. “Originally a synagogue, then when the Jews moved to the suburbs, an AME church.”
P.K. grinned. “And the benefits of upward mobility march on: now the AMEs are gone to the suburbs and the Jews are back. All life’s a circle.”
The guard returned with a glass of ice. P.K. poured two glasses of whisky, dropped a single ice cube in each. He looked up at Jackson. “One minute to release the aroma and texture?”
The Sergeant-Major nodded. “You always were a good soldier.”
They raised their glasses. “Here’s tae uys,” said P.K.
“T’ose lak uys,” Jackson replied. Then both murmured “… to absent friends …” and drank.
“Will you keep your ears open?”
P.K. nodded reassuringly. “I’ll put the word out.”
They sipped some more. Jackson frowned as if the next question had just occurred to him. “The men who work that area? Any of them skilled in a one-move neck-snap?”
P.K. pondered that for a moment then shook his head.
“No. That’s black ops. Brit SAS, KGB, SEALs. Those guys would never sink as low as knocking off a synagogue.” Jackson nodded; as usual, P.K. made perfect sense.
The Sergeant-Major was reluctant to acknowledge the feeling he experienced as Maggie reported on her recce patrol. But it was inescapable: he was pleased. She had exceeded his expectation. She was recounting her efforts, and whether or not she’d had useful results, her methodology met his rigorous standards. His mind was wandering. He interrupted her. “I lost the chain. Go back three sentences.”
She coughed, tried to remember what she’d said, went back. “So I just kept looking at it, hoping something would jump out—like the hillside in the training film. But the longer I stared, the less anything stood out. I kept thinking about the five markers, but they didn’t seem to apply. Names don’t move, they don’t have color. But then it struck me: philanthropy has a shadow. It involves money. Money always leaves a trail, shadows, if you will. It has observable consequences, if only to accountants and auditors. So I started running numbers, and something leapt out: two donations, the first a modest ten thousand, the second a more extravagant quarter of a million. The Reconciliation Project showed them both as anonymous. But when I compared the private listing to their government report, they were shown as received from a 501c(3)—a charitable institution passing money along to another cause. So I researched the donor and identified it. As you predicted, a familiar name—”
He interrupted quickly. “The Zakaria Fund?”
Maggie tried to hide her surprise. “The Zakaria Foundation, actually. But you have the concept.”
“And no doubt the address was the janitor’s home.” She nodded. “And were the dates the fifteenth of the month or the thirtieth?”
“One of each,” she answered, a little disappointed he was so far ahead of her.
“The question is, then: who financed our janitor? Terrorists? Criminals?”
“And is he the murderer?”
Jackson looked at her; here was a test. “All indications point in his direction, do they not?”
“Every single one. Which begs the question: can there be too many shadows?”
What he now felt was pride. His mentee was learning very quickly. “We shall have to find out. Come.”
Keeping in plain view of the open front door, he led her to his computer. “I’m not as proficient as you, I daresay, with this machinery. So I would ask you to find the website listing donations, compare them until you find one of those 501 things you mentioned making identical donations on the same days. Are your two samples enough to produce results?”
“To get started, yes. But not on this. There’s a program on the base IT that could do it in less than an hour. But it’s for official use only.”
“Then we shall vouchsafe our officialness.” He picked up his almost quaint land-line telephone, tapped in a number.
Turner was irritated at having to drive over an hour to simply gain access to an army computer. But he had to be present while this woman—not a bad looker when he paid attention—ran endless regressional analyses on numbers and charities. It reminded him how nowadays the government knew everything, which meant any nerd with a keyboard could accomplish in minutes what old-time cops like himself had once done by hand, their knowledge and experience prerequisites to success. But now …
He checked his watch; still time to catch the playoff game if this Maggie person could find what Jackson wanted. The man could be a strain on your nerves, but he was never wrong and Turner needed this case off his desk. He’d hoped he’d find the Edison guy, but when he left, Baxter was down to just three Franks, two Freds, and a Francis and Turner’s gut told him none of them would pan out.
Maggie’s exultant shout of “Jackpot!” sharply interrupted his reverie. Instantly, he and Jackson were looking over her shoulder. “Here’s the link to the so-called anonymous donor!”
She hit a key and a Web homepage floated onto her screen: THE JUPITER PROJECT. A FUND TO HELP THOSE SEEKING A HARMONIOUS SOCIETY. There were literally hundreds of recipients listed. The Reconciliation Project was among them. She turned to look up at Turner. “Isn’t Pelachi connected to that?”
“Probably.” He shrugged. “But his money is everywhere in that world. Probably a coincidence.” He turned to Jackson. “Wouldn’t you say, Sarn’t-Major?”
“Not knowing that world, I must demur. However, I believe I can provide that answer tomorrow morning. If—and only if—you meet me exactly where I say at precisely oh-eight-twenty-five hours. With the following people in tow.” He scribbled some names on a Post-it, handed it to Turner, hurried to leave.
“Where the hell are you running this time of night?”
“If we are to put this matter to rest tomorrow as I’ve described, there is pressing business to which I must attend.”
And before more could be demanded, he was gone from sight.
Maggie, Turner, and those he had rounded up—Hamstein, Freyda, Zakaria, and Will Diamond, the last clearly irritable at having been pulled away—waited patiently in the coffee shop on L Street. The wall clock read 8:24. Diamond fulminated.
“You said he’d meet us at eight twenty-five, and I have no time to waste—” but he stopped short as, simultaneously, the wall clock slid to 8:25 and Sergeant-Major Jackson opened the front door, striding directly toward them, surveying the group.
“Well done, Captain Turner. I see we’re all here.” Then, indicating Diamond, “Captain, Special Agent, I see you’ve met the late Gerry Rivers’s employer.”
“Employer? Hardly,” Diamond snapped. “I’m just his boss. His employer is a man much wealthier than I could ever dream of being.”
“Point taken. Then let’s get on the march. Our destination is one and one-half blocks away.”
Maggie got it immediately. “Pelachi’s office?”
He smiled. She definitely had promise.
At first, they had been denied access to Pelachi’s inner sanctum. But under unrelenting pressure from Jackson, Hamstein had waved his badge about, backed by Turner’s, and eventually they’d been led u
pstairs, Hamstein muttering to Jackson as they went, “This better pan out or my job is on the line, Bob.” He hardly ever used the familiar with the Sergeant-Major, but he needed to emphasize how serious it was to pressure Pelachi. It was not lost on Jackson.
Once in the office, Pelachi wasted no time berating each and every one. “This is a great inconvenience! It had damned well be important!” he thundered, the grandfatherly Pelachi apparently swallowed whole by a harsh and hard-bitten businessman.
“As you wish, sir.” By now, they were all seated, save for the two policemen at the door and Jackson at the window. Jackson was ready.
“Our nation’s capital has been witness to two ghastly murders in the span of a few hours.” He eyed them carefully, one at a time; then, “And the murderer—for one person was responsible for both killings—is in this room. With us. Now.”
Pelachi bristled. “I appreciate your refined sense of theatrics. But could you please just divulge who it is and let the rest of us get on with our lives?”
Jackson ignored the remark, continued, “The critical question: was any one person connected to both deceased?”
Turner couldn’t contain his curiosity. “No one here. Not as I can see?”
“Really?” He walked slowly to Diamond, who twitched nervously. He stared at the editor. “You knew them both, didn’t you?”
“No! That’s ridicul—” He stopped, nodded his head woodenly. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
Jackson hovered over him more closely. “Precisely. Rivers worked for you. And, although it was well hidden, that boss’s boss to whom you referred earlier was none other than Mr.
Pelachi.”
Diamond nodded. Jackson pressed harder. “And that was why you always issued Mr. Pelachi’s predictions. Rivers was merely a message boy.”
“Yes! I never denied knowing Rivers!” Diamond snapped defensively. “But the rabbi?”
Jackson betrayed a little irritation. “Have you forgotten your donation to the Reconciliation Project? Because the government hasn’t. Your name appears on the donor list on file.”
“You’re that Mr. Diamond?” exclaimed Freyda.
“All right! I knew them both! But I didn’t kill anyone!”
A Study in Sherlock Page 23
