A Study in Sherlock

by Laurie R. King

  But that, of course, reinforced her point. He felt obliged to listen a while longer.

  Captain Eric Turner of the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department Homicide Division stood at the rear of the sanctuary soaking in the rich tapestry of color and symbolism, only to be accosted by his too-eager, relentlessly bright and cheerful assistant, Baxter.

  “Didn’t expect you, Cap’n. Seems a routine murder-robbery.”

  Turner wanted to scream When did murder become routine? but instead answered in his favored monotone. “It’s not the crime, it’s the venue. I’m fond of this building. Where’s the deceased?”

  Baxter led him to the body, cheerfully reporting the medical examiner was delayed in traffic but would arrive any moment. Turner had no sooner set eyes upon the twisted, slumped corpse than a familiar voice grated on his nerves.

  “So, it’s true. You do have a dead rabbi.”

  Turner sighed, turned to face his opposite number at the FBI regional. “Yeah, it sure looks like a corpse, Hamstein. But the rabbi part would be speculation. In either event, what’s it matter to you?”

  FBI Special Agent Hamstein’s grin dripped cool superiority. “Well, the dear departed was a cleric of interest to us.”

  “Then I give you jurisdiction. With quiet joy.”

  “Don’t know if I want it. Depends on whether it really is connected to the other murder.”

  “Other murder?” Turner hated to be outfoxed by the FBI. The District was his turf, he should know first.

  “Mmmm.” Hamstein grinned. “Across town. A real stumper. They’re connected. I know how, but have no idea why.”

  Turner understood. “So if I take this and fail, you become the white knight riding in to save the day. Might as well hand it over to you immediately.”

  Hamstein’s grin evaporated. “It’s only going to come back to you. Because I’m stumped. Fact is, I can only think of one man who might—might—understand it.”

  “And you can’t call him unless you federalize it. Take jurisdiction.”

  Hamstein nodded.

  Still in view of the open door, the Sergeant-Major was attempting—without much luck—to explain to Maggie why she would never make a good officer without hands-on, in-the-field experience. JAGs were desk jockeys. Necessary, of course, but dwellers in a land of theory. She, of course, maintained she was more than capable of understanding the field without that experience. And then the phone rang.

  Jackson listened for a moment as he stared at Maggie. “Be delighted to be of service, Captain. I can be there in an hour. But … would you object if I brought an apprentice associate with me? Good. See you soon.”

  He clicked off his cell phone, smiled tightly at Maggie. He would finally make his point. “If you’re free, we can put the value of field experience to the test.”

  “As an ‘apprentice associate,’ ” she asked, her horror at the title plain.

  “Yes. A generous bit of nomenclature, I’ll agree. Let’s see if you can merit it.”

  She paused only a moment before following him out the door.

  The officious uniformed policeman held his hand up as Jackson and Snow approached, assuming that would stop them. It did not. Jackson simply shook the man’s hand and entered the crime scene, a spare, sparse apartment in the quickly gentrifying area of Columbia Heights.

  “Hey! You can’t go in there!”

  “We were invited,” Jackson threw over his shoulder.

  “Who by?”

  Jackson stopped, turned, and faced the fresh-faced patrolman. “I believe that’s ‘By whom?’ ”

  Before it escalated further, both Hamstein and Turner appeared.

  “By me,” they said in unison. Maggie sensed that Jackson enjoyed the attention and the attempt by both to curry favor.

  “Meet my apprentice assistant: Snow, Margaret, Cap’n, JAG.”

  He strolled in, looked carefully around, addressed Maggie. “Notice the decor. High-tech, one might say. Hence charmless. One bookcase, only technical manuals and financial renderings. A bed. A finely equipped computer corner, replete with all the bells and whistles. And a corpse, male, white, thirties, who might seem to have fallen asleep at his monster computer save for the neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead oozing a small amount of blood.”

  “The mortal remains of Gerry Rivers.” Before Hamstein could continue, Jackson quickly inserted, “A financial reporter, no doubt.”

  Turner rolled his eyes. “And we know this because?”

  “The bookcase. The only nontechnical editions are financial. Macroeconomics to judge by the titles. If they were micro, he might be a trader. But as it is, he must earn his living—modest, this home suggests—as a correspondent on such things. But why would that interest you, Special Agent?”

  “Because last night a Rabbi Burman was also murdered. One we’ve had our eyes on regarding the movement of funds from here to organizations in the Middle East.”

  “Some of whom begin and end their meetings with ‘Death to America’?”

  “Now how in hell do you know that from what’s here?” Hamstein sputtered.

  “At times, Special Agent, a cigar is simply a cigar.” Hamstein didn’t get it. Jackson continued patiently, “Well, if he was supporting the Israeli Boy Scouts you’d hardly be concerned, now would you?” Then, to save Hamstein further embarrassment, he quickly added, “And I suppose the rabbi was dispatched by a sharp neck snap.”

  “How on earth—?” Turner sputtered.

  “Because that would be the cause of death of our computer fiend, here. Yes, yes, I know it appears to be an execution, one shot to the forehead, but that would have produced much more blood. And it wouldn’t have left his neck in that curious position.”

  “Yes,” one of them mumbled. “We’d figured that out. Waiting for the ME to confirm.”

  “What else can you tell me of this man?”

  “Found this just inches from his hand.” Turner offered him a cell phone turned to the call log.

  Jackson studied it. “Only five calls in four days. One number repeats.”

  “Ran a check,” said Hamstein. “None other than Gorgi Pelachi.”

  The Sergeant-Major ran that over in his mind. Pelachi was a very powerful man, far up the food chain and something of a man of mystery. Emerging from the collapse of the Soviet Union as one of the most powerful oligarchs, he had a fortune that beggared the imagination. The source of the wealth was shrouded; some said he was a KGB general who amassed it in bribes, others that he’d profited under the Communist regime by fencing property confiscated from “enemies of the state” before they were shipped east of the Urals—Siberia. Others claimed both. But he had burst onto the scene with a spectacular hedge in Spanish currency that brought down their central bank—a trick he’d repeat on the emerging new states of Central Europe. Perhaps because of the rumors and innuendo, he shied away from the limelight. And that would include minor financial writers.

  “Can you get me in to see him?” Jackson requested.

  Hamstein cringed. “I’d rather not. Tick him off and he can go way over my boss’s boss’s head.”

  “I’ll be polite. On my honor.”

  Hamstein nodded in resignation. “I’ll see what I can do. Unless you can solve this on the spot.”

  Jackson admonished, “That, as well you know, would require at least a shred to go on.”

  Turner handed him a small Ziploc bag. In it was a business card: RABBI ELIEZAR BURMAN—EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, THE RECONCILIATION PROJECT. Jackson turned it over. On the other side there was a neat column of citations:

  ZEPHANIAH: CHAPS. 3–4

  EXODUS: 1:4

  LEVITICUS: 4:9

  JONAH: 2:3

  As Jackson returned it to Turner, the detective assured him, “We’ve got our best men working on it now. Top scholars.”

  Jackson shook his head. “They’ll find nothing. These citations are random.” He approached the computer. “May we?”

&n
bsp; Turner offered him a pair of latex gloves. “Knock yourself out.” Jackson indicated the gloves should be given to Maggie.

  Surprised, she took them. “What am I looking for?” she asked.

  “Size, shape, shadow, color, movement,” he replied.

  She puzzled, finally shaking her head, stumped. “Not size … nor shadow …” She turned to him. “Could it be shape?”

  “Last chance,” he admonished her. “The shadow not cast. Look at the quotes. Study the room.”

  She knew this was the moment she would rise to his trust or be banished. She took her time, studied the room carefully. The shadow not cast. Intransitive. And then she spied a slight opening, a glimmer of light. She dashed to the computer, brought up “History,” entered “Leviticus.”

  “Why that one?” he asked.

  “Because Leviticus can have only one meaning. Unlike Exodus, Jonah, or even the proper name, Zephaniah. It would be used only in a Bible search.” She hit “Return.” A nanosecond and the screen reported NO RECENT SEARCHES FOR LEVITICUS.

  “Okay,” groused Hamstein. “What did we lesser mortals miss?”

  “Predictably, the obvious. Maggie?”

  The officer in her emerged. “Look around, gentlemen. No books, let alone a Bible. And no Web searches for one. So the biblical connection is lateral, not direct.”

  “Besides,” added Jackson drily, “if you knew your scripture, you’d know these were random.”

  He sat at the desk, took a fresh piece of paper, and, never taking his eyes off the list, quickly filled the new sheet with a column, never looking, almost an autowriter. First, was Zephaniah: chaps. 3–4. Jackson counted three letters in, entered p and then the fourth letter, h. He moved quickly to Exodus: 1:4, producing e and d, then i and s from Leviticus: 4:9, and finally o and n from Jonah: 2:3. Jackson stared at the result: P-H-E-D-I-S-O-N.

  The others gathered around him, leaned over his shoulder.

  “Almost something,” murmured Hamstein. “A name?”

  “Unlikely,” replied Jackson. “The consonant blend of ph, derived from the Vedic, carried into English by Hellenistic—” He stopped, smiled. “Of course! Zephaniah—a minor prophet, but a very interesting one, by the way—is presented with a dash rather than a colon as are the others.” He struck out the ph with a single line, replaced it with f. F-E-D-I-S-O-N.

  Turner was exultant. “Brilliant!” He snapped at Baxter, “Get on this. Check for an F. Edison. Every database.”

  “I’m also on it!” said Hamstein, already heading for the door.

  The Sergeant-Major called after them: “I may wish to investigate further.”

  Turner’s words faded as he hurried away. “Baxter! Give him—them—whatever they want!” And Jackson and Maggie were alone save for the police security.

  “That was brilliant,” conceded Maggie. “Once they find this Mr. Edison—” She stopped, added carefully, “If, in fact, that is the name of someone involved.”

  “I see you’re beginning to learn already.” He smiled as he strolled out in leisurely fashion. Maggie followed.

  “Ah, yes. Detective Baxter told us to expect you.”

  Sergeant-Major Jackson turned his steady gaze from the still-open Ark to a pleasantly plump woman trying to smile despite a redness in her eyes that betrayed recent lengthy weeping.

  “I’m Freyda Simon. Rabbi Burman’s assistant.” She also stared at the Ark. “This is a terrible thing.”

  “It certainly is. You have our heartfelt condolences.” He indicated the Ark. “May I?”

  “Of course. Whatever you need. But … if you don’t mind, I’ll wait for you in the office. At the end of the hall.”

  “By all means.” As she turned to go, he added, “And the custodian? A Mr. Zakaria?”

  “I’ll have him join us.”

  Jackson and Maggie approached the Ark. The six Torah scrolls were undisturbed, though all but two had been stripped of their silver; the two remaining breastplates, both of striking modern design, glittered in the overhead light. The Sergeant-Major stood very still, only his eyes moving, wandering over everything. Then he noticed a tiny gleam on the carpet. He knelt, examined it: a small shred of heavy-duty brown plastic. He pocketed it, stood, smiled at Maggie.

  “Our miscreant made serious errors. At least two. Can you spot any?” She stared, thought hard. But then, resigned, she shook her head. He nodded. “Don’t be hard on yourself. They’re small errors—important, but small. Only years in the field would sensitize you to their obviousness. Come. We are close to important facts.”

  She had to half-run to keep up with his fast stride to the office. It was small, neat despite piles of papers and books, and already crowded with both Freyda and Zakaria waiting.

  Freyda handed him photographs of the stolen silver. “Perhaps this can help?”

  “No doubt,” he replied.

  “Zakaria, can we provide the gentleman with an envelope?”

  The janitor nodded, found one on a shelf, and in this small office needed only to stretch his arm out to offer it to Jackson. As he did so, something caught the Sergeant-Major’s eye: the sleeve of the man’s coveralls had naturally run up his extended arm, exposing his wrist. Seeing Jackson’s quick reaction, Zakaria quickly moved to pull the sleeve down.

  Jackson smiled. “You would be the custodian, I expect.”

  “Yes, yes. Zakaria is how I am called.”

  “Ah. Captain Turner informs me you’re of Lebanese extraction.”

  “Oh, yes. But Christian, Maronite Christian.”

  Jackson thrust his hand out. “Sergeant-Major Robert Jackson.”

  Zakaria squirmed uncomfortably. But realizing the others in the room were watching him, he reached out to shake Jackson’s hand, trying to keep his arm bent at the elbow. Jackson grasped the calloused workingman’s hand, shook it vigorously while pulling it toward him—and bending it ever so slightly. Jackson glanced down; only he could see it: a small tattoo of a blue Maltese cross. As if it had gone unnoticed, he turned back to Freyda.

  “Ma’am. If I may. Precisely what is the Reconciliation Project?”

  “Ah. The RP was Rabbi Burman’s passion, his life’s work. We fund schools in the Middle East, nonsectarian schools, schools where Moslem, Arab, and Jewish Israeli children can learn together, side by side, come to know one another. We already have six throughout the Holy Land. We had hoped to double that this year. But now …” She trailed off in despair.

  Jackson smiled encouragingly. “Surely, the work need not end. If not six new schools, then perhaps two. Or even one.”

  “Unlikely. Funding has come slowly. Rabbi Burman was working on a major gift, very large, enough to get it done. But it hadn’t closed.”

  “And now you suspect the donor will demur?”

  “Couldn’t say. He or she was to remain anonymous until the papers were signed. I have no idea who he or she might be. Nobody does.”

  “A pity. But perhaps in time he—or she—will step forward. But your other donors? All on the public record?”

  “As the law requires. Though let me save you endless bureaucratic research. I have prepared this for you.” She handed him a computer printout headed Schedule of Donors. “If I can be of any help, all my numbers are there. So many numbers nowadays.”

  “Thank you,” said Jackson, gently adding, “Shabbat shalom.”

  She smiled gratefully. “And the peace of the Sabbath be with you.”

  He turned to Zakaria, still smiling warmly. “Ma’rah’bone.”

  The janitor immediately replied reflexively, “Ma’rah’-obtain—” then tried to swallow the words.

  But too late. Jackson was gone, Maggie hurrying to catch up.

  Freyda was feeling better. “Such a nice man,” she said. “And speaking both Hebrew and Arabic.”

  “Yes. A nice man indeed,” said Zakaria before quickly leaving.

  Once on the street, Maggie was again racing to keep up, her curiosity piqued.

  �
��What was all that about?” she asked. “Something happened in there, didn’t it?”

  “I should say so. It bodes well that you noticed.”

  “Yes, but noticed what, Sarn’t-Major?”

  “Probably the first break in this case.” She waited for more but her cell phone vibration demanded she glance at the text. She looked up, surprised. “Special Agent Hamstein. Contacting me?”

  “Yes.” Jackson nodded. “I gave him your number. Those things irritate me. What’s he have to say?”

  “That we have a meeting.”

  The offices of Pelachi Enterprises Worldwide (Pty) were remarkably modest given that they housed one of the world’s three richest men, a mysterious figure best known for funding all manner of social and political organizations; indeed, there were those who warned darkly of an attempt to subvert American democracy and install a one-world government. But the smiling, avuncular man with the twinkling eyes and the boyish mop of largely gray hair now seated across from the Sergeant-Major seemed anything but menacing. His office was sparse, no “wall of fame” boasting photographs of Pelachi with the famous and powerful he counted as friends; in fact, the room was bereft of virtually all personal markers. The refreshment offered was tap water—“Sustainable water use is everyone’s obligation,” he had explained—aerated by his own little machine.

  Jackson had watched carefully when he asked the man, first, whether he knew Gerry Rivers—which, after a moment’s memory retrieval, Pelachi said he did, but only slightly—and second, was he aware the man was dead? He apparently was not and seemed untroubled by the news. How about Rabbi Burman? Again, he had paused to search his memory, only to draw a blank.

  “I can’t place him. But his death is nonetheless lamentable.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Jackson. “But tell me, if you would be so kind, whatever you can about the journalist Gerry Rivers.”

  “Not much to tell, really. A financial writer for one of the news services—Bloomberg, MarketWatch, Reuters, one of those. He’d call me regularly as the interest rate announcement from the Fed would approach. Wanted my prediction. Tomorrow is the quarterly announcement. It made sense he would telephone me.”