A Study in Sherlock

by Laurie R. King

  Jackson stared at him for so long, it became unbearable. “Perhaps. We shall see, shall we not?” Jackson turned to Freyda. “And you?”

  “Me? Kill someone? I’m a vegetarian. A total vegan!”

  “But you knew something was wrong. And you knew it involved …” he turned quickly to Zakaria “… our loyal custodian. A Lebanese?”

  “Yes, yes, sir. But—”

  “No. Not Lebanese. Egyptian. Coptic, I believe.”

  Zakaria hung his head, held up his arm to reveal the small Maltese cross tattoo. “This gave me away, yes?”

  “That and your accent. When we exchanged farewells, your Arabic was Egyptian. Significantly different from the Levantine dialect of Lebanon.”

  Zakaria was crestfallen. “You are a very clever man. Clever enough to know it was not me who took lives, who has blood on his hands.”

  “I don’t know if I am. But let us review what we know: a rabbi is murdered, his synagogue looted—but not by a regular felon. How do we know this? First, because the stolen silver has not appeared on the underworld market after nearly seventy-two hours.”

  “Hmmph,” snorted Diamond. “Makes sense. The thieves could simply be waiting for it to blow over.”

  “Thank you for revealing your ignorance of the ordinary criminal. Run-of-the-mill thieves are in chronic need of folding money. And they know the longer they cling to their booty, the likelier the authorities will find them. So, the rule is, get rid of it. Quickly. To a fence who can buy it for a steal—pun intended—and afford to hold on to it until the coast, as they say, is clear. And we,” he added, indicating Turner and Hamstein, “are assured the purloined items have not surfaced. Anywhere.”

  He looked at them, each in turn, seeking a telltale quiver or blink the criminal might now show; but nothing. So he continued, “But this was a person with knowledge of his swag. He left the more modern, easily available Torah dressings but scooped up all the antiques, the survivors of the Holocaust, the ancient gems from tsarist Russia. Is he a collector? A dealer in stolen antiquities? Perhaps. But not a common, ignorant street thief who steals for quick money.” He paused. “From this, we can be sure he is a man who can, for now at least, live within his means.”

  “That applies to everyone here, surely.” Pelachi was fidgety.

  “But why kill the rabbi? An accident? Perhaps. But a man of means could wait until he was certain the synagogue was deserted.” Jackson stood still, his voice taking on gravitas. “A more likely explanation: the purpose of the criminal’s visit was the murder. The silver theft was simply a distraction.”

  “But who would kill such a good man?” lamented Freyda.

  “What if it was precisely because he was a good man? One whose passion was to create peace.” Then, more darkly, Jackson continued, “And perhaps that passion made him vulnerable.”

  Turner could no longer contain himself. “To who?”

  “Whom,” corrected the Sergeant-Major. “To someone who needed a command and control infrastructure. A very particular network. One that could move money in ways the authorities could never find. If you will, a transaction that casts no shadow.” His eyes fell on Pelachi. “Such a man would either be wealthy—” and then, turning to both Diamond and Zakaria equally “—or represent interests that were.” He paused. “But why would such a person murder the rabbi? I actually puzzled over that for some time. But the good Mr. Diamond pointed me in the right direction.”

  “Me?” exclaimed the editor, nervously biting his lip. “What did I say? I’m nothing to do with this!”

  “Then why so anxious, so—if I may—guilty?” The man had no answer. Jackson twitched a smile. “No worries. Yours was a passing remark. You speculated Rivers’s security came from having photographs of the grand and powerful. Which led me to wonder: what if, playing on the rabbi’s passion, our conspirator induced him to accept large donations, as anonymously as possible, to fund his vital and important work, on the understanding a significant portion would be returned secretly?”

  “Money laundering!” Hamstein was beginning to enjoy it. Another quick cracking of a high-profile case. Good on the record.

  “Precisely. The rabbi had a perfect end use—an organization in a very tricky part of the world, where records are sparse, and there’s a history of soaking up huge sums of money never to be seen again.”

  Maggie was puzzled. “That would make it easy to arrange receiving the funds. But it wouldn’t conceal a kickback. That would require a local receiver …” She trailed off as she involuntarily turned to Zakaria.

  Jackson crossed slowly to Zakaria. “And that man, or woman, would need a motive—other than money, because he had to be incredibly low profile.” He was now standing over the poor janitor, who trembled like a Colorado aspen. Jackson grabbed his arm, raised it so all could see the tattoo. “A very special mark. The mark Coptic Christians accept to profess their loyalty to their Church.” Before the janitor could object, Jackson continued sternly, “A Church suffering a genocide at the hands of Muslim extremists the length and breadth of Egypt. There is a desperate need for money to save those who wish to leave: bribes, visas, travel allowances.” He turned to the others. “Who, under those circumstances, would not be prone to helping what was presented as an innocent desire to spread peace?”

  “I had no choice! I felt God had sent me the opportunity! Now …” Zakaria broke down in tears.

  Jackson put a comforting hand on the weeping man’s shoulder. He turned to Pelachi and stared.

  The Russian slammed his fist on the desk. “This is an outrage! I will have your job and your pension. Now get out! OUT!”

  Jackson looked at Hamstein. It was up to him now. He squirmed for a moment but then shook his head at Pelachi.

  “Not for the moment, sir. I’d appreciate it if you could sit for a few more moments. Though I also think, this time, our colleague has jumped the shark.”

  Pelachi, unsure of the meaning of that, slowly subsided into his seat. Quickly calm, he smiled graciously. “By all means continue. The story is fascinating—especially since I, of all people, have no need of another’s infrastructure. I could virtually rule the world if I wished.”

  “Certainly that part of it which is for sale,” agreed Jackson. “But what of that which is not? Money derived from great secrets, vast sums, all feloniously obtained, all a threat even to our national security? Those proceeds would have to be hidden. Hence a foreign structure with which one arm of your empire had a slim, tangential connection? Your philanthropic arm, perhaps. Hence, the rabbi.”

  If Pelachi was nervous, he now had it well concealed. “How fascinating. I’ll need to hear all your story before speaking with your superiors. So, please, do go on.”

  “Thank you. Now, the problem was, once the rabbi was involved, he had, in Mr. Diamond’s imagery, photographs. Should his better angels reassert their grip on his spirit, or should he simply become frightened, the engineer of the plot would be threatened. Existentially. It would be his life—or Eliezar Burman’s.”

  “I see,” cooed the Russian. “But you miss one thing: from where would such vast sums of money be derived?”

  “Ah. At last we come to the elusive Mr. F. Edison. Except the code was not a name. It was a message: FED IS ON. Rivers was signaling his partner in crime that conditions were ripe to anticipate the Federal Reserve’s interest rate and skim millions—even billions—of dollars from the market in the hours before the actual announcement. I have no doubt when Mr. Hamstein’s FBI lab finishes with Gerry Rivers’s computer, they will discover he had developed a program to crack the Federal Reserve computers and read the announcement as soon as it was ready on the website—sometimes hours before it was released to the general public. ”

  Hamstein whistled under his breath. “Insider trading. Bigger even than anything Giuliani busted.”

  Turner nodded. “And don’t forget the biggest money-laundering rap ever!”

  Pelachi was finally betraying serious nervous
ness: nostrils flaring, ears back, jaw clenching.

  The Sergeant-Major pressed the offensive home. “It had worked twice before. Dry runs. This was to be the killing. It would corner the market. All that was needed was for Rivers to find the posting code. Late in the evening, he found it. He was poised to read the announcement in time for sheer havoc. He sent the word to his master: Fed is on. That meant he would find the memo. But that master, Mr. Pelachi, would not know the contents until he read Rivers’s article online—the one in which he would give your always correct prediction. Except, my guess is, this time he’d make you incorrect so while others followed your advice, you could crash everything else. It’s also my guess it was why he was kept in his job despite obvious reasons for his dismissal. Easy to arrange when the company that owned the wire service that employed him was part of your impossibly complex empire.” Before Pelachi could object, Jackson explained, “A fact I discovered after a long afternoon scouring government records. My, but yours is an opaque empire. It almost eluded me.”

  “Then why am I not on the phone this very minute placing orders?”

  “Because neither you nor Rivers expected any man to put his conscience ahead of vast sums of money. When the good rabbi realized he could no longer aid and abet your crime, this particular caper had to be delayed until another infrastructure could be identified. In the meantime, the rabbi had to go. And you could trust no one else with the job. By the same token, you realized Rivers himself was a threat. And that all you needed was his program. No doubt you downloaded his files after snapping his neck. It was simply eliminating the middleman. Good business to your way of thinking.”

  Pelachi was near the breaking point. “You go too far! You’re crossing the line of your own destruction!”

  “Not once the FBI scours your computers.”

  For the first time, Pelachi showed fear. Panic. He urgently appealed to the policemen. “Honestly! Do you really believe I would be prowling the streets late at night? That I would kill a man with my bare hands? I’m an old man!”

  “Come, come. You know as well as I the means of murder used requires not strength but skill. Anyone trained—as you, I am quite sure, were—in the craft of the KGB could easily dispatch a man several times his strength.”

  It was too much for Freyda. She loosed an involuntary yelp and broke down in wrenching sobs. Maggie immediately dashed to her, embracing her, offering comfort. Suddenly the mood changed from one of interest to something highly charged with great anxiety.

  Pelachi leapt on it, challenged Hamstein.

  “Look at this! This is an atrocity. Charge me or leave.” He turned to Jackson contemptuously. “You can prove none of this, sir!”

  The Sergeant-Major waited for Freyda to calm, then replied crisply, “Yes. I suppose one might dismiss it all as pure speculative fantasy. But there is the matter of the eyewitness.”

  Both policemen were startled. This was the first they had heard of it. Pelachi gulped. Hard. But he stayed on the offensive. “Ridiculous! You can produce no such eyewitness.”

  “In fact, sir, I daresay he’s outside your door at this very instant.” Jackson nodded at Turner who, though puzzled, opened the door. And a familiar figure entered. The two officers were startled.

  “P.K.! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were legit nowadays!”

  The confident P.K. of the prior evening was now carefully disguised with the scattered manner of a street person. “Oh, I am, Cap’n, Special Agent. Honest as the day is long. But there’s this girl, see, oh, such a delight, but you know how—”

  “Get on with it, man!” Pelachi was red in the face.

  “Well …” P.K. drawled on, feigning a slowness of wit that in no way deceived those who knew him but certainly had Pelachi’s attention. “… my girl lives down near that synagogue. I was going home about two in the morning. When I saw a man run from the synagogue. He was carrying a stuffed Hefty bag.” He looked directly at Pelachi. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

  “Insane! You’re all finished! Careers over! Now get out!”

  But Jackson held his ground. “Are you sure, Mr. P.K.?”

  “Certain. He’d stopped under a street lamp. I saw him plain, I did.”

  “Why would he stop?”

  “Well, sir, the Hefty bag had split. And a big slab of silver was falling out.”

  “You see! A lie! The bag never bro—” Even as the words tumbled from his mouth, Pelachi knew he had been tricked. P.K.’s ruse had exposed him. It was over. He turned to the window, perhaps to jump. But Jackson blocked his path. Pelachi turned to the door. Hamstein and Turner were waiting for him.

  He backed off, began to circle, Jackson following at a discreet distance. Pelachi reached inside his jacket—and out came a 9 mm Beretta.

  “Keep away,” he warned. “And no one will be hurt,” he promised. He edged toward the door, Jackson keeping pace. Across the room, P.K. also shifted his position, unnoticed by the Russian pointing his Beretta at the policemen, who quickly deserted the door to keep out of his path. He glanced down, seeking the doorknob. It was the only instant he lowered his guard. But it was all that was needed.

  With a fearsome war cry, Jackson dove toward Pelachi, who, terrified by the sound and furious movement, dodged to the side—and directly into the arms of P.K., who had been moving in concert with Jackson and was now perfectly positioned to chop at the fugitive’s gun hand.

  The pistol flew high in the air. Pelachi dived to catch it.

  And would have, had not Maggie dived lightning-fast for it, scooping it out of the air a hairbreadth from Pelachi’s grasp.

  In a moment, it was over. This man, so powerful only moments ago, was suddenly just another pathetic criminal about to take his perp walk.

  As they turned to lead him away, Turner looked at Hamstein. “Your bust or mine?”

  “Joint operation?” Hamstein suggested.

  “Works for me.”

  Pelachi was in shock. He hissed at Jackson, “You’ll regret this! I will make you pay!”

  Jackson smiled. “In our next life, perhaps. You’ll be spending the rest of this one in Leavenworth.”

  Pelachi’s scream of anger receded as Turner and Hamstein led him off.

  Sergeant-Major Jackson rarely entertained, but now, in his modest home, surrounded by his colleagues, he felt, well, almost happy, a sensation he had almost forgotten. They had just arrived and were going about the unexpectedly difficult task of getting settled. Jackson had few chairs, but while the conversation flowed he found one or two from the little dining area and a camp stool and deck chair from the neat front closet.

  Well,” Hamstein confessed, “I said there was only one man who could figure this out and I was right.”

  “We were right,” grumbled Turner. “But bringing in P.K. that way was a huge risk. Could’ve tainted the case if we’d known about it.”

  “Which,” said P.K., “is why it remained between Sergeant-Major Jackson and myself.”

  “But what if he hadn’t fallen for it?” Maggie knew Jackson had the answer and wanted him to have his moment. He saw that and offered what was almost a smile of gratitude. But he dismissed her thought.

  “Once he said Hefty bag—correct to the very brand—Pelachi would know the jig was up.”

  “Yeah,” remembered Hamstein. “I wondered about that. How’d you know he had a Hefty bag?”

  Jackson’s hand reached into the pocket where he had placed the shining bit of plastic found near the Ark, withdrew the shred, held it up. “A very particular polymer base, patented by a particular company. It had to be their product.”

  “What will happen to Zakaria?” Maggie worried.

  Hamstein shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. He’ll get immunity for his testimony.”

  Finally everyone was comfortably seated. Jackson rubbed his hands.

  “Well. Can I offer you some cheer? Perhaps a little uisge beatha?”

  They clearly had no idea what he meant. Except for M
aggie. “Scottish Gaelic—Erse, if you prefer—for ‘water of life.’ Corrupted into English as ‘whisky.’ ”

  The men gazed at her in mixed admiration and intimidation.

  Hamstein glanced at Turner, murmured, “They belong together.”

  They all burst into laughter, punctuated by P.K.’s cry of “Bring it on!”

  Maggie agreed. “Bring it on, indeed. My father always said you had the world’s greatest collection of whisky!”

  “You knew her father?” the others all asked more or less at once.

  For a moment it seemed Sergeant-Major Jackson might answer. But then he thought better. He turned sternly to Maggie.

  “I’m quite certain you’re mistaken, ma’am. I expect he said I had a collection …” He turned to a cupboard in the built-in TV shelving, threw its door open, adding, “of the world’s greatest whiskies!”

  There were but four bottles on display: two single malts, a Talisker from the Isle of Skye, and an Oban from the eponymous Western Highland glen that gave it life. Only one blend, Justerini & Brooks. And a bottle of Bell’s, the daily “wee dram afore ye go” of the Glasgow working people. With a flourish, Sergeant-Major Jackson swept his hand to the display.

  “There, good friends, is all you ever need to know about the water of life! Maggie, choose for us all!”

  “Oban,” she said softly.

  He gazed at her warmly. “An excellent choice. Like father, like daughter.”

  And the celebration began.

  After leaving school—not of his own volition—at fifteen, Lionel Chetwynd formed the ambition to become as comprehensively clever as Sherlock Holmes; that way, he reasoned, he could quit the factory and sleep in late like his hero. He has not, as yet, succeeded. In the interim he has occupied himself with more than forty feature motion picture and long-form television credits and has written, produced, and directed more than twenty-one documentaries. He has received both Oscar and Emmy nominations; six Writers Guild of America nominations, including an award; the New York Film Festival Gold Medal; two Christophers; two George Washington Freedom Medals; and six Telly Awards. In 2001, he was appointed to the President’s Committee on the Arts and the Humanities. He is a recipient of the John Singleton Copley Medal from the National Portrait Gallery, the Smithsonian Institution. Lionel is married to actress Gloria Carlin and lives in Southern California, where they exult in their four grandchildren.