relentlessly bright and cheerful assistant, Baxter.
“Didn’t expect you, Cap’n. Seems a routine murder-robbery.”
Turner wanted to scream
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:
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?”
