A Study in Sherlock

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.”

“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.