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 upstairs, 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.”
“
“All right! I knew them both! But I didn’t kill anyone!”
Jackson stared at him for so long, it became unbearable. “Perhaps. We shall see, shall we not?” Jackson turned to Freyda. “And you?”
“
“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.
