“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?”
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
The others gathered around him, leaned over his shoulder.
“Almost something,” murmured Hamstein. “A name?”
“Unlikely,” replied Jackson. “The consonant blend of