A Study in Sherlock

“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.

“It sure as hell is you!” The door swung open and Jackson stepped inside. Once the door was properly closed and locked, the huge bouncer embraced the Sergeant-Major warmly. “Been too damned long, Sarn’t-Major.”

Jackson smiled true appreciation at the warmth. “It has that, Sergeant.”

“Your man’s in the back. He’ll be happy for the sight of you.”

Jackson strode through the large anteroom, a bar-cum-club, its walls completely covered with photographs of soldiers, many taken in Vietnam but even more from Iraq and Afghanistan. The ceiling was a tapestry of military shoulder patches, captured enemy flags—and pinups of beautiful women in various stages of undress. As he strode to the back, he received respectful nods and smiles from nearly all of the select group of African American men, some seated at tables, talking, laughing, sipping beer; others gathered around a huge flat-screen television with the Wizards-Lakers game; others just fixed on the Al Green ballad from the antique jukebox. He returned every one with direct eye contact, a nod, and a smile. He reached a curtain at the rear, pulled it aside, and knocked a rhythmic code on the door it concealed. Almost instantly, it swung open to admit Jackson, quickly closing behind him.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting; it was a semi-office with two muscular men occupying chairs in opposite corners, as if for protection. The slim, attractive black man behind the desk was already on his feet and coming around the desk, a huge smile on his face. Jackson couldn’t help but beam as broadly as he ever had.

“P.K.! Good to see you, brother. How are you?”

“All the better for laying eyes on you, blood.” The use of the most intimate term of familiarity in a Vietnam-era black soldier’s vocabulary was not lost on the Sergeant-Major. He embraced P.K. and then they sat in armchairs away from the desk.