A Study in Sherlock

“To get started, yes. But not on this. There’s a program on the base IT that could do it in less than an hour. But it’s for official use only.”

“Then we shall vouchsafe our officialness.” He picked up his almost quaint land-line telephone, tapped in a number.

Turner was irritated at having to drive over an hour to simply gain access to an army computer. But he had to be present while this woman—not a bad looker when he paid attention—ran endless regressional analyses on numbers and charities. It reminded him how nowadays the government knew everything, which meant any nerd with a keyboard could accomplish in minutes what old-time cops like himself had once done by hand, their knowledge and experience prerequisites to success. But now …

He checked his watch; still time to catch the playoff game if this Maggie person could find what Jackson wanted. The man could be a strain on your nerves, but he was never wrong and Turner needed this case off his desk. He’d hoped he’d find the Edison guy, but when he left, Baxter was down to just three Franks, two Freds, and a Francis and Turner’s gut told him none of them would pan out.

Maggie’s exultant shout of “Jackpot!” sharply interrupted his reverie. Instantly, he and Jackson were looking over her shoulder. “Here’s the link to the so-called anonymous donor!”

She hit a key and a Web homepage floated onto her screen: THE JUPITER PROJECT. A FUND TO HELP 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.”