The traffic took off, providing an effective river of cars barring Holmes’ pursuit, but Holmes was determined. He stepped into the street, heard a horn blast, and was nearly run down by a motorbike speeding even faster than the cars, weaving around and through the heavy traffic.

  Holmes wasn’t hurt, but when he looked up, he saw Zapper in the distance glancing back with a delighted laugh at his own skills. The young man turned the corner past the ultramodern Davies Symphony Hall and disappeared onto Hayes Street.

  Though frustrated and angry, Holmes was undaunted. He went back to city hall and, using their computer searching system, managed to turn up one additional Moriarty that hadn’t made it onto our previous printout.

  Holmes rode the cable car up Geary, taking in the vistas of the city and ignoring the curious looks of several people on the trolley eyeing his odd Victorian clothes.

  He hopped off the cable car as it slowed at the top of the hill at Van Ness, hoping to perhaps find some luck in an unexpected place. He crossed the intersection toward the lofty, neogothic bell tower that rose above the large late eighteenth-century redbrick church. To the casual eye, it bore a slight resemblance to one of the towers at Notre Dame in Paris. This was Old Saint Mary’s Cathedral.

  Holmes entered through heavy wooden front doors, leaving behind the noisy busyness of Van Ness and entering into the serene calm of Saint Mary’s interior. He looked up at the Gothic-arched white ceiling towering four stories above him, then focused his eyes on the altar with its three neo-Renaissance paintings set into the wall above it. Holmes breathed in the cool air of the large chamber, whose quiet was then softly interrupted by the low, haunting strains of a slow passage of Bach being practiced on the pipe organ. Stepping deeper into the central aisle, he looked around the white marble choir balcony that ran around three sides of the cathedral. He saw the organist above the rear balcony, facing the keyboard, her back toward him as her fingers traversed the stately instrument’s keys.

  Just seven congregants were seated or kneeling in the pews or at one of the shrines to the side. Holmes caught the attention of an altar boy, and after inquiring, was directed toward the person he sought.

  The priest stood in subdued light beneath one of the tall stained-glass windows. He was replacing votive candles at the shrine of Saint Francis of Assisi, a statue of whom, dressed in his simple brown robe, stood above, looking pacifically down upon the votive candles and those who stopped to light them. There was a single white rose in a bud vase also on the dark wooden candle tray.

  The priest was as tall as Holmes, with a lean, almost gaunt look and a high forehead accentuated by his receding hairline. Holmes thought he bore a family resemblance to James Moriarty. He wore rimless glasses and appeared to be in his early fifties. Holmes’ senses came alive, feeling he might at last be on the scent. When he asked the priest if he might make a personal inquiry, the man responded warmly. The flames of many votive candles lit both of them from beneath, creating a subtly sinister feeling, Holmes thought, and was in keeping with the nature of the mystery he was pursuing. And the moment Holmes described his clubfooted quarry, the priest went pale and glanced away.

  “Ah!” Holmes’ nostrils flared, his instincts confirmed. He whispered with urgency, “Then you do know of such a man, Father Moriarty?”

  The priest continued staring intensely down at the candles. Holmes felt the man was carefully considering his answer. Finally, the priest drew a breath, his head remaining tilted down, but his eyes slowly raised, almost menacingly, to Holmes. “May I first ask, do you believe in God, sir?”

  “Yes,” Holmes answered without pause. Then he elaborated. “I have deduced there must be a merciful Providence, by observing a rose.” Holmes lightly touched the soft petals of the white rose before them, saying with absolute sincerity. “There is no need for the rose. Its fragrance and color are not a necessity but rather an embellishment of life. It is only goodness which gives extras, so who but a Great Beneficence would have created it?”

  Father Moriarty’s face warmed upon hearing Holmes’ conjecture. The two men gazed at each other for a respectful moment before Father Moriarty grew more serious. “Would you then agree to the existence of a darker, antagonistic force?”

  Again without hesitation, Holmes sternly nodded. “I am certain of it.”

  Father Moriarty appreciated that response, then he looked slightly aside and said with frustration, “Such a dark force has dominated my extended family for over a century. I personally chose the cloth in an effort to fight such evil.” The priest’s eyes lowered once again to the candles. With noticeable remorse, he said, “I only wish I could have been more successful.”

  “Perhaps I can help you to be,” encouraged Holmes.

  Father Moriarty looked back up at Holmes, studying him. Then he decided to put faith in this man. Holmes could see the multicolored stained glass of the window high on the wall behind him reflected in Father Moriarty’s glasses as the priest spoke. “The man you seek is a consummately evil human being who has cleverly eluded the police for decades. His cathedral is the dark tower of organized crime, wherein he is an archbishop.” He swallowed with bitter distaste, then continued, “I’m ashamed to say”—the priest paused, glancing down, which emphasized his humiliation to admit—“that he is my cousin.”

  Father Moriarty continued looking down, seeming to have second thoughts—as though weighing Holmes’ earnest desire to know versus the priest’s responsibility for whatever darkness might envelope Holmes. Finally his head lifted, his eyes looked keenly into Holmes’, saying, “I would urge you, sir—most strongly—to proceed with the utmost caution.”

  Holmes’ eyes conveyed that he understood the warning. He took the responsibility.

  Still the priest hesitated. But finally he said, “His name is James Moriarty Booth.”

  10

  In 2015 the San Francisco Police Department Headquarters moved from its former Stalinesque, monolithic Hall of Justice building on Bryant Street to a new facility at 1051 Third Street. It was a few blocks below Oracle Park and just one block from the waters of the East Bay. It consisted of three interconnected, seven-story, glass-fronted buildings that filled the blocks between Mission Rock and China Basin Streets. It was pleasingly modern and, to Holmes’ eyes, strikingly different from the weathered coal-dust-blackened stones of Old Scotland Yard in 1890s London.

  Holmes had decided it was time to pay the SFPD a call. He walked briskly up the three short steps from the Bryant Street sidewalk, never breaking his stride as he marched toward the glass door, which he naturally expected to open automatically for him.

  Unfortunately, this one wasn’t automatic—and he did a hard header right into it, knocking off his newsboy cap and giving him a lump on his forehead. It was an inauspicious beginning, but Holmes quickly collected himself and pressed on, unaware that it was an ill omen of the shape of things to come.

  Having no picture identification—nor any other kind—it took him nearly an hour to acquire the pass necessary to be admitted deeper into the building. Only after explaining to numerous stone-faced security guards that he had pertinent information related to two recent murders was he given temporary permission. Then he was guided through the pristine corridors by an athletic, engaging rookie whose name tag read Faheem.

  “Got some info on Jimmy the Gimp, huh?” she energetically asked, “That’s great, Mr. . . . uh . . .”

  “Holmes, Hubert.” He had decided against using his famous literary first name out of concern he would not be taken seriously. Clearly that was a wise choice.

  “I’ll tell ya,” the rookie chuckled, “Detective Griffin’s one of our top guys, but he can use all the help he can get to bring old James Booth down.”

  “Well, I am certain that together we can achieve that aim.”

  They turned a corner and came into a section with a wide double door numbered 304 that looked newer and smelled of fresh paint. The young officer said, “This section’s all been redone, you seen it before?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Totally state of the art now.” Faheem was jazzed about it. She pointed proudly through a glass wall. “Check out down there—a whole wing for pathology and forensics. Best SID in the country.”

  Holmes glanced at her, “And SID would be . . . ?”

  “Scientific Investigation Division. They’re like total aces, man! They can take the tiniest, most obscure detail or drop of blood or DNA, then make the most amazing connections.”

  Not wanting to appear out of touch or behind the times, Holmes did not inquire as to the meaning of DNA. But he looked with extreme curiosity through the glass into the busy police laboratory. He saw a dozen people working with computers, tablets, and all manner of sophisticated biological and electrochemical lab equipment. Holmes was intrigued even as a vague, uneasy feeling began to gnaw within, as though his own unique capabilities might somehow have been eroded.

  He turned and followed the rookie into the main police bullpen, which was crowded with desks and file cabinets, where Faheem asked him to wait by the door. Holmes looked around the noisy place, bustling with witnesses, suspects, handcuffed perpetrators, riffraff, and numerous cops, some in uniform, some not. Of course, Holmes had seen such a place many times before in Scotland Yard. But the contrast here was startling. In 1890s London, virtually all constables Holmes had ever seen were appropriately uniformed white males. Holmes knew that there were sometimes one or two uniformed white women, called police matrons, but they were only used for searching and escorting female prisoners. The few civilian female office workers in the Victorian Yard wore conservative, secretarial, white blouses, and full-length skirts.

  The nonofficial civilians present in such an 1890s room—whether they were innocents being interviewed or seeking help or suspects being questioned or held in custody—those civilians were more of a mixture of races and nationalities. Nineteenth-century London was a melting pot of society, yet still majority Caucasian.

  But this noisy, hyperanimated, present-day San Francisco “cop shop” was for Holmes decidedly a horse of many different colors. Virtually every race and ethnicity or combination of both that Holmes could imagine seemed to be represented among the mass of civilians present. Taken as a group, they were not majority Caucasian. Gender was also confusing to him. There were several whose sex Holmes could not positively identify.

  The most startling aspect for Holmes, however, was how that same diversity existed among the uniformed and plainclothes police personnel. His normally crystal-clear mind was swirling as he observed this noisy, jangling, world-upside-down, surreal human carnival.

  A shirtless, tattooed bodybuilder with a bleeding ear was led past in handcuffs, drawing Holmes’ eye to a nearby showcase containing precinct sporting trophies and photographs of diverse currently serving police personal. One photo was of Lieutenant Bernard Civita, and next to it Luis Ortega. As Holmes studied it carefully, he thought he heard someone nearby say Ortega’s name amid the room’s hubbub.

  Glancing around, he saw a thirtyish Latina with thick black hair and a sweet but troubled round face sitting beside a sergeant’s desk. She was leaning toward the sergeant, and her body language also displayed much anxiety. Holmes stepped a bit closer as the woman was urgently saying to the gray-haired Asian American cop, “Luis told me he was just getting the last of some major new evidence that was going to put Enrique Pavon away. That’s got to be why he’s missing!”

  The mention of Pavon focused Holmes’ attention even more sharply.

  “Mrs. Ortega,” the sergeant spoke gently, trying to comfort her, “it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. We know he’s been following a hot lead and—”

  “But Luis always checks in with me.” Holmes saw her bravely fighting back tears. Her fortitude impressed him. “He hasn’t called since last night and he always—”

  “Hey, Karen,” the empathetic sergeant gently touched her arm, “you think I want to lose the best shortstop on our softball team?” He smiled warmly, trying to console her. “We’re on it, believe me. And Civita’s got Pavon in there right now, grilling him. Look.”

  Holmes glanced in the direction which the sergeant had indicated. An inner office door had opened and a smartly dressed, smiling man—presumably Enrique Pavon—sauntered out. Two Colombian bodyguards who’d been waiting outside the door came to attention. Holmes saw that Pavon had the confident gait and steady eyes of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and be obeyed. He wore an Armani jacket over a white silk tee shirt. His black hair was pulled back tightly. Holmes observed his heavy gold watch and two large-stone rings—one a diamond, the other an unusual semiprecious quartz, which particularly caught Holmes’ attention.

  Following him from the office were what looked like Pavon’s advisers, presumably a legal entourage of three expensively dressed lawyers: one male, one female, and one whose gender Holmes could not determine. They were all smiling as Pavon spoke.

  “Please don’t bother us again, Lieutenant Civita, or we’ll be forced to serve you with harassment papers. Unless you have something substantial to discuss—”

  “I am gonna nail your fat ass, Pavon,” Civita angrily interrupted. Holmes recognized the detective from the TV and his news photos. Civita’s voice was low and deadly: “And I’ll do it with or without Ortega!”

  Holmes witnessed how Mrs. Ortega reacted as though she’d been hit in the chest. Civita’s harsh words seemed to confirm all her fears about her missing husband. Pavon smirked as he smoothly glided past with his entourage in tow, all of whom were unaware of Mrs. Ortega and Holmes.

  Holmes later told me how he’d immediately connected Pavon with the tiger and piranha murders. But at that moment Holmes was observing Mrs. Ortega’s glare of hatred toward Pavon, then her desperate look toward Lieutenant Civita, who was now terribly embarrassed at how he’d spouted off about continuing the case without her missing and possibly dead husband.

  The cheery rookie Faheem stuck her smiling face in front of Holmes. “Sir? Detective Griffin can see you now. His office is number 306—just down the hall there.”

  Holmes approached the indicated door, which was ajar. Looking in, he saw Detective Darryl Griffin Jr., an overworked, underpaid African American cop in his late forties who chewed Gelusil tablets like some people chain-smoke. He was leaning back in his chair with his shiny shoes propped up on his desk, reading a report that he finished, wadded up, and lobbed into a wastebasket as Holmes observed him while standing just outside the doorway.

  Then Griffin noticed his oddly garbed visitor. But Griffin had seen all kinds and said offhandedly, “Yo, Mr. Holmes, how’s it going?”

  “Detective Griffin?” Holmes questioned tentatively. He was surprised to see a man of color in a position of such authority.

  Griffin picked up on that vibe, but let it pass, gesturing for him to enter. “They told me your first name was Hubert, but I sure could use your ancestor Sherlock around here.”

  Holmes privately enjoyed his secret as he glanced around Griffin’s office. “Yes, I daresay you could, Detective. Particularly in the case of James Moriarty Booth.”

  “Oh yeah, right, right,” Griffin remembered, “Moriarty was Sherlock’s big, bad boogeyman, huh?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Holmes enjoyed the memory of that triumph. “Until Sherlock did away with him at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. You are correct.”

  “That what happened?” Griffin yawned. “I quit reading those stories ’cause Sherlock was such an unbelievable character.”

  Holmes’ interest was snared. “Oh really? How so?”

  “Well, shit, man.” Griffin chuckled. “No dude could really walk into a room and scope out all the crap Holmes supposedly could in ten seconds. I mean, c’mon. I got twenty-seven years on the force and a pretty good eye for picking up clues, but that Sherlock?” he said with a smirk. “Gimme a break.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe that someone such as”—he tried to look as modest as possible, which was a major accomplishment for him—“myself, for example, could walk into your office and immediately tell that twelve years ago you left Detroit, where you were very much in the public eye but not well liked.”

  Suddenly, he had caught Griffin’s interest.

  Holmes continued, “Or that your father still operates a plumbing business in Detroit and that he has a female secretary with a fondness for cocoa.”

  Griffin stared at him blankly, a not uncommon occurrence among people meeting Holmes for the first time.

  “Or that you worked your way up from policing the streets,” Holmes went on, “and are meticulous in your habits, but stubborn and vain about your age. That you’re a crack shot, Detective Griffin, and sight your pistol with your left eye even though you happen to be right-handed. And within the last hour, you were in room 304, down the hall.”

  Griffin paused thoughtfully, realized that he had been in 304. But he was even more amazed as Holmes said, “You also enjoy helping short people; you had pasta for lunch, which is perhaps why your nickname is Noodles, although your favorite fruit would appear to be watermelon; and—”

  “Whoa! Hey! Hang on, man.” Griffin pointed a finger of warning. “Before I get pissed.”

  Holmes looked askance, “You drink on duty?”

  “No man, not pissed as in drunk,” Griffin snarled. “Pissed as in riled, angry. You feel me? Where are you pulling this crap out of?”

  Holmes smiled coyly. “I can see you’re Big Willy.”

  Griffin blinked, startled, and glanced down at his crotch.

  Holmes slid gracefully into his overly patient, tour-guide mode, “Please allow me to explain.” He gestured over his shoulder toward the wall behind him, “The front page of the Detroit Free Press framed on the wall behind me gives your departure date and the public’s unfortunate attitude toward you.”