Instead he nodded officiously, which I took to mean “Good night,” and turned back toward the computer. He sat like that, not moving. He knew I was still standing behind him, gazing at him.

  And I knew that he knew—and that he knew I knew he knew.

  It was a very complex and resonating moment that I have often reflected upon.

  At length, he drew a breath and began typing again. I eased into the shadows and padded upstairs, trying to process the remarkable exchange that had just passed between us. I got into bed with a ghost of a smile on my face, snuggled in comfortably, and slipped soundly asleep.

  14

  Coming downstairs the next morning, I discovered that except for Lucie I was alone in the house. My chest tightened with concern and grew tighter when I saw that Holmes had left behind a note on my desk. I rushed over to look, my heart beating faster. It was handwritten, and its forward-slanting penmanship evoked Victorian elegance.

  It read, “I am appreciative for your counsel last evening, Winslow. My spirits are reasonably reconstituted. I shall be out and about today, likely not returning until quite late this evening, but I make sincere assurances that you have not the slightest reason for any anxiety.”

  It was signed with only a gracefully executed H.

  So for the detailed description that follows, I am again indebted to Holmes’ mostly astute recollections, as well as the insightful reports of a clever, engaging young man named Julius, whom you already know by another name.

  Zapper, our Artful Dodger, walked cheerfully into the main entrance of the San Francisco Public Library, carrying a book. He was dressed in the same slouchy style as when Holmes encountered him two nights previously on Baker Street. His BLM baseball cap had been replaced by a tight knit cap, part of the standard uniform of his hip-hop generation. He had an iPhone with yellow Skullcandy earbuds in his ears and was bouncing to the rhythm from them as he waved and grinned at the middle-aged security guard, who recognized him as a frequent visitor and smiled back.

  Zapper performed a little show-offy pirouette for her benefit as he passed through the metal detectors and walked across the broad, circular, gray marble floor of the atrium. He dropped off the book he’d been carrying in the main “Returns” area, then glanced up at the glass dome towering seven floors above. It was a skylight with a unique design that always fascinated him because it gave the optical illusion that the dome had been twisted to one side. Concentric circles spread out across it like ripples in a pond when a pebble is tossed in. A librarian had told him that the architect wanted to project the idea that when anyone walked into a library in search of one thing, it very often led to discoveries of many other unexpected things.

  Zapper was about to have that exact experience.

  On the second floor, he moved in among the neatly organized shelves, with a clear idea of exactly where he was headed: a section with volumes about electronics. His head was nodding in time with a thumping rap tape unheard by others around him.

  He walked past a library ladder, continuing down to the dead end of the row of shelves. He was unmindful of the man who trailed behind him, taking a place beside the ladder, thus blocking any easy escape.

  “Good morning, Zapper.”

  Zapper turned, dumbfounded that this weird guy dressed in an 1890s tweed jacket, black vest, and trousers had found him. The boy drew a quick breath, then puffed up. “Hey, you better watch your ass, dude. I got like fifty megabytes of brothers with me.”

  “On the contrary.” Holmes winked. “You’re alone.”

  “All I gotta do is yell,” Zapper warned, shakily.

  “Oh, not in a library,” Holmes chided. “Bad form, old boy.”

  Zapper eyed Holmes suspiciously, thinking that maybe he was some kind of deviant who was stalking him. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

  “Late yesterday afternoon I saw you heading up the front steps of the library carrying a book with a Dewey decimal label on its spine. You obviously had not come out of the library but were en route to return the book. This morning I arrived when the library opened and since that time have been watching the entrance from a concealed vantage point within—that is, until I saw you enter and return said book.”

  It was Zapper’s turn to stare at Holmes. It seems everyone who encounters Holmes has that reaction. Often more than once.

  “I also know a few other things about you,” Holmes went on. “You’re an electronics wizard, with handmade devices you use to break into cars and change stoplights.” Though nervous, Zapper couldn’t suppress a little smile of pride. His expression grew darker, however, when Holmes continued. “Your father is a petty thief currently in Folsom Prison. Your mother is doing the best she can working at a bakery. You’ve been arrested seven times for minor infractions.” Zapper glanced grudgingly at the floor with guilt. “The first when you were only eleven years old, for stealing a case of electrical components. Your given name is Julius, and your surname Castaneda.”

  Zapper smirked, thinking he now understood something about Holmes. “Yeah, okay. So you’re a cop.”

  “No. But I delved into the police computer and read your rip sheet.”

  “Rap sheet.”

  “Right.” Holmes said decidedly, as though that was precisely what he’d said the first time. Then he softened his tone as he partially perched upon one of the ladder’s steps. “So I know a fair amount about you, and I pass no ill judgment, my boy. But there is someone I’d sincerely like to hear more about: your late friend, Billy.”

  Zapper shot a sharp glance at Holmes. He’d struck a nerve. Zapper tried to gloss it over with a shrug, but he kept a leery eye on this strange guy in weird clothes. “What’s Billy got to do with anything?”

  “Perhaps quite a lot,” Holmes said with uncharacteristic gentleness, “I heard you say that ‘Billy was blood’—meaning a relative?”

  The boy looked away, frowning with the onset of disturbing memories. “Nah, but he was like one.”

  Holmes waited patiently.

  The boy’s eyes remained diverted, lost in thought. Finally, he took a breath and said, “Billy was a really good guy. Six years older than me. Lived down the hall.”

  Holmes understood. “He was a close friend.”

  “Like a big brother. After my dad got sent up.” He paused, and Holmes patiently waited. “And Momma was so busy workin’ to keep food on the table, Billy just kinda leaned in, watched out for me. For other kids in our ’hood too. But for me in particular.” A memory stirred a faint smile. “He could be a pain in the ass sometimes. He was workin’ to be one of them community organizer dudes. Always tryin’ to steer us younger bruhs away from big trouble and all. Away from running drugs and shit. Away from getting hooked into the really bad guys.”

  “Like Enrique Pavon.”

  Zapper’s eyes snapped to Holmes.

  “You seemed certain that Pavon was responsible for Billy being killed.”

  “Damn straight he was, man. He was pissed ’cause Billy was slowing down Pavon’s takes from street action.” Zapper’s blood was suddenly up and boiling. “I heard two of Pavon’s guys laughin’ later on about how they did Billy.”

  “I heard you say Billy was killed in a hit-and-run. Did you witness that happen?”

  “From right ’cross the street.” The boy was pained, remembering. “This muscle car swerved on purpose up onto the sidewalk to plow into him, sent him flyin’, then burned rubber outta there. I jammed over to Billy, but he was already—” He closed his mouth tightly.

  Holmes was understanding. “That must have been terrible.” Zapper stood silent. Then Holmes spoke softly, “So I would be correct in assuming you bear a considerable grudge against Enrique Pavon.”

  “‘Considerable’ ain’t even close,” the boy said.

  Holmes nodded as his eyes narrowed at Zapper. “Then how would you like the opportunity to get even?”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  Holmes stood up tall and laid down the gauntlet. “How would you like to help bring down Pavon once and for all?”

  Zapper regarded Holmes quizzically a moment, then Holmes saw the boy’s eyes turn fiery, making it clear that he was good to go.

  By that night, however, Zapper was getting acutely nervous as Holmes led him toward the same back wall of Booth’s estate in Pacifica that Holmes and I had visited so disastrously twenty-four hours earlier. It wasn’t raining this time, but the fog was swirling in thickly off the dark ocean. Zapper had borrowed a primer-patched car from his friend Rancho and driven them down there, arriving just after dark.

  Holmes was concerned that Zapper might turn them around if he heard the details of their mission any sooner, so he had waited until they arrived to reveal his plan and why he’d asked Zapper to bring along all of his sophisticated electronic equipment. They would use Zapper’s unique skills and tools to gain secret access to Booth’s estate.

  Upon hearing all this, Zapper was understandably freaked out.

  Holmes, however, was rejuvenated and full of gusto as he approached the wall. Zapper was wearing his black backpack and a photographer’s cargo vest, one of those with a lot of pockets, which were bulging with many of his own handmade electronic gadgets. His stomach, however, was swirling with butterflies.

  “I’m tellin’ you, man, this is like dive-bombing the Death Star.” Zapper whispered fearfully. “You know, Pavon don’t mess around—he killed one guy I used to know with a steamroller! I like see ‘Fatal Error’ flashin’ here.”

  “Julius,” Holmes said, loudly enough to make Zapper cut him off.

  “Shup, man! Keep it quiet! Jeez!” Zapper whispered, vibrating with nerves.

  “Julius,” Holmes continued more softly, “we have an opportunity to permanently dethrone Pavon.” He encouraged his accomplice by thrusting into Zapper’s hands the collapsible ladder that I had barely managed to recover after Holmes had been captured and hauled off by Booth’s henchmen.

  Zapper was thoroughly confused, completely Big Willy. “If we’re tryin’ to bring down Pavon, then what the hell’re we doin’ here at Booth’s house? That’s one barracuda too many!”

  “I’m convinced there is a connection, that Booth and Pavon are both integral parts of a deadly plot that has left three people murdered in the last three days and another targeted now.”

  “Naw, man,” Zapper contradicted, “those two big honchos ain’t workin’ together. They’re rivals. Only connection they got is they’d both cut your heart out and eat it raw. Sorry, but I’m outta here, man.”

  He turned away, but Holmes yanked on the rope that was attached to the ladder Zapper held. It jerked the boy back face-to-face with Holmes, who said in his firm, crisp way, “Julius, we’ll also be saving the life of a good man: Detective Luis Ortega.”

  “A cop? What do I care about a—”

  “Listen!” Holmes grabbed Zapper’s sleeve. “Ortega wants justice for Pavon as badly as you do. He was about to accomplish that until he disappeared two nights ago. Do you want Pavon to keep on going? So he and Booth can brutally kill more worthy people like Ortega?” Zapper wasn’t convinced until Holmes riveted his eyes and said pointedly, “Like Billy?”

  Zapper’s jaw set. “Alright, alright. Let’s just do it quick, ’fore I change my mind.”

  “Excellent.” Holmes gave him a comradely nod and tossed the grappling hook to the top of the wall, where it bit in with a clang. Zapper flinched. His expression also suggested he still had grave misgivings about the whole operation.

  But when Holmes deployed the ingenious ladder, it made Zapper blink, form a crooked smile, and pronounce his ultimate praise and respect. “That is sick, man! Can I have it when we’re done?”

  Zapper read Holmes’ expression as “perhaps,” and about five minutes later they were both atop the wall, straddling it like riding tandem on a horse. Zapper sat behind Holmes as the detective gingerly lowered the ladder down inside the estate.

  Zapper was edgy again, his mouth dry. “Now, which side of the house you want to get to?”

  “The southwest side, about three hundred twenty-one degrees—” From his vest, Holmes took out a small gold compass. “—according to the blueprint designs I viewed at the Building and Safety Commission.”

  Zapper was digging for something in a vest pocket. “They let you do that?”

  Holmes was haughty. “I sought it out on the Interweb.”

  Zapper paused but went with the flow. “Right. The good old Interweb. Natch.”

  Holmes checked his compass and squinted his eyes toward the distant estate, trying to pierce the darkness, then pointing. “I should say we need to travel in that direction.”

  Zapper pulled out homemade night-vision binoculars. “Well, let’s really lock in on it, man,” he said to Holmes. “Turn your cap around.” Zapper was used to making this move with his baseball cap, and to put the device on Holmes, he needed the brim of the detective’s hat to be in back. But when Holmes turned his around, Zapper realized that move wouldn’t work with a deerstalker.

  “Uh, right. How ’bout we try sideways, dude,” Zapper suggested.

  Holmes complied, rotating his traveling cap ninety degrees. The brims were now over each ear, making him resemble a floppy-eared bloodhound. Zapper would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so stressed. He was struggling to stay professional as he slipped the optical rig into place atop Holmes’ head. Binocular tubes extended out six inches from Holmes’ eyes. Holmes saw the bright greenish view of Booth’s house in the distance and exclaimed, “Ah! It’s like daylight!”

  Zapper flinched at the volume of Holmes’ voice. “Yeah, yeah, but shhh, okay? Jeez!”

  “What sort of optics are employed to intensify the light?”

  “Point five lux. Night-vision gogs, man, specially modified by yours truly,” Zapper explained. “So, you see any eyes?”

  “Eyes?” Holmes turned to point his long binocular eyes at Zapper.

  “Security cams, Holmesy. Turn around. Check the roof.”

  Holmes looked back more carefully at the fortresslike ultramodern house, focusing the image more sharply. “Yes. Hah! There. On each corner. Panning slowly. Thirteen second cycles, judging by my pulse.”

  “Okay. Let’s see what else we got.” Zapper fiddled with another gadget.

  “What is that device?”

  “Sort of a modified radar detector, man.”

  “Ah, yes.” Holmes contemplated a moment. “And what is radar?”

  Zapper looked up. “What’s what? Are you shittin’ me?”

  Holmes was highly offended. “Certainly not, Julius!”

  Zapper shook his head. “Well, it’s kind of an involved concept to go into right now.” A light blinked on Zapper’s gizmo. He nodded, pleased. “Alright. One twenty-watt tomato.”

  “To-mah-to?” Holmes glanced again at him.

  Zapper thought Holmes looked pretty ridiculous with the goggles’ tubes sticking out where his eyes should have been and the twin bills of his deerstalker hanging like Goofy’s hound ears. “Infrared, man. Probably what trashed you last night.”

  “Have you any means to circumvent it?”

  “Yeah. We throw our own ‘to-mah-to’ back at it. No signal interference, we’re like invisible men, man.”

  “Outstanding! My friend H. G. Wells would have loved to see that.” Then Holmes chuckled at his faux pas. “But of course, if we were invisible, he wouldn’t have been able to see us.”

  Zapper blinked, trying to catch up. “Uh, wait . . . your friend . . . H. G.—?”

  “These devices of yours are superbly conceived, Julius.” Holmes was excited. “They are all extremely cold.”

  “What?”

  “Cold. Isn’t that what you say, meaning ‘very good,’ or ‘fine’?”

  “I think you mean cool ?”

  “Quite so. Cool!”

  Zapper shook his head, muttering to himself, “What the hell am I doin’ here?”

  Holmes swung a leg over onto the ladder, “Prepared for the drop?”

  “No.” Zapper said honestly. He’d suddenly felt shaky all over. His heart was fluttering in his chest. “I mean, it’s not exactly like I’ve ever gone up against guys as stone-cold bad as Pavon or Booth. These are seriously dangerous dudes, man. Like deadly.”

  Holmes drew a breath, facing the boy. “I understand. And that’s exactly the fate Billy suffered, and that I fear for Luis Ortega—unless we take action to save him.” Seeing the boy’s continued reluctance, Holmes zeroed in. “Let me tell you something, Julius: you only grow by facing challenges.”

  “Yeah?” His mouth was dry from fear. “Well, then by the time this is over, I’m gonna be the size of Mo Bamba.” He flipped on the tiny switch of his infrared generator. “Alright, I’m jammin’. Do it! Go!”

  Holmes quickly glided down the unstable ladder with the smooth skill of a trapeze artist, born of having done it countless times. Zapper had a much shakier climbing experience. At the base of the wall, goggle-eyed Holmes paused to reconnoiter. His vision-amplified eyes swept the grounds before he whispered, “One guard with his Baskerville hound at the south corner.”

  “Copy that, workin’ on it,” Zapper said as he fished in one of his myriad pockets and produced yet another device. He fanned out a tiny dish antenna. “Gimme a vector.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Aim me, man, tell me where to aim. You can see him way better than me.”