“Oh yes, indeed,” I acerbically confirmed to the boy. “Holmes has become a pro at ‘gaggling.’ Or was it ‘giggling’?”

  “Make sport of me if you will, Winslow,” Holmes replied with a sniff. “But I am quickly learning the fine art of utilizing the assistance of Mr. Google.”

  Zapper’s face twisted up. “Mr. Google?”

  “Right, Holmes.” I winked at the boy to just go with it. “You and Mr. Google are best buds. But how did you figure out the police access code?”

  “Elementary, Winslow. Detective Griffin was kind enough to enter his access code in my presence. And look what my search turned up.”

  A rap sheet with the photo of a bare-chested, muscular young man appeared. He had a cocky look. I read the name beneath it. “Antonio Pavon? Related to Enrique?”

  “He was Enrique’s younger brother. Look here.” He pointed at a line of text. “Antonio was a wrestler in Colombia and known as . . .”

  Zapper leaned in to look. “El Tigre! Get outta here!”

  “Tony the Tiger, okay,” I said, “but I’m still Big Willy. I don’t understand how the missing Lieutenant Ortega fits into this.”

  “All three murder victims—Detective Donald Keating, Judge Louisa Chang, and Assistant District Attorney Jacob Weiss—were Ortega’s closest friends, colleagues, or mentors. And why were they killed, you ask?” Holmes tapped a key that took the screen to the end of Antonio Pavon’s file. It featured a page from the San Francisco Chronicle with the headline tony the tiger pavon killed in drug arrest.

  Zapper read a line in the text before I did, blurting out, “‘When Antonio Pavon opened fire on police, he was shot and killed by Lieutenant Luis Ortega!’ Check it out!”

  “And there is also this.” Holmes brought up another picture of Antonio dressed for a night on the town, then zoomed in on his right hand. “Antonio is wearing the signature ring he was fond of.”

  I saw that it was a gaudy crystal ring. “Is that a tiger’s-eye?”

  Holmes nodded. “Exactly like the one I saw decorating Enrique Pavon’s finger. It might well be the very one his late brother was wearing when he died.”

  I pieced it together. “You think Pavon is killing Ortega’s closest friends for vengeance?”

  Holmes cocked his head. “So it might appear . . . to the casual observer. Revenge can be a powerful motivator, as you know I am keenly aware of from personal experience.” The manner in which Holmes narrowed his eyes at me telegraphed that there was more that he wasn’t sharing. To me, however, only one thing really mattered.

  “Okay, but where’s Luis Ortega? Is he dead too?”

  “Not yet,” said the detective, conclusively. “But we have only until 2:30 p.m. tomorrow to rescue him.”

  Zapper nudged Holmes’ shoulder. “Oh, so that’s what you heard Booth talkin’ about tonight, huh?”

  Holmes smiled with a secretive gleam in his eye. “Part of it.”

  “Wait. ‘Heard at Booth’s tonight’?” I was struggling to process the breaking news as fast as it was coming in. “But how does Booth have anything to do with Pavon’s revenge murders?”

  Holmes wiggled his right index finger at me. “All in good time, Winslow. Right now, we must go directly to—”

  “The police! Yes!” I said, standing up.

  “Definitely not,” said Holmes.

  “What?” I said, sinking back down, desperate to understand.

  Holmes continued, “Detective Griffin is unlikely to be appreciative of my efforts or receptive to my theories—not yet, anyway.” He stood up and shook Zapper’s hand. “You were brilliant this evening, Julius.” The boy beamed with pride. “Take the rest of the night off, and I shall contact you on the morrow.” Holmes was pulling on his coachman’s cape. “Winslow, it’s time for us to visit Mrs. Ortega.”

  I glanced at my watch. “We can’t do that, Holmes, it’s almost midnight!”

  “Quite right. So time is of the essence.” He leveled his gray eyes at me. “Leftenant Luis Ortega will be facing a brutal death in just over fifteen hours.”

  16

  It was midnight by the time I had driven Holmes over to the Sunset district, south of Golden Gate Park. The middle-class neighborhood was quiet, most of its residents tucked into bed. The night was cool, but the fog had cleared.

  As we walked up the steps of the modest Ortega house and onto the porch, I saw inside through thin curtains. Karen Ortega sat on her couch, her cell phone resting beside her. Clearly, she was hoping it would ring and dispel her fears.

  She was about thirty years old, her thick black hair was long and, likely due to her distress, a bit unkempt. Her six-year-old son was curled up asleep on her lap. The tense woman was robotically staring at the television, which we could see was playing a home video of her and her husband and son kicking a soccer ball in a city park. Glancing over at Holmes, I saw that he appreciated her solitary vigil, even if he might’ve denied feeling the poignancy of it. He tapped lightly on the front door, and I saw Mrs. Ortega jump.

  “Who is it?” she called out nervously.

  “Friends who want to help,” Holmes said in a low but straightforward tone.

  Mrs. Ortega eased her sleeping child to one side and approached the door. I couldn’t see her now, but I could feel her cautious presence on the other side of the door. “At midnight?” she said, her voice quavering. “Who are you?”

  Holmes drew himself up fully. “Madam, I assure you—”

  I poked him hard and whispered angrily, “Put a lid on it, Holmes.” I knew what this woman was feeling and made a softer approach. “Mrs. Ortega, my name is Dr. Amy Winslow from Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. I’m sticking my business card into your mail slot.”

  She pulled it on through as I tried to speak as gently as possible. “I met your husband when Donald Keating died in my emergency room. I’m sure that having people you don’t know appearing at your door at this hour must be alarming, but my friend and I have some information about your husband, about the danger he’s in, and we truly want to help.”

  “So go to the police,” she said.

  I was pleased to hear Holmes pick up the tone of my milder approach as he said, “I’m afraid that’s not an option. The matter is extremely delicate, and involving the police just now might do more harm than good. I can tell you one thing, Mrs. Ortega. I know with certainty that your husband is alive. A bit of information from you might help us to ascertain his precise whereabouts.”

  After a pause, I added, “Mrs. Ortega, you must be going through agony with him missing. Please let us try to help.”

  After a moment, we heard the deadbolt unlock. She opened the door and studied our faces. Her own looked weary and emotionally drained, with dark circles under her large brown eyes.

  After Karen Ortega slipped her sleeping child into his bed, she returned to where Holmes and I sat in their cheery, inviting, lived-in living room. She sat on the edge of a chair in front of us. “Losing Donald Keating was a terrible blow to Luis,” she began, trying to hold her brimming emotions in check. “Then Mrs. Chang killed by those fish, and Jake Weiss by those terrible insects, and—” Her throat tightened up with emotion. I saw her hand quivering.

  I placed my hand gently on her arm, saying, “I can’t imagine how hard all that must have been for both of you.”

  Holmes allowed a moment to pass, then started in. “At police headquarters, I overheard that your husband was in the midst of gathering evidence against Enrique Pavon.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Ortega said, attempting to recover her composure. “Luis said he’d finally have enough to bring down Pavon. That it would be a huge step toward cleaning illegal drug traffic out of the city. Luis had been after Pavon forever. Almost caught him in a drug raid two weeks ago—”

  “Where Antonio Pavon was killed.” I interjected.

  “Yes. Soon after, Luis heard rumors of a huge cocaine shipment coming in. Said he could finish off Pavon if he could intercept the goods and make the bust.” She looked from Holmes to me with pleading eyes. “Do you really have an idea where Luis is?”

  “I have solid information that no harm can befall Luis before 2:30 tomorrow afternoon,” Holmes said. To Mrs. Ortega, that was clearly both good news and bad. Holmes went on. “Has it been established where exactly your husband was abducted?”

  “No, but he told me he was working on a stakeout somewhere on the south side.”

  “Might I see the last clothes he wore?”

  She hesitated, so I said, “This gentleman is quite a brilliant detective.” I tried to assure her, hoping we seemed less like ghoulish lunatics dropping in at midnight.

  Mrs. Ortega looked from me to him, then nodded, “Of course.” As she went to get them, I followed Holmes’ gaze to the home videos still playing silently on the TV. I watched a smiling, handsome Luis Ortega rolling around the backyard playfully with his young son. It made me want to cry. Holmes was probably critical of my emotional empathy, but I just couldn’t remain as detached as he usually seemed to. This time, however, I did note his frowning brow and compressed lips as he pondered the Ortegas’ situation.

  A few minutes later, the three of us had moved to the small kitchen table, where the light was better. Mrs. Ortega had brought out the clothes her husband had worn the night before he disappeared: jeans and a blue chambray shirt, telling us she had just washed them yesterday. Holmes began by checking the pockets, and upon inserting his long fingers into the third one, his eyebrows raised as he said, “Hello. What have we here?” Using his right index and middle finger like tweezers, he carefully lifted out a two-inch-long folded paper that had survived the wash cycle.

  He held it out for me to unfold.

  Mrs. Ortega frowned, saying, “How did I miss that? But maybe it’s good I did.”

  Holmes leaned closer, eagerly. “What do you make of it, Winslow?”

  I saw what it was and showed it to Mrs. Ortega, who nodded, saying, “Three days ago.”

  “What?” Holmes was focused on us like a hawk.

  Mrs. Ortega said, “Our son, Raul, saw how sad his daddy was about Detective Keating’s death. He wanted to cheer up Luis and asked if the three of us could go get a Baskin-Robbins together.”

  I knew Holmes was clueless. On two levels. “It’s just a receipt for their ice cream cones.”

  “Ah,” he said quietly, adding a small nod expressing sympathy, then returned to business. “But we shall continue undaunted.” He took out his trusty magnifying glass and began going over every square inch of the clothing. He also examined a pair of Ortega’s usual type of sneakers.

  Karen Ortega watched him carefully, then glanced at me, “Why is it that you two are trying so hard to help?”

  “Because your husband is an extremely worthy man,” Holmes said while continuing his close scrutiny of the clothing.

  “And also,” I added, glancing toward the home video still on the TV, “obviously a loving father and husband.”

  She nodded, but her breathing was shallow. I knew she was barely holding back tears as she glanced at the pendulum clock over their hearth, aware of time ticking away for her missing husband.

  Holmes lowered his glass and sighed. “You’re an excellent laundress, madam. I’m afraid even I can find no clues as to where your husband was ‘staked out.’”

  That seemed to trigger an idea for Mrs. Ortega, and I prodded, “What?”

  “It’s against protocol,” she said, “but if you can’t go through the department, why don’t you ask Bernie—Lieutenant Civita? They were alternating nights on the stakeout. He’s often Luis’s partner, would do anything for him, one of his best buddies.”

  I felt a chill of concern. I glanced at Holmes, who knew exactly what I was worried about. Over the last few days, Ortega’s close friends had tended to meet gruesome ends.

  Karen told us Civita’s home address and also gave us his private cell number. She tried to call him herself, but the call went to voice mail. Karen tried a text but still got no response. She told us he lived alone and she had no other way to reach him. That prompted us to hurry our departure.

  I traded cell numbers with Mrs. Ortega, then at the front door I pressed her hand, assuring her that we’d be back in contact the moment we had any news. She was trying hard to be brave, her chin trembling. I was distressed for her. Squeezing her hand, I promised that we’d do everything possible. She held tightly to my hand for a moment, looking into my eyes. I saw the silent messages of deep gratitude and hope in hers, but also her desperate fear.

  We hurried away and drove north through the dark expanse of Golden Gate Park into the Richmond District near the Lone Mountain Campus of San Francisco University.

  As we arrived on Civita’s street, I again encouraged Holmes to alert the police. While walking from the car toward the cop’s house, he explained his reluctance. “Do understand, Winslow, it is not my usual style to involve any of the authorities until I’m certain of—”

  “Forget your usual style, Holmes,” I snapped, digging out my cell. “A good man’s life is at stake.”

  “Perhaps two men’s lives.” He had noticed something ahead, which put me on alert as well. Something was amiss.

  Civita’s porch light was out, as were the inside lights, but the front door was ajar. Holmes bolted ahead and entered. He quickly glanced around, squinting into the darkness, then ventured a few steps down a hallway to the right, calling out, “Leftenant Civita? Hello?”

  There was no answer. I was about to dial 911 as I eased the door wider, stepped to the left into the dark foyer, and tripped—falling flat on my face, right on top of Bernard Civita.

  He lay on his back, his blank, wide eyes in a permanent state of shock. “Holmes!” I called, then instinctively I pressed Civita’s carotid artery with my left fingers while my right thumb punched my cell and I said, “Siri, lumos!”

  My cell phone lit up as brightly as Hermione’s wand. I shined it in Civita’s staring eyes. They were unresponsive, and he had no pulse.

  I sat up, with that subdued feeling in my heart which the presence of death inspires.

  Holmes returned and knelt beside the corpse. “As we feared?”

  “Yes.” I was examining the body. “But it couldn’t have happened long ago. He’s still warm and— That’s odd.” I frowned as I tried again to bend Civita’s arm.

  “What? Speak up, Winslow.”

  “His limbs are in extreme contraction. He shouldn’t have this much rigor mortis yet.”

  “Really?” he said with a faintly sly smile. Then he glanced at me sideways, adding, “And tell me, Doc-tor, what might account for that anomaly?” It was clear he thought he already knew the answer.

  But so did I. Looking confidently into his eyes, I said, “A powerful alkaloid or some strychnine-like substance could produce tetanus.”

  His remarkable gray eyes remained locked upon mine, but his left eyebrow gave the absolutely subtlest twitch upward—betraying his surprise that I had delivered such a specific answer.

  He couldn’t prevent the trace of a condescending smile to emerge. His voice was subdued as he said, “Well done, Winslow,” accompanied by a minimal nod of approval. “Quite right. That would cause it.” Before I could draw a breath to fully enjoy the moment, he added, “However, that is not what was responsible for Leftenant Civita’s demise.”

  Though I tried to hide my slight frown of confusion, he noted and enjoyed it as he took a penknife from his vest pocket and handed it to me. “Kindly make a small incision in his radial artery.”

  My brow knit a bit more, I was unsure of where he was going with this. And concerned about something else: “That would be tampering with a crime scene.”

  “But the clock is ticking toward Ortega ending like this. Do get on with it, Doctor.”

  I took the lieutenant’s stiff wrist, slid his sleeve up to reveal the artery, which runs along the lateral aspect of the forearm just above the thumb. Using Holmes’ razor-sharp knife, I cut into the artery. I blinked. “No bleeding! It’s completely clotted!”

  Holmes smiled and nodded. It seemed exactly as he’d expected, but I was confounded and said, “That accounts for the stiffness, but what could’ve—”

  “Venom!” Holmes hissed. “From a snake of the Elapidae family. Note two tiny dots on the back of his hand.” And indeed, there were the apparent fang marks that would result from a snakebite. Holmes drew a breath, “I should say that he was bitten by an Australian Notechis scutatus, commonly known as—”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said, staring. “Tiger snake?”

  “Just so. It flattens its head and neck, cobra-style, just before it strikes.” His voice grew quieter as he continued. “The particular one that bit the late Leftenant is black and yellow and four feet six inches long; its right eye is larger than the left, and it has one partly broken fang.”

  “Oh, come on!” I blurted. He’d gone too far this time. “How can you possibly know that?”

  His voice became a whisper. “Because, Winslow, I am looking at it.”

  My blood froze. Holmes’ eyes were focused directly over my shoulder, so I assumed—correctly—the deadly reptile was hovering right behind me. I drew in a panicked breath, and he saw my eyes widen.

  “Do not move.” Holmes said barely audibly but urgently. “It has coiled on the stairs. In striking distance. Right . . . behind . . . your neck.”

  I was terrified, especially with the extremely dead Lieutenant Civita lying right in front of me as a concrete example of this snake’s lethal bite. Through gritted teeth, I whispered, “Holmes?”

  He was slowly reaching his left hand toward a nearby umbrella stand. Reaching much too slowly for my taste at that moment.

  I heard the snake hiss. It could not have been more than a foot behind my right ear.

  Even more frozen and petrified, I whispered, “Holmes?”