“Steady, Winslow.” He had gradually wrapped his long fingers around one of the folded umbrellas and was slowly drawing it from the stand. “Do not move a muscle. It is flattening its head.” At the same time, his right hand had reached out inch by inch to grasp my lapel. His eyes never left the snake. He spoke quietly, “Now then, Winslow, on three you will dive directly towards me. One . . .”

  He jerked me violently to him, smashing the umbrella powerfully onto the snake’s head, dispatching it with the single blow as he fell backward, pulling me along.

  I landed directly on top of him. We were chest-to-chest, face-to-face, both breathless on the floor of the dark foyer. I glanced quickly aside toward where the snake lay motionless. I gasped, “You sure it’s dead?”

  “Very.” He was thoroughly confident, though still breathing rapidly. I felt the rhythmic swelling of his chest against my own.

  I turned my face back above his, still out of breath myself. “You said ‘on three’!”

  “I lied. I was afraid you’d flinch.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Holmes.” My heart was racing, I knew adrenaline was pumping in both of us, but I caught my breath enough to add, “And thanks for saving me.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Winslow.”

  His dark eyes avoided mine. Neither of us moved, still tense, hearts pounding, his respiration as rapid as mine. We’d never been so physically close. Yet our sudden intimacy felt unexpectedly comfortable. Was it my imagination, or did he seem to be having a similar feeling? A full fifteen seconds passed, then a bit longer, without either of us moving.

  He seemed to be considering how to say something. Finally, he spoke haltingly, saying, “You’re . . . actually quite worth saving . . . Actually.”

  He was the most disconcerted I’d ever seen him. Our faces were barely three inches apart, my lips hovering just over his. He seemed noticeably unsure of himself.

  I’ve admitted previously to enjoying and even prolonging his rare moments of discomfiture as but brief respites from his normal presumed superiority. This time, however, something deeper and more meaningful was going on within me. With the only light coming from a streetlamp filtering in through lace curtains that cast delicate shadowy patterns onto the face of this supremely intelligent man who had just saved my life in such a dashing, heroic manner, it had surprisingly become an extremely intimate moment. He seemed more accessible.

  I was breathing slower now. “I’m worth saving? Really?”

  “Mmm.” He glanced around. Avoiding my eyes. After a pause, he added, “And your perfume . . . suits you perfectly.”

  “Oh?” I was wary, but curious. “How so?”

  “Roses, with just a hint of citrus . . . Rather like your personality.”

  I squinted at him, asking quietly, “Is that an actual compliment?”

  “It . . .”—his voice also grew quieter—“could be . . . so construed. I suppose.”

  We were pressed full-frontally against each other. His body was stiffer than ever before. Much stiffer. Every part of him, I suddenly realized. My eyebrows raised on their own, inquisitively. “Uh . . . Holmes?” I whispered, with the shadow of a smile percolating.

  He seemed to understand exactly what I was feeling. His eyes finally met mine and lingered. Then he murmured, “Winslow . . .”

  I answered softly, “Yes?”

  “. . . Might you . . . possibly consider . . .”

  I felt visceral emotions stirring in me and realized they were a strengthening of what I’d felt the night before, when we’d gazed so profoundly at each other. Leaning a half inch closer, my lips almost touching his, I whispered softly, “What might I consider?”

  His eyes held mine. His breath was warm as he whispered, “Thinking about . . .”

  “Yes?” I breathed.

  His voice was barely audible. “Our case?”

  I blinked.

  Of course. Our case. Right. That was what we were supposed to be doing.

  I slowly—dare I admit reluctantly?—rolled off him. I noticed that he drew an uncommonly long and deep breath. Still avoiding my eyes, he rolled onto his knees, seemingly forcing himself to gather his thoughts and refocus on the matter at hand. We both crawled to the nearby late lieutenant.

  “We must investigate his clothing,” Holmes said, trying to sound as businesslike as possible after the highly unusual moment we’d just shared, “That may help our search for the stakeout location.”

  “Yes,” I stammered, still trying to reconstitute my own professionalism. “Absolutely.” We began going through Civita’s pockets.

  “Check his trouser turn-ups, if you please, Winslow. Always invaluable.”

  I slipped back into the grim reality of the moment as I deciphered “trouser turn-ups.” “You mean cuffs?” I pointed to the bottom of Civita’s jeans. “Don’t see a lot of those anymore, Holmes.” I couldn’t help looking with sadness at Civita’s face. I reached out and closed his eyelids. Holmes sensed how I was feeling.

  “Come, come, Winslow. Regain your physician’s composure. I, too, deeply regret that we were unable to save Detective Civita, but unless we proceed with utmost alacrity, Leftenant Ortega will also be— Aha!” He’d found something in a pocket. “A ticket. Apparently to see a performance by someone named Bart Daly.”

  “Close,” I said, “Daly City is a South Side station on the BART.” I saw his blank expression and explained, “The Bay Area Rapid Transit—BART.”

  “I see. A logical descendant of the cable cars and the London Underground, of course.” He stated this as though he’d known it all along and merely forgotten. “So, did you discover any evidence of where his ‘cuffs’ might have recently been?”

  I did so at that moment, reporting, “Just some white dust? Or is it powder?”

  Holmes touched his fingertips to it, brought some up to his hawklike nose, and sniffed. His expression reminded me of a computer in search mode, flipping through a thousand possibilities. “Chalk? . . . No.” He used his magnifying glass to examine the talc-like granules. His eyes narrowed as he eliminated numerous ideas, then they flashed with recognition. “It’s cement!”

  Holmes insisted that we drive to Daly City, but I refused to do anything until we had reported Lieutenant Civita’s murder to the police.

  “Quite so, Winslow. It would be rude to leave the worthy detective lying there unattended.” I was surprised he agreed. But of course, there was a caveat. “For the sake of Luis Ortega’s safety, however, it’s vital that you contact the police anonymously.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The situation is at a delicate stage, Winslow. Even the slightest incorrect move, no matter how well intentioned, might cost Ortega his life.” He looked directly into my eyes with the most sincerity I’d yet seen from him. “I recognize that I am asking a great deal for you to put your faith in me about this. But I earnestly entreat you to do so.”

  It was a decision I dearly hoped I wouldn’t live to regret, but I drove us to a twenty-four-hour public computer café and sent an anonymous email to the SFPD about Bernie Civita’s death and his whereabouts.

  Then we headed south, with Siri guiding us down Nineteenth Avenue. The traffic was light, and I was hurrying just over the speed limit. I was also sorting through my confusion about what I’d felt while lying atop Holmes, so closely face-to-face. I’d felt how his heart rate and respiration were equal to my own, triggered in both of us by a rush of adrenaline.

  But there had been an undeniable physical spark of something else in that moment. And I was certain he had felt it as well. I glanced over at him in my passenger seat and saw that he seemed focused intently ahead. I wondered if he was perhaps internally exploring the same feelings as I. I decided to come at the issue sideways by pursuing a different question I’d been curious about. “Her name was Irene Adler, wasn’t it?”

  Holmes tightened up slightly but continued gazing forward. “Whose name?”

  “The ‘American opera singer and well-known adventuress’ whom Watson said you always referred to as ‘the Woman.’”

  “Hmm?” He was trying very hard to sound vague. “It may have been, yes.” He glanced out his side window. “Quite an interesting section of town this, and—”

  “In the Scandal in Bohemia story, Doyle—and Watson—made Ms. Adler sound like quite an intriguing woman of the world. And strikingly beautiful as well. Quite a package. She certainly seemed that way in the photo you keep of her.” He was doing his best to ignore me, so I took the plunge. “Are those the reasons why you were smitten?”

  “Ha!” he laughed. A little too hard? “I have never been smitten by—”

  “Oh, come on, the king of Bohemia was about to be married, feared blackmail by Irene, which would cause a scandal, and offered you a fortune for reclaiming his incriminating love letters, which—”

  “Just so,” he eagerly interrupted, but I steamed ahead.

  “Which actually you failed to reclaim because the wily Irene saw through your disguise and your subterfuge, and she one-upped you. The great Holmes’ clever plans were undone by a woman’s wit.”

  “Well, it didn’t happen quite like that—” he began defensively, but I was undeterred and plowed right on.

  “Irene had a change of heart and saucily put the letters into your hands. But when you were returning them to the grateful king—who gave you that gold snuffbox and was ready to reward you with half of his kingdom—you declined his generosity. Instead, all you asked for was the photo he had of the divine Ms. Adler. Sounds terribly sweet and lovesick to me.”

  He blew out a puff of derision, then pontificated dryly, “Love and the sickness it generates are unknown to me, Winslow.”

  “Plus, Irene gave you a gold sovereign, a memento which you still display right there on your watch chain.” When I pointed to it, he tried to look surprised.

  “Oh. Was it she who gave it to me? Just the other day I was trying to remember how I—”

  My sardonic chuckle stopped him dead, and he endeavored to regroup, pontifically.

  “You must understand, Doc-tor, how I strongly believe that emotions in general, and particularly those of affection and sentimentality, are the enemy of clear, rational logic and are abhorrent to a precise, admirably balanced mind.”

  “Then what was it about her, Holmes, that so captivated you?” I sincerely wanted to know. “Was it the mere fact that another human being had outsmarted you? Particularly a female? That must have been galling. Left your admirable mind just a wee bit off-balance?”

  He continued staring out the car’s passenger-side window, but he put his left elbow on the armrest between us with his forearm raised so he could rest his cheekbone against his index finger. He seemed to be genuinely mulling over my statement. Finally, I was rewarded by what seemed a rare moment of candor. “I cannot deny your innate insightfulness, Winslow.” He paused, measuring his words carefully. “I think what I felt was a deep . . . respect for Miss Adler’s mental acuity and her devilish cleverness.”

  “And that made her attractive?”

  “Well, I should not characterize it quite so dramatically.”

  I let the silence hang, keeping my eyes on the road as I asked, as casually as possible, “Has there been anyone since Irene Adler that came close to creating her effect?”

  He seemed to consider a possibility and finally said, “No.” But then, after a beat, he added quietly, “Not really.”

  I felt a flicker in my chest but couldn’t be sure if it was disappointment, relief, or just frustration at his ambiguity.

  Very soon after, I steered the Accord into the industrial warehouse section of Daly City. Holmes had my backup cell phone in his hand and had been scrolling down through a list of companies in the area.

  “This is completely marvelous!” he said with delight. “You can just let your fingers do the walking.”

  “What an original concept,” I said wryly, wondering if the Yellow Pages still existed.

  “The only cement company within walking distance of the Daly City BART station is at the address I gave you.”

  “I don’t know why Siri couldn’t find that company name.” I looked ahead along the dark street. “Okay. I see why. To the left up there. It looks out of business and abandoned.”

  “Yes. And over there is what we’re looking for.” Holmes pointed to the right at something I couldn’t see because of the angle.

  I pulled the Accord to a stop near the derelict cement plant. One door was hanging on a single hinge and partially open. Holmes got out and his eyes swept the area, which was dusty with fine white cement powder.

  “If Civita and Ortega were staked out inside there”—he pointed toward the broken door—“then the object of their surveillance, something to do with Pavon’s criminal activities, obviously would be across the street.”

  He indicated a six-story, windowless storage building opposite with large doors for unloading freight. Above the doors was what I hadn’t seen from in the car. A sign on it read Peacock Trucking.

  I turned back to see Holmes grinning at me expectantly as he said. “Peacock being . . . ?”

  “Pavon in Spanish!” I gushed, then felt a bit of embarrassment at my effusiveness.

  “Well done, Winslow. Now you’re getting into the spirit of the chase. Seeing Mrs. Ortega seems to have had an energizing effect.” He turned and headed into the dusty, abandoned cement works with a flashlight he’d taken from my car door’s pocket.

  I glanced back at Peacock Trucking and pondered what he’d just said. It was true. For the first time, I’d understood how people like Holmes and Lieutenant Ortega could have such a strong personal commitment toward crime fighting and solving mysteries. It was unquestionably rewarding and exciting. But I also suddenly felt the sobering responsibility—particularly when someone’s life was hanging in the balance.

  Holmes slowed his approach as he neared the plant. “Winslow, what’s that yellow tape on the building?”

  My excitement deflated. I positively sagged. “Oh, no. It’s a police line. Marking off a crime scene. It means they’ve already checked this lead.” I was disappointed.

  But Holmes was not the slightest bit daunted. “Don’t despair, Winslow, it’s been my experience that even the most astute police officer often overlooks an item or two.” He smiled encouragingly at me and whipped out his trusty magnifying glass. “Stay close to the walls so we disturb as little as possible.”

  I followed him through the broken door into a cavernous room with concrete floors and walls, mostly empty except for broken crates and rusting machinery. A couple of pigeons flapped around in the rafters, and a rat scurried away along a wall where we noted some fast-food wrappers that suggested a police stakeout.

  Holmes pointed out how the dusty floor revealed a scuffle, confirming how this could have been the spot where the abduction of Ortega had taken place. We carefully explored the large premises for half an hour, then I finally heard his characteristic squeak of pleasure.

  I hurried to where he was kneeling beside a small crate next to the wall.

  “Look, Winslow. Here, near the floor. See the right and left heelprints in the cement dust against this box?”

  “Someone sat on the box,” I said. Then my eyes widened as I blurted, “And look at their imprints in the dust! It’s the same design as Luis Ortega’s sneakers!”

  “Yes, the Leftenant sat here.”

  Holmes displayed suppressed excitement while I was tingling with a sort of half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure.

  “Whilst it is true, Winslow, that you have missed everything of importance, you have indeed hit upon the method and have a quick eye for comparative design.”

  I chuckled to myself: Holmes giveth, but then Holmes swiftly taketh away. “So, what was more important?”

  “Notice these rusty nails atop the box.” He was picking one up. “With Ortega’s hands behind him—even if they were tied—he could’ve used a nail to scratch a clue on the wall as to where he was being taken.” Holmes made a small scratch on the wall to demonstrate, then glanced at me as a professor or Socrates might have done when encouraging a student, “So what do you make of this?”

  He focused his flashlight on the wall just above the crate. There were some small scratches I hadn’t noticed. I squinted. “It looks like a P then maybe a 1 and 5? With a sort of wavy line under it?”

  “Yes, Winslow!” Holmes’ eyes glittered, “We’re on the scent!”

  Annoyingly but typically, Holmes stubbornly refused to tell me what he’d deduced until after he’d attained further verification. He asked me to drop him off uptown in the seedy area below Russian Hill, near where we’d met Charley Moriarty.

  “I’m really not thrilled about leaving you in this area,” I said, glancing around the squalid locale as I brought the car to a stop.

  But Holmes smiled as he opened his door. “Absolutely no reason to concern yourself. I have spent many of my most fruitful nights in such environs, and I expect tonight will be equally so.” As he closed the car door, he continued brightly, “And definitely, do not wait up. I’ll see you anon, my dear . . . Winslow.” He paused to give me a final look through the window that seemed to silently acknowledge appreciation for my presence and collaboration. His gaze held for a moment longer than it ever had. Then he seemed to catch himself. He sniffed and turned to hurry down the dark street, disappearing around a corner.

  Back at home, I tossed restlessly in my bed through what was left of the night and kept listening for the downstairs door to open as he came back. But he never did.

  At the hospital the next morning, I was bleary-eyed as I tried to put on a cheerful face while talking to my young patients. But I kept glancing at the clock, getting increasingly nervous with every passing minute. Given the dreadful details of the three previous murders, all I could think about was what bizarre homicidal horror Luis Ortega might undergo in a few short hours.