“The good leftenant is no pawn, Winslow—he’s a knight at the very least, a valiant warrior in the battle against crime. I believe he’d approve of my tactics.”

  “Not if your tactics get him killed !”

  “That shan’t happen. Watch out! Onto the pavement.”

  He had seen the car in front of us on Lombard come to an abrupt stop for a pedestrian. I swerved sharply to the right and jumped the curb onto the sidewalk, dodging a man carrying an armful of boxes. I managed to just miss a fireplug as I bounced us off the curb and back onto the street.

  “In one hundred feet, turn left,” he shouted.

  “No. That’s the wrong direction!”

  “Yes, but the fastest route.” He held my other cell in front of me, saying, “Siri is also on the case.”

  I made the sharp left and dodged more cars as I shouted back at him, “So Ortega’s still at the warehouse?”

  “Yes. He’s being held there until 2:30, when he will be personally handed over to Pavon by James Moriarty Booth!”

  “What?” My brain flip-flopped. “It’s Booth’s men holding Ortega?”

  “Of course. Take the next two rights, then left onto Lombard.”

  “But the Tiger Murders all point to Pavon!” I shouted as I made the right turns and sped us faster down the street. “To avenge his dead brother, Tony the Tiger!”

  “Yes. Devilishly sinister. An elegant motif, is it not?” he said. “Far too fiendish, elegant, and insidious a scheme to come from the crude-natured Pavon. I recognized it at once as a product of the aesthetically twisted mind of a Moriarty.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Pavon’s usual style is far more brutish. Julius told me Pavon kills with steamrollers.”

  After I made the left onto Lombard Street, we were only a few blocks away from where it met the Embarcadero. I drove quickly, weaving between slower cars. “So, you’re saying that Booth committed these Tiger Murders? Why? In honor of Pavon’s brother, Tony?”

  “Yes, to avenge Tony’s death at the hand of Leftenant Ortega, but also to bring agony to Luis Ortega by first horribly murdering his four closest friends. Most importantly, however, Booth did it to gain Pavon’s deep appreciation.”

  “And now Booth’s going to hand over Ortega himself, so that what? Pavon can kill Luis personally and complete the vengeance?”

  “Precisely my deduction.” Holmes’ left arm still held tightly around me. I felt a little encouraging squeeze as he said, “Well thought out, Winslow.” Then he shouted, “Oops! On your right!” I swerved to pass a lumbering street sweeper.

  Once I had the bike under control again, I yelled back to Holmes, “But why is Booth, who’s Pavon’s biggest rival in the San Francisco underworld, doing all this for him?”

  “Why would someone like Booth do anyone a favor?”

  That made me think of The Godfather, and then it clicked. “To get something in return? Okay. But what?”

  “More, Winslow. People like Booth always want more.”

  “And you’ve told the police all this, right?” No answer. I screamed at him. “Right? . . . Holmes, answer me, dammit!”

  He said calmly, “When I have spun the web, they may take the flies, but not before.”

  “No, Holmes! We—”

  “Look out!” he cried. “Lady with a baby! Go that way!”

  I barely missed the mother and child, but I refused to let him dodge the issue. “We cannot handle this alone!”

  I heard his cell beeping. “Oh, Winslow, you’re such a worrier.” He was pulling out his iPhone. “Certainly, we cannot.” He answered the call. “Yes? Holmes here . . . Oh, hello, Julius!”

  “Zapper? That’s our backup?” I was livid. “Holmes, hang up this instant and dial 911 or—”

  “Winslow, please, it’s difficult enough to hear on these devices,” he said peevishly. “You’re on Pavon’s what, Julius? . . . ‘Ass’ meaning tail? . . . Very good. And he should be approaching . . . What do you mean Pier 27? That’s not right. It should be Pier 15.”

  “I don’t want to hear that.” I said with dread, then demanded, “Holmes, hang up and call 911!”

  “Everything is still well in hand, Winslow. Fear not.” Then he shouted into the phone, “Julius, alert the others of the change in piers, then proceed as planned.” He clicked the phone off, saying, “No, Winslow, don’t slow down!”

  “I’ve got a red light, Holmes.”

  He whipped out Zapper’s handheld remote, reached his arm over my shoulder, and activated it. The stoplight flashed to green.

  “Now, do proceed swiftly, Winslow, to Pier 15!”

  I sped us along, turned left onto the Embarcadero and then right onto the aging boards of Pier 15, which held an obstacle course of cargo crates, barrels, and nautical gear. We saw a large, forty-foot cabin cruiser untying from the near end of the pier and getting underway.

  “Blast!” Holmes blurted fiercely.

  “That’s definitely not what I want to hear!” I shouted.

  Holmes had just been reminded that Fate can also be fickle. Even the best laid plans of mice and Holmes can go awry. He verified that by grumbling loudly, “Damn!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s the boat I saw docked here last night.”

  We saw that on the rear the deck of the yacht was a large cube, about five feet on a side, underneath a tarp. But more importantly, we saw two burly enforcers, one of them a redhead. “Booth’s men I saw last night,” Holmes confirmed. They were manhandling a tall hostage with his arms tied behind him toward the boat’s cabin.

  Even from fifty yards away, I recognized him. “Ortega!”

  “Of course.” In my rearview, I saw Holmes’ eyes narrow. “Very clever of them. And why Julius and I observed Booth looking at a map including the bay. Now I understand: it’s to be a rendezvous on the water. Drive that way, quickly!” He pointed for me to continue out onto the pier.

  I gunned the bike, and we were able to overtake the yacht as it moved parallel to us in the water beside the long pier. “Get ahead of them quickly,” Holmes urged. “Keep going till I tell you.”

  I maneuvered around stacks of pallets and boxes along the way, which helped block any view of us from the boat. I was about twenty yards from the end and barely ahead of the boat when Holmes said, “Stop here!” I braked the bike, and he was off in a flash, shedding his helmet and calling back to me as he ran, “Get to Pier 27, Winslow! I’ll ring you up!”

  “Holmes?”

  He dashed across the pier, running in that formal way of his, fists up, arms pumping. To my astonishment, I realized he was running right toward the end of the pier.

  The tide was in, but the water level was still about eight feet below the deck of the pier. I saw that the boat had begun to turn slightly, bringing it to within about ten feet of the pier’s corner.

  Holmes ran like a champion and seemed to be timing it perfectly, but my heart stopped as he leapt off the end, waving his arms for balance and landing hard on the yacht’s back deck.

  Though the craft was moving away from me, I saw that in the course of his skillful landing, something fell from his pocket and skidded across the deck. The noise attracted the attention of the curly-headed thug who was just then coming up from below decks. In an instant, he’d see Holmes.

  But Holmes heard the man coming. In a flash, he flipped up the edge of the canvas nearest him to hide beneath it. I drew a sharp breath when I glimpsed what that tarp was covering: a cage containing a Bengal tiger. Holmes was under the tarp now, face-to-face with the beast.

  The curly-headed man spotted the object that had fallen from Holmes’ coat. He picked it up and looked around and then up at the sky, wondering where it had fallen from. I realized he’d found Holmes’ cell phone.

  Our communication was now cut off. I sat on my bike, near panic, breathing hard, puzzling over my next move. Then I remembered Holmes’ telling me to go to Pier 27.

  I decided to get over there fast, and if Holmes hadn’t summoned the cops, I’d call them myself.

  I snagged Holmes’ helmet and gunned the bike, turning so hurriedly that I nearly ran straight into a large pole and dumped myself in the harbor. Somehow I managed to stay upright and raced back toward the Embarcadero.

  18

  Swinging my bike onto the near end of Pier 27, I saw ahead of me two hefty, intimidating SUVs, their darkened windows suggesting illicit activity. Parked next to them was a sleek charcoal-gray Cadillac limousine. There was a commotion on one side of that vehicle. Five men—all with that wise-guy look of organized crime—were trying to break up a scuffle between a bunch of scruffy street teens. Fists were swinging and punches hit flesh as the mobsters shoved their way into the melee and pulled apart the scrapping teenagers.

  I skirted past the disturbance, catching only a quick look but surprised to recognize at least one of the brawling boys: the teen called Slick who’d attacked Holmes that night on Baker Street. As one of the heavies slung another of the kids away to separate him from the others, I heard the boy shout, “Hey, man! Ain’t you never heard of the Queensbury Rules?” For a second, I thought I saw Zapper duck down on the far side of the gray limo.

  Leaving behind that puzzle, I drove farther onto the pier, hoping against hope to be rewarded by seeing a group of San Francisco’s Finest. But once past a large pallet of packing crates, I instead found myself in the presence of the top echelon of San Francisco’s Worst.

  With no space to turn and exit gracefully, I was forced to pull to a stop directly in front of four dread-inducing criminal lieutenants and their respective commandants, James Moriarty Booth and Enrique Pavon.

  The two underworld chieftains looked my way as if I were a total nonentity that had unwittingly stumbled into their royal presence—which, of course, would be perfectly accurate. Their alert lieutenants, however, moved smoothly to encircle me at a respectful but no-nonsense distance.

  With icy indifference as to whether I would live or very soon die, Booth asked, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Oh. Uh. Nobody,” I stammered, shrugging and trying to smile. “I mean, I’m just out for a little ride. I sometimes come here to think, you know, get a little perspective. Is that a problem?”

  The two crime barons glanced at each other, then eyed me with menace. I felt their enforcers drawing closer around me. Two of them reached inside their jackets—unlikely they were reaching for business cards.

  At that moment out on the yacht in the bay, Holmes was in a precarious position himself. After facing the angry claws of a caged killer tiger only inches from his face and managing to maintain his composure, he’d waited for the curly-red-haired man to leave the deck. Curly finally disappeared up onto the flying bridge, where the cabin cruiser was being driven by the ponytailed man who’d been holding Ortega captive at the warehouse.

  At last sensing that he was alone on the rear deck, Holmes carefully peered from under the tarp and eased himself over the side of the boat. But not into the water. He held onto the gunnel, hanging with his feet dangling just above the passing current. In that position he knew he wouldn’t be seen by the men on the bridge as he eased himself along, hand over hand, toward the bow of the speeding yacht. His shoes were precariously grazing the top of the rushing water beneath him. While running along the pier to leap aboard, he’d noted that the portholes were open. He was now looking into each of them as he passed. It wasn’t easy, but Holmes finally managed to reach and peer through the third porthole.

  Down inside the cabin Holmes saw the man he was seeking, sitting on a bunk facing away, his hands bound behind him. Holmes whispered to him, “Leftenant Ortega, I presume.”

  Ortega was confused. He looked around to discover where the very proper English voice had come from.

  “Hello! Up here!” called Holmes.

  Ortega was amazed to see Holmes dangling outside the porthole, bouncing in the ocean spray. He was even more befuddled when Holmes stated, “I’ve come to rescue you.”

  Ortega blinked as Holmes let go with one hand so as to retrieve something small out of his vest pocket. “Now then, Luis, take this,” Holmes offered it in through the port toward Ortega, who reached his head up and took Holmes’ penknife in his teeth.

  “Good,” Holmes said. “Now you must do exactly as I tell you.”

  On Pier 27, I had been enervated by the withering stares of Enrique Pavon and James Moriarty Booth. My bike’s engine was still idling, and I was weighing if I could just gun it and peel out of there until one of Pavon’s henchmen ended my fantasy by turning off the ignition and taking my keys.

  One of Booth’s bodyguards who’d been eyeing me whispered something to his boss, which caused Booth to raise an eyebrow. I had a sudden flash that a cement overcoat might be in my near future. I decided to face the tiger—an ironic metaphor given Holmes’ current situation—and I summoned my courage, squared my shoulders, and switched into “professional physician” mode.

  “Sorry to have interrupted you, gentlemen, but I’m a pediatric surgeon at Saint Francis Hospital, and I have to perform an operation there at 3:15, so—”

  “My associate tells me he just saw you at La Serre,” Booth said with a cold smile.

  My stomach dropped, but I sucked it up and smiled at the intimidating bodyguard with curious surprise. “Why yes! Were you there? I didn’t get a bite though because the woman I was meeting canceled, so I decided to take a quick ride before heading to surgery.” I looked at the brute who had my keys, then held out my hand with all the bravado and annoyance I could muster. “So, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  Booth wasn’t buying. So neither was anyone else. The bodyguards closed ranks, blocking any possible exit. I was quite sure I could hear the sound of cement being mixed, so you can only imagine the thrill I felt when instead I heard the scream of police sirens approaching.

  Four black-and-white patrol cars swarmed the scene, red lights flashing. A police helicopter noisily swooped in, circling above as a dozen or so uniformed police deployed. Out of an unmarked car jumped a tall plainclothes cop. Quickly scoping out the scene, he strode my way, glancing sourly at Booth, who appeared entirely cool and at ease as he said, “Having a little outing with the boys and girls, Detective Griffin?”

  Griffin pulled me aside and asked, “Did you call in this tip?”

  “No. It was . . . probably a friend of mine.” I knew he wouldn’t be happy to hear it, but I had no choice, so I whispered, “Named . . . Holmes?”

  Griffin closed his eyes, and murmured, “Oh, please, God, not that loony toon.”

  Booth had overheard Holmes’ name, and now his steely eyes were riveted on me. Griffin pulled me closer and spoke through clenched teeth, “Where is that imbecile?”

  Turning away from the prying gazes of Booth and Pavon. I spoke to the detective as much under my breath as possible. “He’s on a cabin cruiser that just left Pier 15 but I’m not exactly sure where it went.”

  Griffin was glowering. “And I should give a shit about that because . . . ?”

  “Holmes jumped onto it because we’d seen Luis Ortega being strong-armed away on it and—”

  “What?” Griffin suddenly took me seriously. “Where was it headed?”

  “Out into the bay.”

  Lieutenant Griffin sharply looked away, scanning the vast bay on which numerous boats and ships were heading in various directions. I caught Pavon and Booth trading a private glance, showing concern, then letting their own eyes drift over oh so casually to scan the harbor.

  Had they high-powered binoculars, they might have been able to see some of the drama transpiring just then about a mile offshore, between Angel and Treasure Islands.

  On the flying bridge, Captain Ponytail had just cut the power and was bringing the large cruiser to a stop in the middle of the bay.

  Curly brought Ortega up from below, his hands still tied behind him. Curly had a firm grip on the lieutenant’s left arm, guiding him to stand in the middle of the deck. “Hold it here, pal. Pavon’s guys are real excited to swap boats with us and take you for the ride of your life.”

  Ponytail had come down from the bridge as a dark blue forty-four-foot Chris-Craft Commander with a powerful inboard engine was rumbling up alongside. One of the Colombian bodyguards who’d accompanied Pavon at police headquarters stood on the bow of the muscular craft and smiled at the sight of the abducted Ortega. A second minion stood amidships with a coiled rope secured to the Chris-Craft. He tossed the coil to Ponytail, who pulled the two boats closer together, then both of Pavon’s men jumped over onto the yacht carrying Ortega.

  That was the moment the tarp hiding the tiger’s cage flew up in the air, swept away and aside like a toreador’s cape by Holmes, who’d returned to his hidden spot by the tiger cage. He shouted “Voilà!” as he pulled open the door of the big cat’s prison.

  The roaring tiger bolted from its hated confines, generating instant pandemonium. The tough guys shrieked as the huge tiger plowed over Ponytail and bashed Pavon’s bow guy down with its meaty claw. The other terrified Colombian skittered backward and fell over the gunnel and into the saltwater churning between the boats.

  Ortega, having already cut his bonds, simultaneously sprung around and surprised Curly with a powerful roundhouse right. The heavy took it full on and crumpled—down and out.

  Meanwhile, the angry tiger easily leapt across the water dividing the boats, creating panic on Pavon’s Chris-Craft. That boat’s driver jumped overboard and the remaining crewman on deck became the fierce tiger’s target. The beast pounced, clawing the screaming man down to the deck.