Seeing that Ortega was in control on the yacht’s deck, Holmes dashed up onto the flying bridge, quickly deducing how to operate the controls. He slammed it into gear and gunned the yacht away from Pavon’s boat.

  On Pier 27, Booth was calmly instructing Lieutenant Griffin. “You might wish to take this young woman in for a mental health check, Detective. She seems unbalanced.”

  Griffin, more concerned about Luis Ortega, was telling two cops what I’d said, when he was interrupted by Zapper, cockily holding out a cell phone to Griffin, saying, “Like, it’s for you, man.”

  Griffin frowned at the smiling street kid, snatched the phone, and barked tersely, “Griffin.”

  On the flying bridge of the yacht he was driving, with a brisk, invigorating sea wind blowing his loose hair, Holmes said cheerfully into his cellular, “Greetings, Detective Griffin. This is Holmes.”

  “I am gonna panfry your limey ass, you stupid son of a—”

  “If you’ll please look over your right shoulder, Detective,” Holmes coolly interrupted, “you will see the approach of a cabin cruiser, and there’s someone here aboard that very boat who wants to say hello.”

  Holmes handed the phone to Ortega, who smiled at the odd Britisher with respect and comradeship.

  “Thanks for the penknife,” Luis said, handing it back to the detective as he grabbed the phone. “Hey, Griff? It’s Luis.”

  On the pier, phone held to his ear, Griffin listened, blinked with amazement, and then turned to his men. “Listen up! Get our chopper, the Coast Guard, and Animal Services out to that big blue Chris-Craft. There’s a tiger loose on it. And there’s also a ton of cocaine on board.”

  Griffin turned to face Pavon and Booth, saying, “Ortega finally did it. He nailed your asses. For now, you’re both under arrest for suspicion of kidnapping. We’ll add up all the various charges later. And that’s your spiffy boat carrying the coke, Pavon?” Getting only a fierce look in response, Griffin said, “Sorry if you’re feeling harassed by the police again. But from now on you’ll have to call your slimy lawyers from a cell.”

  Griffin waved in a uniformed cop who snapped cuffs onto the silent but furious Pavon.

  Booth, however, appeared totally calm as the yacht pulled alongside Pier 27 and Holmes jauntily hopped off and strode over to stand beside me.

  “Detective, don’t embarrass yourself,” Booth said, smiling astutely at Griffin. “You’ll never prove that I have any connection to those men out there. After all these years, you should know better.”

  Griffin shot a blistering I told you so, you jerk glare at Holmes. I leaned closely to Holmes’ ear and whispered, “He’s right. With no hard evidence, Booth might squirm out of this too.”

  Holmes merely smiled with supreme confidence, “Detective, did you impound Mr. Booth’s limousine as I instructed in that anonymous message I left?”

  “Yeah,” Griffin said. “So what?”

  “Perhaps you will find something incriminating within it.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid not, Mr.—” Booth caught himself then said, “Mr. Whoever-you-are.” He smiled privately at Holmes, mindful of how thoroughly he’d destroyed Holmes’ credentials.

  Holmes was unruffled. “I would nonetheless encourage you, Detective, to make a personal examination of said vehicle.”

  Griffin glared and muttered at Holmes, “This better be good.”

  We all walked down to the charcoal-gray limo, and Holmes nodded toward the back, asking curiously, “What’s that I see on the rear seat?”

  Griffin stepped closer to look. “A case of wine?”

  I recognized that dusty old wooden box. It held the bottles of Holmes’ rare wine. I shot a confused look his way, but his stern raised eyebrow prompted my silence. I glanced at Zapper, who was hanging with Slick and his other pals off to one side, all of them trying to suppress knowing grins.

  Booth and his bodyguards all seemed surprised, but Booth shrugged it off. “I don’t know how that got there, but it’s no big deal.”

  “Au contraire, Mr. Booth. I believe it will prove to be quite a large deal,” Holmes said knowingly. “That looks to be a case of extremely rare wine, but a chemical analysis will show that those bottles do not contain 1879 Imperial Tokay, but an eighty-seven percent solution of the highest quality cocaine.”

  A dozen jaws dropped, including mine.

  I glanced sharply at Holmes and saw that he greatly enjoyed our mass reaction as he continued. “I should estimate the street value to be in excess of one point seven million American dollars.”

  Though everyone else on the pier was astonished, Booth remained nonplussed. He even chuckled with amusement. “Whatever the hell it is, I know absolutely nothing about it. I never saw those bottles before.”

  Holmes’ self-assurance remained undaunted. “I believe that a careful search for Mr. Booth’s fingerprints may prove otherwise.”

  I glanced at Booth and thought I detected the slightest tightening of his scalp. Was it a tiny crack in his icy composure?

  Holmes raised a knowing eyebrow at Griffin who was still not sold. But Holmes’ air of supreme confidence gave the detective pause. He grumbled, “Alright, alright, we’ll check it out.”

  “There’s also this.” Holmes lifted his right hand, palm up, over his own shoulder without even looking, and Zapper placed in his hand a silver thumb drive. “The audiovisual file contained on this flashy drive will also prove helpful in convicting both of these criminals of conspiracy to commit murder.”

  Holmes tipped the back of his head toward Zapper, “My colleague Mr. Julius Castenada and I witnessed and recorded a rather damning conversation of Mr. Booth’s. In it, he details his engineering of the Tiger Murders, as well as planning this exchange of Leftenant Ortega—along with that tiger which was going to eat him alive.” I heard horrified gasps from two nearby cops. Holmes continued. “In return for that gift, Booth would receive that blue boatload of cocaine worth some twenty-six million dollars, but also”—Holmes paused to be sure everyone was attentive—“it would solidify a new agreement between Booth and Pavon for a massive criminal partnership.”

  At last, Booth’s glacial self-possession began to thaw. A bit of moisture appeared on his temple signaling the realization that he might finally be trapped.

  “Working together,” Holmes continued, “Booth and Pavon planned to bring San Francisco to its knees.” He held out the flash drive to Griffin. “My gift to you, Detective: America’s First Holmes Video.”

  Griffin stared at the Englishman a long moment, then turned his eyes to the crime bosses and said quietly, but with all the power vested in him, “Booth, Pavon, all of you, you have the right to remain silent. You have—” Griffin interrupted himself and called over one of the uniformed cops. “Read all these scumbags their goddamn rights.”

  Zapper leaned around and held up his hand to Holmes for a high-five, saying. “Holmesy, that was totally cold !” Holmes appraised Zapper’s raised hand and imitated it, assuming it to be some manner of approbation or salute. “No, no, man—like this,” Zapper instructed, slapping Holmes’ upraised hand and initiating the Victorian into the ritual.

  Then Holmes grasped Zapper’s hand with gentlemanly appreciation. “Thank you again, old boy. When it comes to evidence, I’d say we gave them rather a shitload, eh?”

  “Bet your ass we did!” Zapper laughed.

  I saw Holmes and Ortega share a long look and a warm smile of mutual respect and camaraderie.

  Meanwhile, Booth was being cuffed while Griffin watched with deep satisfaction for these arrests he had long sought.

  But it made my skin crawl to see Booth’s expression of concentrated feral malevolence and his pinpoint-pupil eyes boring into Holmes. The archcriminal’s face was flushed, his brows drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a cruel, steely glitter. He hissed like a viper at Holmes, “I’m the worst enemy you could ever hope to make, mister. The blood of the Moriartys still runs in my veins. We will meet again—you can count on that.”

  Holmes cocked an eyebrow, his nostrils flared slightly. I saw that he actually seemed to get a little rush from that possibility.

  Right after that I called Karen Ortega, who answered while crying with happiness, having already heard directly from her Luis. Then Holmes and I walked past all the police officers and back across the pier toward my bike. I was trying to add it all up. “So, when you were ‘defending my car’ from the street gang, you were really just protecting your stash of cocaine.”

  “I would’ve endeavored to check their burglarizing in any event.”

  “Oh right. But it’s interesting that you didn’t jump to the protection of property until your own was being threatened.”

  “Your lack of faith is disappointing, Winslow. Besides, look what we’ve just accomplished. Your skill at driving us down Telegraph Hill—from where I could clearly observe Booth leaving that lovely restaurant—was critical to the timing of my plan. I had requested your motor-bicycle specifically because, while pursuing Julius when I first spotted him at the library, I also observed how such bikes can maneuver through traffic with more agility and speed than an automobile.”

  I chuckled. “But wouldn’t it have been a hell of a lot easier for us to just wait on the street closer to where Booth was?”

  “Ah, but the vista from atop Telegraph is so much more pleasing. And the chase added a touch of drama and excitement, which I thought the adventure-seeking, romantic Miss—” He caught himself. “I beg your pardon—romantic Doc-tor Winslow would enjoy.” His cagy eyes met mine.

  I was adding it all up. “You had alerted Griffin ahead of time.”

  “Anonymously, as I said.”

  “And arranged for Zapper’s pals to stage that little row to distract Booth’s and Pavon’s drivers long enough for Zapper to plant the wine bottles.”

  “Brava yet again, Winslow. Flawlessly analyzed.”

  “And you asked me to drive right into the middle of it because . . . ?” Suddenly I realized. “Oh, of course . . . because you wanted me to be ‘present for the denouement.’”

  “Discovered!” He laughed. “And you certainly deserved to see the fruits of your labors.”

  We were passing a uniformed cop, prompting me to lean closer to Holmes as I whispered, “But planting that case of wine was not exactly legal, Holmes.”

  He wagged his right index finger at me. “But moral, Winslow. The ultimate justification: it was highly moral.”

  We had reached the bike and picked up our helmets, when I suddenly wondered, “But how in the world could Booth’s fingerprints be on the bottles?”

  “You’ve been doing very well, Doc-tor, but you must keep honing those powers of observation,” he said, instructing patiently. “While you were at the restaurant, did you not see Mr. Booth handle a bottle of wine offered to him by a blond French waiter wearing white gloves?”

  I nodded, then smiled as I surmised, “And that bottle quickly found its way back into your wine case.”

  “Exactly.”

  As I fastened my helmet strap, I realized one question remained. “But how did you know Booth would be in that restaurant today?”

  “During my first encounter with him at his home,” he said with a sniff, “whilst I was being searched, with my hands leaning on that desktop where I saw the file with Ortega’s badge number, I also observed Mr. Booth’s appointment calendar, which noted today’s luncheon.”

  We had climbed onto my bike and I kickstarted it as I laughed. “Amazing. And you paid the waiter to offer him the bottle.” I put the bike into gear and started to drive off the pier.

  Holmes snickered at my naiveté.

  “Oh Winslow, Winslow. You look but sometimes you do not see—I was the waiter.”

  19

  The California sun was shining brightly the next day as Holmes and I walked out onto the porch of my house on Baker Street. Beside us were Luis and Karen Ortega, just leaving after paying us their respects. Luis was saying, “And of course I’ll keep you posted on the case. But it was already airtight even before Pavon and Booth’s cronies indicated they’d flip for plea deals.”

  “What made us happiest though,” I said, “was that you survived.”

  Karen Ortega had happy tears in her eyes as she said, “I’ll never be able to thank you both enough for saving my Luis.” She suddenly gave Holmes a huge hug, which he was startled to receive but accepted graciously, if stiffly.

  “He is a gentleman most worthy of being saved, madam,” Holmes said, with a formal nod in the lieutenant’s direction, “and he has many more battles to fight.”

  “Hopefully with you as an ally, sir,” Ortega said.

  “Whenever I can be of any modest assistance, Leftenant, I shall, of course, be at your service.” The two men shared a firm handshake.

  A short time later I was inside, finally unwrapping that morning’s Chronicle, revealing the banner headline: booth and pavon arrested—with the subhead Has There Been a Holmes-Coming?

  “Hey, look at this!” I walked over to show it to Holmes, who stood beside my TV in an ornery mood, fuming as he tried to decipher instructions from my iPad.

  “Mmmm,” he grumbled. I wasn’t sure if he meant yes or no.

  “It tells how Booth’s prints were found on the bottle and he’s being held without bail. And listen,” I read from the article, “Police Lieutenant Luis Ortega, who had been held hostage by the criminals, said that Dr. Amy Winslow, a pediatric surgeon at Saint Francis Hospital”—I felt a lovely rush of pride—“and a civilian consulting detective named Holmes had been of invaluable assistance in bringing the long-suspected underworld chieftains Booth and Pavon within reach of the law.”

  Holmes flared angrily, “I don’t understand!”

  “What?” I glanced down at the newspaper. “It’s great. Perfectly clear.”

  “Not the newspaper, Winslow,” he replied with extreme frustration. “This digital video recording device.” He was kneeling beside my DVR and in a fury over it. “I distinctly thought I’d arranged it to make a transcription of The All-New America’s Most Wanted, but instead I got a peculiar family drama called Schitt’s Creek.” He slapped the iPad down onto the nearby couch.

  “One of my faves!” I chuckled as I plopped down in my cushy chair opposite. “Will you tell me a couple of things honestly, Holmes?”

  He responded tersely as he stood up, “Why ever would I be other than honest?”

  “Well, your answers can sometimes be . . . circuitous.” I picked up the book of Doyle’s stories. “You say that James Moriarty was your archenemy, your prime adversary, responsible for most of the evil in London.”

  “Quite so. And also on the Continent. The fiend was the criminal mastermind of the century.” A thought struck him. “Of that century, anyway.”

  I riffled the book’s pages. “And yet, out of all these many stories, Moriarty actually appears in only two.”

  He glanced away, uninterested or feigning it, as he took a few restless steps around my living room, reminding me a bit of a caged tiger. “That would have been Doyle’s literary choice, I suppose.”

  “Is it possible there were a number of other cases where you didn’t come out on top, but to preserve your sterling reputation, Watson or Doyle chose to omit them?”

  Noticing a bit of lint on his sleeve, he brushed it off. “I was not party to the editorial decisions. Nor was I keeping score.” He took a French book from my shelf and examined it idly.

  “Circuitous answer,” I noted, smiling. “Well, you triumphed over the Moriartys this time. And I congratulate you.” I set aside Doyle’s book about Holmes and gazed at the man himself. There was something else of greater importance I’d been struck by. “I also have to say how truly admirable it was that in order to get Booth arrested you would sacrifice all of your ‘special wine.’” His eyes flicked to mine as I continued sincerely, “I know that must have been an extremely difficult decision for you, giving up all of your cocaine.”

  He lowered his eyes with unexpected modesty. “But nonetheless quite necessary in order to serve Mr. Booth his just deserts.” Then, using the book in his hand as a reference, he added, “As Gustav Flaubert wrote to George Sand, ‘L’homme n’est rien, l’œuvre est tout.’”

  I smiled slightly. “‘The man is nothing . . . the work everything’?”

  “Exactly. My actions must never be about me personally, Winslow, but always about serving the greater good, serving the work.” He had gripped the book with both hands to emphasize, “My work is paramount, and its success must always come first.”

  “Well, I applaud your decision and appreciate the sacrifice you made.”

  He brushed it off as inconsequential as he replaced the book on its shelf while grousing cynically, “Besides, who needs cocaine, Winslow? I’m high on life, which I believe is an au courant expression?”

  “Well,” I chuckled, “it was a while back.”

  He glanced again at the damnably enigmatic DVR and sighed. “I suppose I must look upon all this as a challenge, as the start of my explorations of an entirely new world. It is just that,” he paused, looking away, then said almost in a whisper, “It is just that I am unaccustomed to ever feeling even the slightest bit unsure of myself.”

  I was surprised that he was being so open with me. “You’re certainly not the only one, okay?” I decided to be equally vulnerable. “Listen, in my dealings with you I often feel . . .” I searched for the right words. “. . . oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity. Even though I know I am not. I can feel pretty insecure around you because you’re so damned brilliant.”

  “Mmmm.” His nostrils flared infinitesimally as though to inhale the word brilliant. Then another thought seemed to strike him, and as he sat down on my couch, his eyes grew slightly distant, murmuring, “Watson . . .”