by Lee Geiger
“Ms. Madrigal, I’m Inspector Mac Fleet and this is my partner, Inspector Taylor Mayes. We know how upsetting this must be for you, but we need to ask you a few questions about what you saw and heard this morning. When did you last see Mrs. Osher alive?”
“I’m not in trouble, am I?” she asked with a heavy Mexican accent.
“No ma’am. We’re with homicide, not immigration.”
Maria breathed an audible sigh of relief, and the color rushed back to her face. Mac was right. She was worried about something else besides a dead employer. “Mrs. Osher came home from work, usual time. Close to midnight. She was very tired.”
Mayes squatted down to Maria’s eye level and sat on a coffee table to make her feel more at ease. Mayes had an instinct regarding when to use his massive physical presence to intimidate or encourage. “Ms. Madrigal, please tell us what you saw and heard last night.”
Maria teared up. “I don’t know,” she said in a halting voice. “She…was still in the kitchen. I say goodnight…then go to my room and turn on the TV. Leno was almost over…but I was sleepy. I turn it off and go to bed.”
“So the last time you saw Michelle Osher alive was around 12:30?” confirmed Mac. She nodded. “Ms. Madrigal, between the time you went to bed and the time you found her, did you hear anything at all during the night?”
“No,” she answered, composing herself. “There was a party on the floor right below. Very noisy. People shouting, loud music, so I wear earplugs. I’m sorry.” Maria began to cry again, and she buried her face in a handkerchief. “Can I go to my room now?”
“A couple more questions,” said Mac, who knew the last thing Maria wanted to do was answer a couple more questions. “Do you know who was having the party?”
“Oh, that rude man. Mr. Grisham in 1901. He has parties all the time. He and Mr. Osher are friends.”
“Speaking of Mr. Osher,” said Mayes, standing up and returning to not-your-best-friend mode. “Do you know where he is?”
“Los Angeles. He left Monday. He goes there on business all the time. He is to come home tomorrow. Does he know what happened to Mrs. Osher?”
“We’re trying to get in touch with him. One more question, Ms. Madrigal,” said Mac, who stopped writing and looked at Maria as though the fate of the free world rested on her answer to his next question. “How would you describe the Osher’s marriage?”
Maria wiped away her tears and blew her nose. Her eyes brightened and a smile appeared on her face. “Wonderful,” she said. “Mr. Osher loves her. He sends her flowers all the time.”
“Thank you Maria,” said Mayes, handing her his business card. “Please call us if you can think of anything else.”
Maria began walking toward her room. Then, for no apparent reason, she dropped down onto her hands and knees to peek under a chair. She then crawled along the white-carpeted living room floor, whistled softly, and looked behind an armoire. She got up to walk into dining room, then dropped down onto her knees and whistled again, this time to look under a china cabinet. After several more “stop and drop” moments, she returned to ask the detectives a question.
“Excuse me please,” she said in a quiet voice. “Have you seen Misha? She is a little dog, a Teacup Yorkie. Mrs. Osher loved her. I not see her all morning.”
It was the first mention of a family pet. Earlier Mac had noticed a fancy china doggy dish and water bowl in the kitchen, but he didn’t think to ask about the four-legged creature that went with them.
“We haven’t seen her either,” Mac answered while closing his notebook. “She may have run out of the apartment or is hiding somewhere. We’ll keep an eye out and let you know if we find her.” Feeling reassured, Maria turned and walked back to her room.
MAC STOMPED TOWARD THE plate glass windows and looked down upon the phalanx of news trucks parked twenty floors below. “Goddammit,” he grumbled, pounding his fist against a window frame. “How could I have missed that? I should have realized the Oshers had a pet. It’s sloppy work on my part. No excuses.”
“You know, I hate it when you do that,” consoled Mayes. “Stop being so damn hard on yourself. We would have discovered the missing mutt. Don’t forget, Mr. Perfectionist, there are two great detectives working on this case.”
Mac ran his fingers through a full head of uncombed salt and pepper hair. The premature gray gave him a distinguished look for a man only thirty-two years old. His hair color wasn’t surprising, since Mac was a world-class worrier and all-league second-guesser. He had even given himself an ulcer at the age of fourteen. Whether as a son, a husband, a student or a detective, Mac was wired to feel he was never good enough, that he didn’t deserve a seat at the table. He forever internalized his anger, his fears, and his self-doubts, and he used them as fuel to drive his raging ambition. Every day was like an audition, and if he said all the right things and made all the right moves, no one would discover he was the fraud he thought he was.
“At least we have an eyewitness,” said Mac. “Too bad it has a tail. Since you know everything Mayes, maybe you can explain to me what a Teacup Yorkie is.”
“I wouldn’t expect an alpha male like you to know what they are,” replied Mayes, scratching a well-maintained midnight black goatee. “They’re really tiny Yorkshire Terriers, so small they can fit into a tea cup, hence the name. They’re what women like to call ‘purse dogs.’”
“That’s not a dog. Dogs are German Shepherds and Labrador Retrievers. A Teacup Yorkie sounds more like a rat.”
“Well my ignorant friend, just so you know, some of those ‘rats’ cost thousands of dollars. Carrying one of those around can mean as much to a woman as having the right purse.”
“Of course it does,” replied Mac, who turned his head toward the kitchen and winced as he heard a disturbing sound. The finality of a body bag zipper still caused him to cringe.
THE TWO INSPECTORS TOOK the stairs down to the nineteenth floor and found the Grisham’s apartment at the end of the hallway. As they approached the double doors of unit 1901, Mac turned to his partner. “Mayes, you know how I feel about these cases where the wife is murdered. The husband has to be involved. That story about Paul Osher sending his wife flowers all the time? It’s a dead giveaway of a cheating spouse. I mean, look at you. You’re crazy about Pamela, but how often do you send her flowers? I know the maid said he was out of town, but I’m telling you, the sooner we get to Paul Osher, the sooner we’ll solve this case.”
“I hear you, Mac, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. And just so you know, I do send my wife flowers. Maybe if you had you wouldn’t be sleeping under the same roof as your mother.”
“Asshole.”
“That’s Mr. Asshole to you.” Mayes rang the doorbell. No answer. He knocked on the door. Still no answer. Mayes began pounding on the door like an angry jackhammer. After what seemed like an eternity, the heavy footsteps of someone who wasn’t expecting company approached the door.
They heard a dead bolt, then another one at floor level, and the door opened a crack. A bedraggled, unhappy looking middle-aged man wearing pink paisley pajamas greeted them.
“Who the hell are you?” asked a belligerent Jim Grisham. He was short, about 5’2”, and his breath reeked of sweet tobacco, the kind grown in the lush forests of Northern California. His baggy eyes were fighting a losing battle to stay open.
The inspectors flashed their badges. “Sir, we’re with the San Francisco Police Department. I’m Inspector Mac Fleet and this is Inspector Taylor Mayes. We need to ask you a few questions. Are you Jim Grisham?”
“I was when I went to bed last night. What’s this all about?”
“There was a homicide in your building, Mr. Grisham. Do you mind if we come in?”
“Homicide?” gasped Grisham, his face springing to life. “You mean someone died here last night? Jeez, I hope it wasn’t one of my guests.” Grisham opened the door to let Mac and Mayes squeeze by. Then he closed it and rebolted the locks. “Who was it?”
>
“Michelle Osher,” said Mayes, emphasizing her last name to make sure he had Grisham’s full attention. “The woman who lived upstairs. Did you know her?”
“Michele Osher? You can’t be serious,” exclaimed Grisham, the news opening his eyes made red from too many Happy Hits. “Of course I know her.” Grisham’s look of surprise soon turned to scorn. “Who didn’t know Ms. Perfect? She made you feel lucky to be in her presence. Michelle called herself a reporter, but she was nothing more than a glorified newsreader. Wow, I can’t believe she’s dead. She was supposed to come to my party last night. She said her husband would be out of town and that she’d try to make an appearance.”
“Did she?” asked Mayes.
“Hell, no. I told my guests they’d get to meet the world famous Michelle Osher, but I knew she’d flake. She always did. I’m sorry she’s dead, but I won’t miss her. The woman was a first-class bitch.”
“And when did you last speak to this so called ‘first-class bitch?’” asked Mayes.
Grisham raised his hands and began rubbing both sides of his head, as though the answer would pop out along with a genie. “Tuesday, I think. Yeah, that was it. Tuesday. I saw her right after lunch, around two o’clock. She was on her way to work.”
Mayes asked if they could speak to Grisham’s wife, but he shook his head. “Sonia drank too much Vitamin V last night. She’s passed out in the guest room. She won’t be waking up until next week.”
“Vitamin V?” asked Mac.
“Vodka, genius.”
Mac’s pants pocket began vibrating from a text message sent to his cell phone. Paul Osher had arrived home.
“We’re outta here Mayes,” declared Mac. “Mr. Grisham, we’ll need a list of all the people who attended your party last night.”
“No problem,” answered Grisham, straining to unbolt the door. “I’ll get you one as soon as I’m able.” Grisham tried to close the door behind them, but Mayes blocked it with one of his size fifteen loafers.
“You’ll have it to us by the end of today,” said the former linebacker, who looked like he would have enjoyed nothing more at that moment than to be penalized for a late hit, “or I’ll return with a search warrant and check out what other ‘vitamins’ you keep in this place.”
MAC AND MAYES FOUND Paul Osher in his study, whispering into his cell phone. He was wearing an Armani suit that failed to hide his sack-of-laundry physique. Mac took a moment to scan the framed photos on the wall; a picture of Osher shaking hands with President George Bush, and another of him sharing a joke with California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Holding a special place on the wall was a picture of Osher sitting on a sailboat with his arm around actress Sharon Stone. Her hand was on his knee.
“Gentlemen, would you mind waiting in the other room?” requested Osher, who then proceeded to talk on his cell phone as though he was making a Saturday morning tee time.
Mac knew he wasn’t going to like Paul Osher as soon as he laid eyes on him. Whether it was the way they dressed, the way they talked or the way they moved, Mac had a sixth sense for jerks he knew would piss him off. Paul Osher was going to be one of those guys, even if he wasn’t the wealthy husband of a murdered spouse. Mac’s job was to make sure Osher never knew it.
“Okay gentlemen,” Osher announced after making them cool their heels outside his door for fifteen minutes, “you can come in now. What can I do for you?”
The study’s burnt-red mahogany walls and dark leather furniture spoke of power and wealth. The framed photos of politicians and movie stars shared wall space with wooden plaques that had gold letters engraved in black textured plates, proclaiming honors and accomplishments that meant nothing to Mac. Bookshelves displayed collections of Charles Dickens and Ernest Hemingway, umpteen golf trophies, and even a bronze bust of the man himself, Paul Osher. Mac thought it would look good wearing a Mickey Mouse hat, complete with ears.
“Mr. Osher, I’m Inspector Mac Fleet and this is my partner, Inspector Taylor Mayes. We’re homicide detectives with the San Francisco Police Department. We’ve been assigned to investigate your wife’s murder. We’re very sorry for your loss.”
“Gentlemen, please have a seat,” replied Osher, sitting down on a sofa and sounding as though he was about to moderate a roundtable discussion on economic policy rather than discuss the murder of his wife. “You guys must be good. As soon as my close personal friend David Stone called me this morning, I told him I wanted his best men working on this case. I was in Los Angeles when he called, and I ordered my private jet to fly me home immediately.”
“We appreciate that, sir,” said Mac, taking pains to write “personal friend,” “ordered,” and “private jet” into his notebook. “Mr. Osher, we need to ask you a few questions. First of all, do you know anyone who would want to hurt your wife?”
“Well, first of all, you have to understand that we’re a very powerful couple.” Osher spoke in a deep, condescending tone, flipping his Hermes tie to cover a belt buckle yearning to be free. “I’m sure there are all kinds of people who want to destroy us. Just look at all those reporters standing outside. They wouldn’t show up for just anybody. Besides, whoever killed Michelle may have been trying to kill me.”
“Really? Why would you say that, Mr. Osher?” asked Mayes.
Osher reached for a humidor and pulled out a cigar. Mac recognized right away it was a Cohiba Esplendido. Before he got married, Mac enjoyed smoking an occasional cigar. He considered himself something of an aficionado, although Cohibas were beyond a detective’s salary. His father gave him his first cigar on his thirteenth birthday, and then shared another after Mac lost his virginity. Jack Fleet was like that. He even gave Mac his first beer after he won a schoolyard brawl in the sixth grade.
“See these pictures and plaques on the wall?” said Osher, taking time to carefully light his cigar. “You not only have to be smart to get those, but it also helps to be a real prick.”
Mac opened his notebook to pen another thought from this initial interview with Paul Osher; “prick.”
The detectives continued to question Osher about his slain wife: friends, family, and acquaintances. Osher claimed he didn’t know anyone close to Michelle who would want to kill her. Mayes asked about her relationship with her co-workers. Paul Osher said as far as he knew his wife got along with everybody and was the apple of her boss’ eye. “Fortunately, I don’t have to deal with crap like that,” he added with a prideful smirk, “since I am the boss.”
“Of course you are,” said Mac, hoping Osher wouldn’t pick up on his natural sarcasm. Mac couldn’t help himself. Just like some people are wired to be alcoholics, he was wired to be a wiseass.
“Mr. Osher, besides you, the maid and your wife, does anyone else have access to your apartment?” continued Mayes.
“The Grisham’s have a key just in case we lock ourselves out. Why do you ask?”
“Just doing our job, sir.”
It was time for Mac to ask “the question,” the one that stood in the corner like an eight hundred pound gorilla. “Mr. Osher, how would you describe your relationship with your wife?”
Paul Osher gave Mac a contemptuous look while flicking away his cigar ash. “I know where you’re going with this, Inspector. I’m aware that the husband is an obvious suspect. However, not a day goes by when our names are not in the headlines, so if Michelle and I were cheating on one another, you can bet the whole goddamn world would know about it.” Osher took another long drag on his Cohiba. “The truth is, I loved my wife very much, and I haven’t so much as looked at another woman since the day we were married.”
There were two things Mac knew as a cop: when a suspect was lying, and when to conclude an interview. This was one of those times when both applied.
MAC AND MAYES EXITED the building and marched past the banks of microphones and cameras.
“You like the husband?” asked Mayes.
“I always like the husband.”
CHAPTER THREE
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br /> Thursday, September 11, 2008 - 12:00 pm
“Chief of Police David Stone refused to comment on the identity of the Nob Hill murder victim, rumored to be KNTV news anchor Michelle Osher, once again giving credence to his familiar nickname of “David Stone-Walling.”
KCBS Radio
MAC LIKED TO SAY that if you’re going to play baseball, then be a Yankee. If you’re going to play basketball, be a Laker. And if you’re going to be a cop, patrol the Tenderloin. The notorious San Francisco neighborhood, bordered by Geary, Market, and Larkin streets, offered up a troublesome dose of crime served with a strip club chaser, and featured enough seedy characters to fill a Dashiell Hammett novel. The police station located at the corner of Jones and Eddy was more than just a place where cops collected a paycheck. It was destitution’s address for Ground Zero.
Mac and Mayes were seated with Captain Longley in his cramp office, which reflected the personality of its occupant: cheap, humorless and uninspiring. The detectives brought Longley up to speed while wolfing down a lunch of cold pizza. They had spent a fruitless morning canvassing the building’s residents and the surrounding neighborhood, asking if anyone had observed anything unusual or suspicious. Nobody had seen a thing, though several did ask if there was a reward for the missing dog.
“We’ve ruled out robbery as a motive,” said Mac between bites of jalapeno and garlic, “and whoever killed Michelle Osher was let into her apartment. At this point we have no eyewitnesses and no murder weapon. The building’s entrance does have a surveillance camera and we’re getting a copy of the tape. One occupant, a Mr. Jim Grisham, was throwing a party one floor below the Osher’s apartment and we’ve asked him to provide us with a guest list. You should have seen this guy, Captain. He looked worse than a Keith Richards mug shot. He also made it clear he didn’t think a whole lot of Michelle Osher.”
