by Lee Geiger
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Longley. “Jim Grisham not only parties like a rock star, but he’s got the bank account of one as well. He also loves a fight, and he’s one of the few Republicans in this town besides Paul Osher who isn’t afraid to write a big check. When Michelle Osher changed her mind and went against her conservative brethren to support same-sex marriages, I’m sure it drew a line in the sand between her and Grisham.”
“There you go, Mac,” joked Mayes, who also was a strong supporter of gay marriage. “If a right-winger like Michelle Osher can change her mind, maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
“Not in this lifetime,” responded Mac, refusing to take the bait from his left-leaning partner. Though Mac had grown up in the Bay Area and considered himself something of a social liberal, his support of gay rights stopped at the altar.
“Can we move on, please?” protested Longley, who was never in the mood for political banter. The fact that he had the debating skills of a diseased porcupine might have had something to do with it. “What else have you got?”
“We’ve also spoken to the victim’s husband, Paul Osher, who claims he was in L.A. at the time of his wife’s death. Of course, he says he loved his wife and has no idea who would want to hurt her. In fact, he believes the killer may have been trying to kill him.”
“I’m sure you loved that line,” said Longley, all too familiar with Mac’s penchant for fingering the husband. “Be careful with Osher, though. He’s tight with Stone and every other politician in this town.”
“There’s one more thing,” continued Mac. “Michelle Osher’s dog is missing, although calling her pet a dog is an insult to the canine profession. She’s a Teacup Yorkie, a tail-wagger whose native habitat appears to be the inside of a woman’s purse. Her name is Misha, and she may have run out of the building during all the confusion. It’s probably not a big deal, but it’s worth noting.”
“Duly noted. But remember, you guys aren’t paid to be dog-catchers,” chided Longley. “You guys got anything else?”
“It’s just a thought, Captain, but I’ve got a theory on this case,” chimed Mayes, who polished off half a pie. To the two hundred-fifty pound mass of muscle, consuming food was a sprint, not a marathon. Not to mention that Mayes thought jalapeño and garlic was the best California combination since Beach and Boy. “Based on what we know so far, whoever killed Michelle Osher realized news of her death would make headlines all over the world. My hunch is the murderer was trying to send a message.”
Mac and Captain Longley nodded their heads in agreement. Mayes was usually right.
MAC’S CELL PHONE HAD three text messages, all from his mother. The last one made him laugh out loud. She had attached a photo featuring the cover model from the last winter’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, saying in big bold letters, “CALL ME!” Mac checked his watch. It was 1:30 p.m., which meant the stock market had been closed on the West Coast for a half hour. He pulled out his iPhone and tapped the entry for “Victoria Parker.”
Victoria Parker was more than Mac’s mother. She was his hero. Despite being old enough to carry an AARP card, she still bore a striking resemblance to her favorite singer, Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac. When Jack Fleet abandoned his young family for a stripper with the I.Q. of a head of lettuce, the then-Victoria Fleet was compelled to take a minimum wage job at a brokerage firm to support herself and her precocious adolescent. When she wasn’t answering phones or getting her boss a pastrami on rye, she taught herself finance by listening to the parade of pundits shepherded daily on CNBC. Her charming personality, along with her penchant for wearing short skirts on casual Fridays, caught the attention of Henry Parker, her branch manager. At her first annual year-end performance review, Mr. Parker wisely offered her a promotion to Trophy Wife.
After her second husband dropped dead at his desk from a heart attack, Victoria Parker decided to try her hand earning a living by day-trading stocks. She turned out to be a gifted trader with natural instincts and uncanny timing. Moreover, bored with watching soap operas after the stock market closed, she joined a fitness center and started pumping iron instead of chocolate. Armed with six-pack abs and the body fat of a carrot stick, the hours in the gym soon turned Victoria Parker into a Hall of Fame cougar.
“Mackey, where have you been?” she answered joyfully. “I’ve been thinking about you all morning. CNBC even interrupted their countdown of Lehman Brothers going to zero to break the news about Michelle Osher. I can’t believe that poor woman is dead, though I never thought she was the sharpest knife in the drawer. I know, I know, bad choice of words. Did you get assigned the case?”
Mac sat at his desk and pulled out a drawer to use as a footrest. “I always told you, Mom. You may have raised an ugly child, but not a stupid one. Yes, I’m on the case.”
“That’s fabulous!” she shouted, causing Mac to pull the phone away from his ear. “I can’t wait to celebrate. Listen Mackey, I’ve got to run to the gym or my personal trainer will make me wish I were never born. Not to mention I’ve got to fit into that lethal red cocktail dress I picked up last weekend at Saks. This handsome defense attorney invited me to join him for dinner on his yacht tomorrow night, and I’m going to make sure he has no objections. Gotta go, Mackey. Love ya.”
Mac hung up and laughed. His mother made him smile, but Victoria Parker made him laugh.
A PILE OF SUBPOENAED phone records and bank statements sat atop Mac’s forever-disorganized desk. To him they were just pieces of a puzzle that needed to be solved. It was late in the afternoon, and he and Mayes began the task of finding out as much as they could about Paul Osher.
“You’re going to love this,” gushed Mac after spending an hour poring over Paul Osher’s luds. “Over the past six months, these were his three most dialed phone numbers. Number three was to his wife, and most of those calls lasted less than two minutes.”
“Maybe he was checking to see if she got the flowers,” joked Mayes. Compared to Mac’s desk, which resembled a landfill, Mayes’s work area was better organized than West Point.
“Or maybe she wanted to talk to him as little as possible. Number two was to his office, and wait until you hear who was Numero Uno.”
Mayes didn’t have to answer. He knew right where Mac was going, which is where most men like to go when they start thinking below their belt.
“According to his phone records, the woman’s name is Sheyla Samonte, and she lives somewhere South of Market Street. I’m sure if we ask Paul Osher who she is he’ll say she’s his niece or some crap like that. I’m telling you Mayes, this Osher fellow is bad news.”
Mac was excited. He loved nailing a perp. He couldn’t wait to call the number and speak to the woman who would send Paul Osher to a life of playing “drop the soap” at San Quentin Prison. Harking back to his glory days as a high school swimmer, Mac felt like taking a victory lap.
He dialed the number and was immediately sent to voicemail. Her voice was strong, confident, and sultry. “Hello, you’ve reach Sheyla…”
The short message was as feminine as it was fearless, and it was the sexiest voice Mac had ever heard in his life.
“You alright over there, partner?” asked Mayes, noticing Mac’s thousand-yard stare.
“I just heard the voice of a goddess.”
“You don’t say?” laughed Mayes. “Tell you what, lover boy, since we need to move fast on this one, why don’t you go over to her apartment and check out Miss Goddess while I stay here and track down Paul Osher’s alibi. You’re better with the ladies than I am, anyway.”
“Of course I am, Mr. Happily Married with Twins and One More Bun in the Oven.”
MAC RAN OUT OF the office and down to the department’s underground garage. He still drove his first car, a restored Horizon Blue 1960 Chevrolet Kingswood Estate Cruiser that he endearingly called The Sub. The twenty-foot long land yacht, complete with miles of chrome and aluminum trim, had been given to him by his grandmother as a high school grad
uation present. The tuck and roll upholstery and push button radio said volumes about Mac and how he wanted to live his life; low key, under the radar, and cool. Class wasn’t something you bought, he believed. You either had it or you didn’t.
What Mac also had plenty of was charisma, and he rarely had a problem getting a lady’s attention. Women were drawn to Mac by his rugged good looks and self-deprecating sense of humor. Mac liked to say his broad shoulders and deep dimples were the only reminders he had of his father. And that was on those rare occasions when he would talk about his father. Mac had also mastered the fine art of conversation, and he made it a point to look into a woman’s eyes while speaking to her. “Talk to a woman with your ears,” Victoria Parker always told him. “A girl likes it when you listen to what she has to say instead of staring at her chest.”
Mac wanted to settle down, but he had no luck with his first marriage. Denise was charming and smart, and she had just become a Director at J.P. Morgan before she left him. He’d fallen hard for the perky blonde from San Diego, and they married after he graduated from the Police Academy. While Mac was out on the streets searching for suspects, Denise earned an MBA from Stanford and pursued a career in investment banking. Both worked long hours and never had time for their spouse. On those rare occasions when they found themselves in the same room, Denise grew tired hearing Mac’s stories of enforcing law and order, while Mac found her dissertations on how another megamerger would reshape the global marketplace mind numbing and tedious.
After almost ten years of marriage, the big chill descended. The marriage took a turn for the worse on a Friday evening last December, after Denise got her big promotion. The company Christmas party was that evening, and she wanted to show off her brand new Lexus LS 460. Mac, however, wanted to stay low-key and arrive in The Sub. A nasty argument ensued, and Mac ended up staying at home. In fact, he went into the station and worked an extra shift.
When he got home at three o’clock in the morning, Mac found all her stuff cleaned out. Denise hadn’t gone to the party, either. Every piece of furniture was gone, and torn photographs littered the floor. It was as if their marriage never existed. Denise just wanted to be done with him and gone.
The way Mac saw it, as a husband, he was a failure.
SHEYLA SAMONTE LIVED AT 229 Brannan Street, a chic thirty-story high-rise located in an up and coming neighborhood known as South Beach. Dot-com yuppies rollerbladed along the neighboring Embarcadero while sailboats and freighters cruised past. Cafes spilled onto the sidewalks as the sexy singles set knocked back espressos and dined on sushi.
Mac flashed his badge at the doorman, who informed him a young woman named Sheyla Samonte resided in apartment 2407. Mr. Doorman looked like one of those elderly rent-a-cops who retired from the police force and soon discovered that sitting at home and collecting a pension was overrated. Before catching the elevator, Mac asked him if there was anything special he should know about her.
Mr. Doorman got a faraway look and flashed a grin so wide his eyes nearly closed shut. “I don’t know much about her, but every day she takes a walk down to the corner store, and a smile from her is the highlight of my day.”
Mac stepped off the elevator onto the twenty-fourth floor. As he walked down the ritzy taupe-colored hallway, he realized the odd-numbered rooms, like Sheyla Samonte’s, faced north and offered an unobstructed view of the Bay Bridge, which when lit up at night was nothing less than spectacular. Mac found his way to apartment 2407, composed himself, and knocked on the door. He felt more nervous than a teenager on prom night.
He could hear the soft, catlike steps of a woman. Mac tugged on his suit jacket and smoothed down his hair. This wasn’t some serial rapist or drug lord he was tracking down. This was The Voice.
“Who is it?” she purred. The Voice sounded even better in person.
Mac had trouble getting the words to tumble out of his mouth. “Miss Samonte, I’m Inspector Mac Fleet of the San Francisco Police Department. I need to ask you a few questions about Paul Osher.”
The awkward seconds of silence seemed like hours. Only an inch of pine separated them, but the longer he stood outside in the hallway, the more it seemed like miles.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name,” she cooed.
Mac persisted. “Miss Samonte, would you mind opening the door? I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”
“I’m so sorry, Inspector,” she deflected. “But I just got out of the shower and I have to get dressed for work.”
Mac’s first instinct was to say something biting and sarcastic, but a proper upbringing held him back. She was still The Voice, and she sounded so sincere and polite. “Miss Samonte, I left several messages on your phone today. If you’re not available to answer my questions right now, I’d appreciate it if you could call me back so we can set up a meeting. We need to talk.”
“I’ll do that, Inspector. I promise. I have to get ready for work now. Have a good evening.”
As he strolled through the lobby, Mr. Doorman asked Mac if he had seen Sheyla Samante. “No, I didn’t. She said she had to get ready for work.”
Mr. Doorman’s face lit up, his eyes squinting so much his round face reminded Mac of a statue of Buddha. “Oh that’s right. It’s Thursday night. She works as a waitress not too far from here. She always waves at me from her Mercedes.”
Mac reacted like he had just found a piece of a puzzle buried between the sofa cushions. “Wait a minute. Let me see if I’ve got this straight. Sheyla Samonte lives in this Trump Tower wanna-be, drives a Mercedes, and works as a waitress? She must get tipped in gold bars.”
“I don’t know how she does it, either. All I can tell you is she usually leaves for work around six o’clock.”
Mac checked his watch. It was 5:30 pm.
He loved stakeouts.
MAC HUNKERED IN THE Sub and stared at the entrance of the building’s garage. It had already been quite the day. He needed a little quiet time for himself anyway. Not too long, however. Otherwise the pit in his stomach would show up and start grinding away at his psyche. Again. Ever since the “Twelve Days of Christmas,” the term Mac used to describe the most difficult and tragic time of his life, when he lost both his wife and his partner in a matter of days, the toxic brew of anger, resentment and guilt woke up with him every morning. It joined him at every meal, and then climbed into bed with him every night. Mac may have been lonely, but he was never alone.
After waiting almost an hour, Mac noticed a late model silver Mercedes Benz leave the garage. “Waitress, my ass,” he said to himself. “The only thing this gal waits on is a guy’s wallet.”
Mac slouched in The Sub and let Sheyla Samonte get a block ahead of him. He followed her for less than two miles before the Mercedes pulled over and parked on the east side of Ninth Street, across from a combination gas station and fast-food restaurant. He passed her and turned left onto Howard Street, where he found a shipyard-sized parking spot next to a discount furniture store.
Sheyla got out of her car wearing workout clothes and carrying a fashionable Louis Vuitton travel bag. Mac’s ten years as a hardbitten professional investigator told him three things about this potential murder suspect; she was Asian, she was tall, and she was gorgeous. Sheyla disappeared through a doorway at the southeast corner of Ninth and Howard Street. Mac looked over and noticed a small sign on the side of the restaurant. For a guy who knew every trendy spot in town, this was one place he had never heard of.
The sign said Pearls of Asia.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thursday, September 11, 2008 - 9:00 pm
“Residents of this upper-class neighborhood are not used to seeing news vans, squad cars, and yellow crime scene tape while walking their dogs past freshly planted flowers and trimmed trees. South of Market, perhaps, but never Nob Hill.”
Entertainment Tonight
THE MODEST SIGN OUTSIDE Pearls of Asia said in small letters “since 1998.” Located at the corn
er of Ninth and Howard streets, in a neighborhood called South of Market, or SOMA for short, the restaurant was located one block away from Folsom Street, where San Francisco’s gay leather subculture thrived. Folsom was home for the notorious Folsom Street Fair, San Francisco’s annual celebration of bondage, discipline, submission, and masochism. You won’t find a Disney store anywhere in the neighborhood.
Mac watched an assortment of customers stream into the restaurant. They would first walk past a glass door, speak to a host, and then proceed through a floor length black curtain. A black stretch limousine was parked near the entrance, and six women wearing skimpy clothing and celebrating a bachelorette party tumbled out onto the street, each one already fortified with a healthy dose of liquid courage.
Mac wanted to go inside and scope out the scene, but he wondered if he’d be out of place wearing a cheap suit and tie. “I’m going to stand out like a black crow in a bowl of milk,” he muttered to himself. Undeterred, he slammed the door of The Sub and headed toward the restaurant.
A slight Asian man wearing a black silk shirt, red silk tie, and black leather pants greeted Mac at the door. His jet-black hair was tied in a ponytail, and his head was bobbing to the pulsating beat of the music. Mac pushed back the curtain and looked inside. Judging from the volume of voices and music, this wasn’t just a restaurant. It was a party.
“Can I grab a table?” asked Mac.
“I’m sorry sir,” replied Mr. Ponytail in a strong Japanese accent. “We only seat singles at the bar. Have you dined with us before?”
“Nope. Never even heard of this place.”
