by Lee Geiger
Victoria Parker gave her computer screens a passing glance, just to make sure the financial world hadn’t come to an end. At least not until she rounded out her position in Lehman Brothers.
“Here’s something else you should think about before you pass judgment on these women. You think it takes guts to be a cop, or to fling money from one side of the globe to the other? Imagine for a moment how much courage it takes to change your sex. To explain to your parents why you want to go from George to Georgette, or to tell your boss that from now on you’ll be wearing Bebe instead of Brooks Brothers? I couldn’t do it, you couldn’t do it, and I know for a fact that sorry excuse of femininity named Denise Fleet couldn’t do it.”
Mac’s watch said he was already late, and that he’d better get his tail into work. Otherwise, he’d come face to face with the dreaded Wrath of Mayes. His natural curiosity, however, was getting the best of him.
“Okay, Mom. Fess up. How do you know so much about trannies?”
Victor Parker put down her mug and spoke to her son as though she should ground him for bad behavior. “Show some respect, will you Mackey? A ‘tranny’ sounds like something that needs replacing on my Toyota. The girls at Pearls of Asia are transsexuals. And speaking of respect, do you have any idea what those girls go through? It costs money, and plenty of it, for them to transition from one sex to the other. Hell, I bet you didn’t know my accountant is a transsexual.”
Mac leaped out of his dining room chair. “Hold it right there. You can’t be serious. Andrea Connors? The same woman who sat at this table last Thanksgiving with her husband and heard me say that her body defied the laws of gravity? Damn, I can’t believe it. I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t,” said Victoria Parker, mocking her cynical son. “Andrea likes to say that she’s the best white woman from Nebraska $150,000 can buy. She cashed in her 401-K and got her face feminized, her boobs implanted, and unlike those girls at Pearls of Asia, had a vagina installed for good measure. She’s as much a woman as I am, although not quite as shy and sensitive.”
“That’s a hell of a story, Mom. Does her husband know?”
“Of course he knows. He could care less, too. He’s crazy about her.”
Mac took a final sip from his cup. How he wished he were crazy about a girl.
MAC STROLLED INTO THE precinct to find Mayes examining the list of party guests faxed over by Jim Grisham. Thirty people were invited to the party; ten couples plus ten men who arrived unescorted. There were a few notables on the list, including businessmen, politicians, and even the proprietor of a North Beach strip club. What Mayes found intriguing were two additional names scribbled in ink at the bottom of the list. Whereas the computer printout had the names, addresses and phone numbers of the invitees, these two were lumped together as “tall blonde from LA” and “skinny brunette in a black dress.”
“Did your mother forget to wake you up?” asked Mayes, looking at his watch. Mayes was a stickler for punctuality, a habit Mac was still getting used to. Mac and his former partner, Larry Kelso, had worked together for years, and were so close they could finish each other’s sentences. Mac enjoyed working with Mayes, and the two enjoyed a playful banter, but the true bond that was necessary for two detectives to completely trust one another was still in its formative stages.
“Osher’s alibi check out?” asked Mac, signaling to his partner that his focus was laser sharp despite the late start. Mayes told him that three witnesses corroborated Paul Osher’s story that he indeed was in Los Angeles at the time of the murder.
“What about you, Romeo? Did you come up with anything on Osher’s girlfriend?”
“I did, Mr. Mom. It turns out Miss Sheyla Samonte lives in a swanky high-rise apartment in South Beach that our combined paychecks couldn’t afford. I went to her place, but she played coy and wouldn’t open the door. I did recognize that marvelous voice of hers though, and she’s definitely the one from Osher’s phone records. I’m telling you, Mayes, that woman could make a fortune starting her own 1-900 number.”
“And I’m sure you’d sign up for a platinum membership. Did you ask her if she knew Paul Osher?”
“I did. She claims she doesn’t know him, but we both know a mistress isn’t wired to tell the truth. I also found out she’s a waitress at a restaurant located South of Market, so I waited around the corner and watched her drive away in a six-figure Mercedes. It’s called Pearls of Asia. Ever hear of it?”
Mayes’ eyes brightened. “Yes I have, actually. Somewhere on Howard Street, one of those Asian fusion places. The food is supposed to be good. They have some kind of cabaret show, too. Pamela and I have been meaning to go there.”
Mac did his best to feign indifference. “What else do you know about it, Mr. Know-Everything-On-The-Planet?”
Mayes placed a finger on his lip and paused. “Oh yeah, and all the waitresses are transsexuals, men to women type of thing. Supposed to be a heck of a show. So what else did she say?”
Mac wasn’t sure what to say next, or even how to say it. If he were talking to Larry Kelso, the words would spill out like a broken oil well, because Larry was single and rolled with the punches. Mayes, on the other hand, layered with the triple responsibilities of a mortgage, a wife and kids, was wound tighter than the nuts on a new bridge. How would he react to Mac being kissed by a man? More importantly, how would he react to Mac being kissed by a potential murder suspect in the middle of an investigation?
Mac shuffled some papers and decided telling the truth was the way to go. “Nothing. I never got to ask her any questions. But she did give me a big kiss on the lips, on stage, with the whole place watching.”
Mayes burst into laughter, chortling like Jabba the Hut. “You’ll be okay on this one, partner. I don’t think she’s your type of girl.”
“You got that right,” agreed Mac, nodding his head. “But do you realize what this means? Osher calls Sheyla Samonte numerous times a day. We’re assuming she’s his mistress, and it turns out she’s a transsexual. Is this far out or what?”
“Not in San Francisco,” replied Mayes, the drab fluorescent bulbs reflecting off his bald head. “Help me out here, Mac. You run with this part of the investigation. It’s late night work, and I can’t afford to spend too much time away from my pregnant wife and kids. Otherwise, I’ll need the name of your divorce attorney.”
“Not to worry, Mayes. I got your back. That’s what partners are for. Besides, ‘Divorce for Dummies’ was written for dopes like me, not upstanding rocks of Gibraltar like you. Now let’s start digging into this pile of bank and credit card statements.”
THE OSHER’S FINANCIAL STATEMENTS reflected the lifestyle of a rich couple with expensive hobbies; money flowed out as fast as it flowed in. The couple maintained a joint checking account, but the average balance was less than $1,000. Meanwhile, an individual account for Michelle Osher had an average balance of $75,000. The former beauty queen was spending almost $10,000 a month at stores like Nordstrom, Barneys, Saks, and Bloomingdales.
“How many clothes does a woman need to have in her closet?” asked Mac to no one in particular. “I’ve never understood why some women consider shopping an Olympic sport.”
“And you wonder why your wife left you,” chuckled Mayes.
Mac began perusing over Paul Osher’s financial records, admitting right away what he was hoping to find. “You know what I always say, Mayes. Just follow the money. We’re going to prove this guy has a mistress or two on the payroll. Michelle Osher was too busy working or shopping to pay any attention to him. Then again, if I were married to him, I wouldn’t want to screw him either.”
“Something else to consider,” said Mayes, looking up from his desk with a pair of wired reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “Perhaps she found out her husband had a thing for this alternative lifestyle, and for reasons known only to her, she decided to let him indulge his fantasies. Not every couple lives like Pamela and me.”
“Is that
why you keep farm animals in your backyard?”
“You got something against sheep?”
Mac dug deeper. Paul Osher would make large deposits every month into his personal account and then, like clockwork, had daily five hundred dollar withdrawals. Over half of them were from a single ATM machine located at 120 Brannan Street, one block from Sheyla’s apartment, inside the corner store Mr. Doorman said she visited everyday. Mac crunched the numbers, and Sheyla Samonte was on the payroll earning an annual salary of almost $200,000. Tax-free. “Damn Mayes, at these prices I’d be Osher’s mistress.”
“Poppycock” quipped Mayes. “We both know you’d do it for half the price.”
Osher’s credit card statements were as thick as a small phone book: meals, hotels, flights, flowers, taxis, and online gifts. Besides going to Los Angeles several times a month, Osher also took frequent trips to Las Vegas, Pebble Beach, and Cabo San Lucas. “This guy spends money like he’s got a terminal disease,” said Mac.
Mayes asked to look at a credit card bill, and he began matching up travel receipts with a calendar. “Check this out. Most of these trips are during the week, not weekends. I watched Michelle Osher deliver the news almost every night, and she was here in San Francisco.”
“Zippy the Monkey could figure this out,” said Mac, handing another credit card statement to Mayes. “Cash, trips, spas, jewelry. We need to see Osher. Today. We’re going to nail this guy to the wall.”
Mac’s cell phone rang. The medical examiner was ready to see them.
CHAPTER SIX
Friday, September 12, 2008 - 1:00 pm
“Unconfirmed reports indicate Michelle Osher’s throat was slashed and her head nearly decapitated.”
Fox News
ASSISTANT MEDICAL EXAMINER HIROSHI Kitano, M.D., a short Japanese man who had worked in the San Francisco Medical Office for over twenty years, met the detectives in the morgue operating room, a windowless enclosure that reeked of rubbing alcohol and pork fried rice. Next to them on an operating table lay the body of Michelle Osher, covered by a blue hospital sheet. Kitano pulled it back to reveal her face and neck.
Mac tried not to wince. What had once been an aging but still attractive beauty queen was now a slab of dead meat with a cavernous gaping void where most of her neck had once been. What he could see was white, twisted, and distorted.
“It’s not rocket science,” said Kitano. “Her throat was slashed, and then she fell to the floor and bled out. The murder weapon appears to be a fixed-blade knife about four inches in length.”
Mac heaved a heavy sigh and gave Kitano a look like a teenager being asked where he’s going on a Saturday night. “You called us down here for that? You could have told us all that in a two-minute phone call. C’mon Chief, you know better than to waste our time.”
“Not so fast,” said Kitano, whom Mac nicknamed “Chief” after Kitano came to a Halloween party dressed as Sitting Bull. Asian Indians, Mac articulated after too many Red Bulls and vodka, are as oxymoronic as jumbo shrimp. Or San Francisco republicans. “Take a closer look at that wound. Her right carotid artery is sliced all the way through, while the left wasn’t touched. Also, notice how the wound has an upward trajectory to it?”
“I see it,” answered Mac. “What does it mean?”
“If a person gets their throat slashed by someone standing in front of them, the wound is either straight across or has a downward trajectory. The upward motion that caused this wound indicates that the killer slashed her throat while standing behind her, using one arm to hold the victim around the shoulders, and the other to cut her throat. It also means that the murderer was taller than Michelle Osher, who was 5’8”. The depth of the cut would indicate the murderer cut her throat from right to left, which means Michelle Osher was held across the shoulders with a right arm and slashed with the left hand. Solve for ‘X’ gentlemen, and your murderer is six-feet or taller, and left-handed.”
Mac and Mayes looked at each other, smiled, and shook their heads in amazement. Kitano was good. “Great job, Chief,” pronounced Mac. “Keep up the good work and maybe they’ll put you on full-time. What about the murder weapon?”
Kitano led the detectives to a corner of the morgue, away from the x-rays of smashed skulls and bottles of formaldehyde. Resting on top of a table were three distinct switchblades. “Since you guys are still relatively new to homicide, I thought I’d give you a lesson in Switchblade 101.”
“Why a switchblade?” asked Mayes. “Didn’t you say it was a fixed-blade knife? What about a regular carving knife?”
“Based on the length and depth of the wound, I’m certain this is no standard kitchen knife,” lectured Kitano. “Listen and learn, Grasshopper. There are three types of so-called switchblades.” Kitano picked up a black handled knife with a silver knob on its spine. “This is an automatic spring blade. It has a button, or trigger, or some kind of mechanism within the handle itself to fire the knife open.” Kitano pushed the silver trigger. Snap. The blade shot out.
“I carried one of those growing up as a kid,” said Mayes.
“Of course you did,” replied Mac. “You used it to sharpen your pencils.”
Kitano picked up another switchblade which had the top of the knife partially exposed. “This next one is a spring assisted knife. Notice there is no button in the handle. A thumb stud connected at the base of the blade trips the knife open. By legal definition it’s not classified as a switchblade because there is no button or trigger to open it.”
“That’s like saying a rifle is not legally a handgun, yet both achieve the same objective,” said Mayes.
“Now pay close attention, because I believe this type of knife is your murder weapon.” Kitano picked up a silver knife, and with a flick of his wrist a blade seemed to appear out of thin air. No buttons or thumb studs, just a move a Ninja warrior would appreciate.
“This is a Balisong switchblade, also known as a butterfly knife. They’re handmade in the Philippines and are illegal to carry in many countries and states, including California. It’s a folding pocketknife with two handles counter-rotating around this centerpiece called a tang. There are no springs or buttons, so it too is not considered a switchblade, even though it really is. When a well-made Balisong switchblade is opened and the two handles are locked together like this, it is as strong and reliable as any fixed blade knife.”
“What makes you think this type of knife is our murder weapon?” asked Mac.
Kitano walked back toward the body of Michelle Osher. “Look at that wound. The killer almost cut her head off. A simple switchblade or spring-assisted knife couldn’t do that. So unless the killer brought along a butcher knife, the Balisong switchblade is your murder weapon.”
Mac asked to see the balisong knife. He closed the blade and turned it around in his hands. “Will you look how small and light this thing is? You could carry it around in your pocket and no one would ever notice.”
“Or in a purse,” said Mayes.
MAC NAVIGATED THE SUB in the direction of the Financial District toward Paul Osher’s office. Mayes sat quiet, deep in thought, which was rare for him. He liked to banter, whether it was discussing the intricacies of the case, the newest jokes by Margaret Cho, or bragging about his Twin Terrors, as he liked to call his children.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Mac asked while turning left from Folsom Street onto Fremont.
“I was just thinking about Michelle Osher,” replied Mayes in a quiet voice. “She wasn’t just murdered. She was slaughtered. Did you see how deep the wound was on her neck? Use a gun and it’s murder, but use a knife and it’s personal. Remember what I said yesterday, that whoever did this wanted to make a statement? This was not some cold-blooded killing, Mac. Michelle Osher was murdered in a passionate rage.”
Mac waited for the light to change before crossing Market Street. “You know who gets passionate about killing a spouse, don’t you? The other spouse.”
“Or the other woman,” replied Mayes.<
br />
PAUL OSHER’S OFFICE WAS on the thirtieth floor of One Embarcadero Center, one of the premier office buildings in San Francisco. After making Mac and Mayes wait for twenty minutes, a perky blonde bimbo secretary ushered them into a corner office the size of the SFPD’s entire homicide and narcotics bullpens. Combined.
“Good afternoon, Inspectors,” welcomed Osher, who remained seated at his desk without bothering to shake their hands. The picturesque view of San Francisco Bay behind him was stunning, extending from the Golden Gate Bridge all the way past Angel Island, with a hundred tiny white sailboats in between. Standing next to Osher was his attorney, Ray Woodson, who glared at the detectives without saying a word. Woodson, a tall, thin man who fancied himself more of a Mafia consigliore than a mere lawyer, was dressed in white slacks, white blazer, and some kind of brown Italian loafers with tassels that Mac could never afford. Or ever want to.
“Mr. Osher, we’ve checked your alibi and verified that you were in Los Angeles at the time of your wife’s murder,” said Mac. “You also told us you loved your wife and that you’ve been faithful to her since the day you were married. Do you still stand by that statement?”
Lawyer Woodson made his presence felt immediately. “What does that have to do with the case? He doesn’t have to answer that.”
“I’ll be happy to answer that,” responded Osher. He reached for a cigar humidor on his enormous glass desk and pulled out a Montecristo 2. Mac wondered if Osher smoked cigars because he liked them or because he mistakenly thought they made him look taller. “Yes, I stand by that statement. Why do you ask?”
Mac looked down at his notes and paused before asking his next question, giving Osher the impression he was having difficulty putting the pieces of the puzzle together. This was Mac’s mode of operation. He never went into an interview without knowing exactly what he was looking for.
