by Lee Geiger
“WHAT THE HELL WERE you thinking?” bellowed Stone behind the closed door of his office. Mac knew this moment would arrive, but nothing could have prepared him for the verbal onslaught he was about to take. “Am I to believe what your partner told me, that you’re romancing our suspect? Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Throughout his career, Stone had served as a mentor to Mac. Standing before him now, in disgrace, Mac felt like a son who had just disappointed his father. “I’m sorry, sir. There is no excuse for my behavior. I realize I’ve failed you.”
“I swear Mac, if this case gets thrown out of court because my lead detective acted like a love-starved Casanova, I’ll do more than just fire you. I’ll have you prosecuted for obstruction of justice and have you thrown in jail.”
“Sir, if that’s the case then I’ll accept the consequences. But as a sworn officer of the law, it’s my duty to tell you I don’t believe Sheyla Samonte killed Michelle Osher. I admit I violated department policy, and I’ve put my career in jeopardy, but Sheyla Samonte did not commit this crime. The real killer is still out there.”
“Then why did you and Mayes have her arrested?”
Mac’s jaw tightened; resolve replaced guilt. “Because that’s what you wanted us to do, sir. You made it very clear that we had to pin this crime on someone or our jobs would be in jeopardy. I’ll admit much of the evidence points to Sheyla Samonte, but the case against her isn’t just circumstantial, it’s atmospheric. We still haven’t found Sonia Grisham or a murder weapon. Hell, we still haven’t found the damn dog. There are still too many unanswered questions, and I don’t think we’re doing the best job we can by making a quick arrest just because the media has lit a fire under your ass. I’m sorry for talking to you this way, Chief, but I’m telling you the truth.”
Stone had heard enough. He wanted answers, and all he was hearing were excuses. “Clean out your desk, Fleet. You’ve just earned yourself a suspension without pay. Now get the hell out of my office.”
MAC GRABBED A CARDBOARD box and began the never-thought-of-process of emptying his desk. All the years of hard work had come down to this. The one thing he loved to do more than anything else in the world was being taken away from him. And he had only himself to blame. Next was the stuff in his locker. Inside the locker room were half a dozen officers in various stages of undress. The roar of testosterone-fueled gossip was silenced the moment he entered the room.
“I can’t believe you, Mac,” remarked Keith Nix, the officer Mac ran into the day before. “As if sleeping with a murder suspect wasn’t bad enough, you had to go screw around with a tranny. You’re such a loser.”
“I knew I should have said something to the Captain,” added Jackson, who saw Mac that first night at Pearls of Asia. “Something about you being there alone, kissing that transvestite. My girlfriend and I could tell you were into him. Man, I never would have believed you were gay.”
Mac tried to keep his poise. “Guys, do yourselves a favor and keep your mouths shut. Just let me get my gear and get the hell out of here.”
“Guess we won’t be seeing you tomorrow, will we?” blathered Nix, getting up into Mac’s face and signaling that his presence wasn’t wanted at the precinct tailgater. “What’s the matter, Mac? Can’t you find a real girl to go out with? You know, Melanie said she saw you out on a date with that tranny last week. You like sucking cocks and having dicks shoved up your ass, don’t you, big fella?”
The rpm’s on Mac’s cool-meter began to redline. He had heard enough. Mac balled his right hand into a fist and let fly with a ferocious right cross cross flush into Nix’s jaw. Soon the two pugilists were wrestling and punching each other on the floor.
“What’s the matter with you guys?” shouted Mayes, racing in to break up the fight. “C’mon, Nix. Let him get his stuff and get out of here. Leave him alone.”
Mac, blood streaming from his nose, quickly emptied his locker and left without saying a word. Mayes followed him outside to The Sub.
“Thanks for helping me out there, partner,” said Mac. “Or at least you were my partner until a half hour ago.”
“I warned you, Mac. You know those guys don’t take to kindly to homosexuals, especially when they think they’re working next to one.”
“But I’m not gay!”
“Mac, I don’t know and I don’t care. What I do know is that you’ve lost my trust, and right now your reputation is lower than whale shit. I told you I had to report your behavior to Stone if we arrested Sheyla, and you left me no choice. I’m sorry, Mac. I wish there was something I could do.”
“There is something you can do,” pleaded Mac. “Help me find the real killer. We both know deep in our guts that Sheyla Samonte did not commit this crime. It has to be someone else. Please Mayes, will you help me?”
“Sorry, Mac. No can do. I’m already in enough hot water with Stone over not reporting you earlier. If he ever caught wind that I was helping you, he’d fire me on the spot. I’ve got my wife and kids to think about. I’m sorry, Mac, but you’re on your own. You screwed up.”
Of course he did, thought Mac. As far as he was concerned, he had failed as a detective. Again.
MAC CLIMBED THE STAIRS in search of his mother. He expected to find her in her office, tabulating her profits from Wall Street’s financial bloodletting. Instead the room was silent, the computer turned off, and the chart books stacked under a Lehman Brothers coffee mug. Then he remembered where she’d often go on a sunny September day.
He ran upstairs and flung open the screen door to the roof deck. Sitting cross-legged in a skimpy bikini on a pink lounge chair was Victoria Parker. She had a glass of chardonnay in one hand and a Jackie Collin’s novel in the other, sunbathing a body that lied about her age.
“I saw the press conference on TV. Congratulations, Mackey. I see you arrested Paul Osher’s mistress. It’s time to celebrate!”
Mac leaned against a thick wooden railing surrounding the roof deck. He peered over the edge and noticed The Sub parked in the driveway, six stories below. He wondered if it would cushion his fall.
“We need to put the celebration on hold, Mom. I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Since it’s such a beautiful day, why don’t you work your way up.”
“I got suspended from my job today.”
“Holy cow! Are you kidding me?” she said, the shock of the news causing her to drop her book. Whatever dirt Jackie Collins was dishing was nothing compared to what her son was about to say. “What’s the good news?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
Mac picked up her bottle of wine and took a healthy chug straight from the bottle. “There is no doubt in my mind that Sheyla Samonte is innocent. The evidence we have on her is paper-thin. The pieces of the puzzle don’t fit, and an arrest wasn’t warranted. Stone caved in to media and political pressure and wanted someone, anyone, taken into custody.”
“Oh my goodness. Are you serious?”
“Of course I am. And here’s the best part. Mayes and I couldn’t even agree on whom we should arrest. He was convinced that Sheyla Samonte was our most likely suspect, so we took her in. I told Stone we had the wrong person behind bars.”
“Is that why he suspended you, because you and Mayes disagreed?”
Mac took another hit of chilled white wine. “I wish that was the reason.”
“Then why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Because I’m having an affair with our murder suspect.”
MAC AND HIS MOTHER spent the rest of the afternoon discussing the loss of both his job and his lover. Victoria Parker sympathized with her distraught son, but it was also Saturday night, and she wasn’t going to let the shock of Mac’s suspension get in the way of her having a good time. She was never fond of pity parties anyway. Victoria Parker had stared down adversity in her life by solving her own problems, and she expected her son to do the same.
The Cougar Comm
ittee was going salsa dancing, and Victoria Parker felt chic in a Joseph Domingo cocktail dress with a matching pair of Louboutins she bought earlier that day at Barneys. Wall Street had finished the week in the red, and she wanted to celebrate by finishing her week in purple.
Mac lamented the temporary loss of his paycheck by picking at a pepperoni pizza and helping himself to a half-empty bottle of pinot noir, which he placed next to an already-empty bottle of merlot. For all the friends he had in the department, he had not received one single call of support. Meanwhile, the grinding pit in his stomach returned after a weeklong hiatus, only this time it had nothing to do with a soon-to-be-ex-wife investment banker, and everything to do with his girlfriend sitting in jail. He agonized over whether or not he should have fought harder for Sheyla and stood up to the pressure Stone had put on them. As a boyfriend, Mac figured, he had failed there also.
“Mackey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” suggested Victoria Parker. “I’m on your side. When it comes to being a cop, nobody has better instincts than you. Stone’s a politician. He’s kissed more ass than my gay hairdresser. You did cross the line with Sheyla, however, and for that you deserve forty lashes. As for your so-called ‘friends’ from the precinct, if they’re not calling you because you’ve been dating a trans woman, then you might as well tell those jerks to lose your number.”
“You’re right, Mom. You’re always right. But what am I going to do about Sheyla? Once she’s released from jail, how is she ever going to trust me again? I can’t explain it, Mom. Something about her made me forget what I was doing and use poor judgment. I acted like a fool.”
“Just like every other man who’s ever fallen in love,” said a wise woman in a gorgeous dress who had broken her fair share of hearts. Victoria Parker helped herself to a glass of pinot noir and sat across the table from her dejected son.
“Mackey, I thought about this while I was getting ready. You once said Sheyla isn’t a normal girl. Well, you’re wrong. Sheyla’s as normal as you or me. Think about it. After you told me this afternoon how the case unfolded, I started seeing the girls from Pearls of Asia in the roles they fill: Diamond is the Diva; Nadia is the Working Girl; Ashley is The Prodigy; Reyna is the Godmother; and Sheyla is the Beauty Queen. Guess what, Mackey? I just described all the men who worked at my old brokerage firm. You have to forget what’s ‘normal’ and understand that what happens at Pearls of Asia also happens at places like Apple or Google. Heck, even your own precinct. They’re people, Mackey, just like everyone else. They have dreams to chase, bills to pay, and families to support. And yes, handsome men like you fall in love with beautiful women like Sheyla. So I’ve got just one question to ask you before I leave here and dance this fabulous fifty-something ass off.”
“What’s that?”
“What are you willing to do to win your life back?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sunday, September 21, 2008 - 6:00 am
“Sheyla Samonte may not have been the only ‘gender illusionist’ bedded by Paul Osher. Another waitress from ‘Pearls of Asia,’ who wished to remain anonymous, claimed she once had a year long affair with the San Francisco tycoon.”
Vanity Fair
MAC’S PHONE JOLTED HIM out of his Napa-induced coma. It was six o’clock in the morning, and his aching back wanted to know why he spent the night sleeping on his shower floor. His half-mast eyes were focused on his bedroom-ceiling fan, debating which was spinning faster; the fan or his room.
“Is this Mac Fleet?” asked a voice that scared a hundred men into submission.
“That depends,” asked Mac, who wasn’t exactly sure what his name was. “Who’s asking?”
“It’s Reyna. Reyna Cruz. From Pearls of Asia. Remember me? Sheyla gave me your number. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
Mac didn’t mind, but his mind did. “It’s okay, Reyna. Just turn the volume down a few notches. What can I do for you?”
“Hey, I spoke to Sheyla this morning. She phoned me right as my Latin boyfriend was about to give me my morning wakeup call. Can you believe the timing of that bitch? Anyway, she told me what you said to her last night. What did you mean when you asked her to trust you?”
Mac sat upright, hoping getting blood to flow through his body would clear the fog from his head. It didn’t. “Because I don’t believe Sheyla murdered Michelle Osher. I never have. I’m going to find the real killer and get her out of jail.”
Mac stood up and stumbled around his room, causing his headache to register 9.7 on the Richter scale. “The Chief of Police, the Governor, the Mayor, they all wanted us to make an arrest as soon as possible. So we had to peg the murder on someone. Before last night the only evidence we had pointing to Sheyla was that she lacked an alibi and was left handed. Once we found the knife in her purse, it was all over. We had to take her into custody.”
“Well…” teased Reyna, “I think I can help you. Why don’t you come over to my place?”
Twenty minutes later, The Sub was anchored outside Reyna’s house.
“WOW, SHEYLA WAS RIGHT,” observed Reyna after sliding into The Sub’s cavernous passenger seat. “You can have an orgy in this thing. Listen Mac, let’s first go to Diamond’s apartment. I tried calling her but she doesn’t answer. It’s really strange. That girl holds onto her cell phone like a baby holds onto a pacifier.”
Reyna then pulled out a neatly typed piece of paper. “I’ve dummied up this petition to give trans people more rights in the workplace. We’ll ask Diamond and Ashley to sign it and see which hand they use to write with. If that kind of evidence can work against Sheyla, it can work against anyone else, can’t it?”
“No reason why it can’t,” answered Mac. He looked over at Reyna and noticed the scar over her left eye, which for this morning at least wasn’t covered up by six layers of makeup. “Reyna, do you mind if I ask how you got that?”
“I like to tell people it’s from the family branding iron, but the real story is not nearly as funny. I got it the night I told my father I wanted to transition. He’s a general in the Philippine Army, and let’s just say he didn’t take the news very well. My last memory of him consists of his right fist driving into my face. His regiment ring turned my face into a bloody casserole and left me with a dozen stitches above my eye. I called my brother from my hospital bed and asked him to pack a suitcase for me. The doctor’s patched me up, and later that same day I bought a plane ticket to the United States. I haven’t seen my family since.”
“I’m sorry, Reyna. I’m really, really sorry,” consoled Mac, shaking his head. “Fathers can be pretty awful sometimes. Someday I’ll tell you about mine.”
Mac docked The Sub at the busy corner of Fifth and Harrison, across the street from an all-night donut shop frequented by both cops and crack dealers. Diamond lived in a first floor apartment, and the bars on the windows reminded passersby that this dicey neighborhood wasn’t filled with soccer moms and minivans. Mac knocked on the door several times, and then pounded on it with his fist. He stepped toward a window and wiped away the grime between the window bars so he could peer into the dim interior of the apartment. What he saw told him right away that Diamond wasn’t going to let them in.
“I think that’s blood.”
Mac kicked in the door and sprinted into the bedroom. There, lying on top of a neatly made bed, looking as though she was sleeping peacefully, was Diamond. Her arms were stretched out, and each wrist had a river of blood streaming from it. On the bedside table was a bloody Balisong switchblade, exactly like the one found in Sheyla’s purse.
“Oh my God, no!” screamed Reyna. “Please Lord, I can’t believe she did this to herself!”
Mac pressed his fingers against her neck but couldn’t find a pulse. Her body was stone cold. “It’s too late. She’s gone.”
Next to the switchblade was a note, written in an elegant script. “Goodbye you bitches and whores,” it read. “My body is tired and worn out, but my beauty still remains. I know only pain and sickness
lie ahead for me. Always remember Diamond, because no one shined brighter than me.”
Mac snapped open his phone and called 911. The operator put him through to police headquarters. He hoped they hadn’t received the memo that said he had been suspended. “Dispatch. This is Inspector Mac Fleet. We have an 11-44 dead body. No ambulance needed.”
“10-4, Inspector Fleet. We’re on it.”
Mac hung up and then moved on to console Reyna. Once she stopped crying, Mac asked her what the note meant.
“I guess the rumors I heard about her were true. Diamond and another girl, Anna, drove down to Mexico a few days ago to get their hips pumped with silicone. After they got back to San Francisco, Anna started complaining that she was having difficulty breathing and had to go to the emergency room. She died late yesterday afternoon, and the rumor around the trans community was that she had been pumped with industrial-grade silicone some Mexican ‘doctor’ purchased from a furniture manufacturer. Diamond got pumped with the same stuff, and maybe she thought she was next. She was already sick, although she didn’t tell anyone but me. Several years ago Diamond’s best friend died from an overdose of hormones that destroyed her liver. She was abusing hormones with her as well, but it just took longer to affect her. Diamond needed a new liver, but because she didn’t have health insurance her name was on the bottom of the donor list. Despite the risks, she still kept taking hormones. Stupid girl. That’s how much it meant for her to be ‘flawless.’”
The police and medical examiner arrived on the scene, and Mac and Reyna told them what they found. Two hours later the body was removed on a gurney and the police cleared out, taking the note and knife with them. It was time for Mac and Reyna to make their second stop of the day.
Reyna gave Mac directions to Ashley’s hotel room in the seedy Tenderloin. While Mac drove through the empty streets, Reyna stared out the window. “You know,” she said after riding along in silence. “They say suicide is the ultimate form of self-absorption, and nobody spent more time thinking about herself than Diamond. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
