by Lee Geiger
Mayes was impressed with his partner’s dissertation. It was the first time in months he’d seen that twinkle in Mac’s eyes, a spark that disappeared along with his best friend and his wedding ring.
“Okay Mac, that’s very interesting. Now here’s a question for you. Is someone born transgender, or do they become transgender?”
Mac’s voice pitched to another level, and his hands became as animated as a puppeteer’s. “I’ll take a stab at it, partner, no pun intended. I think they’re born that way, just like you were born to read books and I was born to chase bad guys. In fact, my mom and I were talking about this yesterday, and she pointed out how much courage it takes for someone to transition from one sex to the other. You put everything at risk: your job, your family, and your friends. It’s more than just being gay and coming out of the closet. You have to expose yourself everyday, to everybody, while you evolve from A to B. It takes courage for you and me to put our lives on the line every day, but imagine the guts it takes to say to the world, ‘You all may not be comfortable with what I’m doing here, but I have to do this.’”
“Well Oprah, you’ve convinced me. By the way, did San Jose State offer a class in Gender Studies? They did over at Cal, and I got an ‘A.’ Now shut up and grab your coat. In ten minutes, Longley expects us to be in Chief Stone’s office for a briefing.”
NINE AND A HALF minutes later, the detectives found Chief of Police David Stone sitting behind a desk more vast than an aircraft carrier. His chair was placed beneath a large portrait of Thomas Cahill, not only because his name was on the building, but also because Stone and Cahill shared an affinity for strong Irish whisky. And even stronger Irish women.
“Where do we stand on the Michelle Osher case?” barked Stone. “The media’s farther up my ass than a botched colonoscopy. Please tell me after forty-eight hours you’re closing in on a suspect.”
Mayes, who didn’t enjoy as close a relationship with Stone as his partner, decided to lead off. “Sir, the medical examiner’s report says that based on the depth of the wound, the murder weapon was a Balisong switchblade. They’re handmade in the Philippines and illegal to carry in California. So far we haven’t been able to locate it. The report also said the angle of the wound suggests the killer was left-handed and at least six feet tall.”
“Great. So far you’ve described my gardener,” growled Stone. “What else?”
It was Mac’s turn to step up to the plate. “We’ve checked the financial and phone records of both Paul and Michelle Osher. Other than spending money faster than my soon-to-be ex-wife, Michelle Osher’s records are fine. Paul Osher is another story. His spending patterns and phone calls are consistent with someone having an extramarital affair. He denies it, of course, but we believe we’ve identified a…um…woman…who could be his mistress.”
Stone’s face turned redder than a poison ivy rash. “I was afraid of this. Paul Osher has always had a hard time keeping it in his pants. Who is she, and have you been in contact with this ‘maybe mistress’ yet?”
Mac squirmed in his seat, knowing the next words out of his mouth might set off Stone’s famous temper. “Sir, when we interviewed Paul Osher, he claimed he had never been unfaithful to his wife. However, the woman he appears to be involved with is named Sheyla Samonte. She works as a waitress, yet somehow she manages to afford a late-model Mercedes and live in an expensive luxury apartment in South Beach. We haven’t interviewed her yet, but we know where she works.”
Stone’s impatience was growing by the second. “Dammit Mac, are you going to tell me or do I have to hear it from the press?”
Mac fought the urge to duck, cover and roll. “Yes sir. I can tell you she works at a restaurant called Pearls of Asia, located at…”
Too late. Mount Stone had erupted. “Pearls of Asia?” he shouted, recognizing the name. “Are you telling me that one of the richest, most powerful men in this city is dating one of those goddamn transvestites?”
Mac sat up in his chair and cleared his throat before continuing. “Sir, you can infer that. We’ve made a couple of attempts to talk to her, but so far without success.”
“Holy shit,” cried Stone, his face now redder than a sunburned farmer. “What a nightmare. Paul Osher can have any woman in the world he wants for a mistress, and he picks a damn crossdresser. You think you know a guy. I had no idea he was gay.”
Mayes, who never missed a lecture during his Gender Studies class, piped in. “Actually, she’s a transsexual, sir, not a transvestite or a crossdresser. Also, Paul Osher’s not gay, per se, and…”
“Shut up,” screamed Stone, more than annoyed with Mayes’ attempt to educate him on the sexual labels of the rich and famous. “I don’t give a damn who or what any of these assholes screw. I just want to know if we have any viable suspects and when we plan to make an arrest.”
“Yes sir,” responded Mayes, wisely deciding not to engage the Chief in a debate on social policy. “One more thing, sir. The Oshers kept a very small dog in the apartment, a Teacup Yorkie. She hasn’t been seen since the murder. We also need to find out what happened to Maria Madrigal, the Osher’s maid. Reading about her disappearance in the Examiner was the first we heard about it.”
“How does it affect the case?” asked Stone.
Mac had been wondering the same thing since reading the headline with his morning coffee. At that precise moment, two pieces of the puzzle came together. “I may have just figured it out, sir. It’s only important if Paul Osher is lying about being in Los Angeles. Osher could have bought himself an alibi in L.A., and the maid may have seen or heard him that morning in the apartment.”
“Alright gentleman, I’ve heard enough. Remember, this is a very delicate case. Paul Osher is a major player in this town. If this business about a tranny mistress were to leak to the press, it could destroy him. So be careful. Now get out there and arrest somebody. Now!”
MAC AND MAYES SPENT the afternoon huddled in a not-dark-enough screen room in the SFPD’s cold and dank basement, watching surveillance tapes from the Osher’s apartment building on the night of the murder. They were joined by a wide-eyed and much more alert Jim Grisham.
“That’s Mike Rogers and his wife April,” said Grisham. “She’s his third wife, actually. Mike owns an Internet security company. He likes to tell people that his company has made several people millionaires, including his two ex-wives.”
According to the guest list submitted by Jim Grisham, thirty people were invited to his Wednesday night soiree, and two women later showed up uninvited. He had names for everyone except the two late arrivals: the mysterious “tall blonde from LA” and the “skinny brunette.” Twelve partygoers lived in the building and were already interviewed and ruled out. That left eighteen guests who needed to be accounted for walking into and out of the building, along with the two party crashers.
“Okay, I recognize that couple,” pointed Grisham. “That’s Meredith Foxx, the writer, and her boyfriend Jay. You talk about an interesting couple. She stays at home and makes a fortune writing lousy books that sell like hot cakes, while he slums around town looking for places to play his guitar. I want to be him when I grow up.”
The quality of the tape was grainy and fair at best, and the camera angle above the building’s entrance shot mainly the top of people’s heads, so it was impossible to see them as more than pixilated fuzz balls. After watching two hours of tape, the detectives counted eighteen party guests arriving between nine and ten o’clock. Mac fast-forwarded the tape to a few minutes before midnight. Two scantily clad women in high heels were seen walking into the building together. “Mr. Grisham, do you recognize these women?”
Grisham moved closer to the screen, squinted his yes and nodded his head. “Yep. Those are the two gals who came late to the party. I don’t know who they are, but they were there.
“Are they the women classified on your list as the ‘skinny brunette’ and ‘tall blonde’?”
“They are. Too bad you can’t see t
heir faces. I remember they were Asian and both hotter than a summer sidewalk in New Orleans. Do me a favor, will you? Can you let me know their names when you find out who they are? I want to make sure to invite them to my next party.”
“Of course we will,” sassed Mac, who had no intention of granting Jim Grisham any favors.
Twenty people were seen leaving between midnight and four o’clock in the morning, most of whom were too intoxicated to walk, much less drive. The mysterious “tall blonde” left by herself at 1:30am, and the “skinny brunette” was seen walking arm and arm with a man around 2:00am. After watching almost seven hours of tape, the detectives sent Grisham on his way.
“I think our killer has to be one of the two women who showed up at midnight,” said Mac, rubbing the strain from his eyes after staring at a projection screen most of the day. “What if Sheyla Samonte was one of them? Maybe she and one of her gal pals from Pearls of Asia showed up and blended in so they could slip upstairs and kill Michelle Osher? Think about it, Mayes. Slap a pair of high heels on any one of those gals and suddenly they’re over six-feet tall. What if it was Paul Osher who put them up to it so he could get rid of his boring, sexless wife and spend his time and money playing around with Sheyla?”
Mayes pondered Mac’s theory. “An interesting idea. It would confirm my theory that the ‘other woman’ committed the crime, and your premise that the husband was involved. But we have to prove it. Where’s the knife? Were there any eyewitnesses? What about the other people on the tape? And why the hell hasn’t Sheyla Samonte called you back?”
Mac had been wondering the same thing. “I have my suspicions, partner. Sheyla’s working tonight at Pearls of Asia. I’ll go there and see what I can find out.”
“You do that, Romeo. In the meantime, I’m going to find a judge and get a search warrant. If those two women were at Grisham’s party, then we have enough probable cause to search his apartment.”
THE LONG LINE BUNCHED near the entrance to Pearls of Asia and snaked into the darkness of Ninth Street, so Mac decided to sneak through the side door adjacent to Howard Street. To his left was a stairway that led down to the restaurant’s nightclub and the girls’ dressing room. Directly in front of him was the kitchen, and a chef the size of a small house was barking orders in Spanish to a halfdozen cook’s assistants. The air was hot, the music loud, and the customers were laughing and shouting. To the veterans of Pearls of Asia, it was just another eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. To rookies like Mac, it was Mardi Gras.
Every seat at the bar was taken, so Mac squeezed himself into a corner near the stairway. The sensation of someone grabbing a handful of his butt interrupted Mac’s careful analysis of the scene.
“Hi handsome. Welcome to Pearls of Asia. My name is Diamond,” flirted an Asian woman sporting high heels, long painted nails, and porn-star-wanna-be makeup. “I see you’re empty handed.”
“That makes one of us,” replied Mac, glancing at her vise grip of his ass.
Diamond was young, a twenty-something, and she was a monument to artifice and excess. Her painted pink lips matched her painted red dress, which matched her painted green heels, and her painted black hair. Her eyelashes may have been false, but they were more natural than her breasts. A long necklace adorned with a cheap gold plated “D” protruded from her chest, and was as inconspicuous as a Las Vegas volcano. Diamond may have looked like a department store mannequin, but to the hundred or so diners now fluent in Martini, she was inviting, enticing and sexy.
“Can I get you anything before I perform?” she asked. “My phone number, perhaps?”
“How about you perform a catch and release of my ass.”
Summoned to the stage, Diamond climbed a step stool onto the runway. The Latin melody “Ain’t It Funny” by Jennifer Lopez soared over the room, and Diamond began dancing across the bar, shaking her hips like a broken washing machine. Her hands tried to tell a story, but the message got lost in translation. Diamond flirted with a woman sitting in the ‘hot seat,’ who laughed so hard she spilled her drink between Diamond’s Twin Peaks. The almost-too-painful-to-watch number thankfully closed to muted applause. As Diamond descended the stage she walked past Mac and grabbed the front of his shirt. “Honey, don’t you dare go anywhere,” she insisted. “’Cuz tonight I’m taking you home with me in a doggy bag.”
Forewarned, Mac grabbed an empty seat at the bar. For a change of pace he ordered one of the colorful martinis named after the waitresses at Pearls of Asia. He asked for a Jasmine Cocktail, a blend of gin, rum, orange juice and Cointreau. Mac took a sip and knew right away what it tasted like; another.
A gentle tap on his shoulder interrupted a second sip. Mac turned around slowly, expecting to go round two with Diamond. Instead, he saw a face that took his breath away.
“Hello, handsome,” came an intoxicating voice. “I’m Jasmine.”
Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Mac had the look of a stunned boxer. Jasmine was wearing a clingy red chiffon cocktail dress, the kind of outfit that could cause a man to forget his name.
“Nice to meet you Jasmine, or should I call you Sheyla?” replied Mac, recovering quickly. “I’m Inspector Mac Fleet from the San Francisco Police Department. You may recall I showed up at your apartment on Thursday afternoon. Later that night you indulged me with a kiss. Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”
“Oh dear. I’m so sorry. So many people call me,” said The Voice, her words caressing his ears like a cashmere ski cap. “I was so disappointed when you left Thursday night. I hope I didn’t scare you off.”
“Not at all. Complete strangers walk up and kiss me all the time.”
“You’re cute,” commented Sheyla, her response coupled with a flirtatious giggle that was nearly as charming as her voice. “You weren’t by chance here last night, were you? Reyna called this morning to tell me a handsome man was looking for me. Make my night and tell me she was talking about you.”
“Yes I was, Miss Samonte. We need to talk as soon as possible. Like right now.”
“‘Miss Samonte,’ is it? My, aren’t we being a bit formal. I have to take care of a couple of tables, first. Be a good boy and I’ll be back in two shakes of a girl’s tail.”
Sheyla walk away slowly, her hips swaying like a lazy palm tree on a Caribbean island. There was something different about her, thought Mac. While all the waitresses at Pearls of Asia all wore outfits skimpier than Saran Wrap, Sheyla looked like she bought hers at Gucci, while the others shopped at Goodwill. Sheyla was putting the Paul Osher gift cards to good use.
“So tell me your name,” yakked Diamond, her return as discrete as a blow to the head. After Mac gave it up, Diamond decided his lap looked more comfortable than the empty barstool next to him. “I love your hair,” she said, combing his silver and black locks with her fingers made sticky from too many spilled drinks. “Did you miss me?” Before Mac could tell Diamond he missed her as much as the measles, she made an unusual request. “Give me your phone.”
“Now why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll pull down your pants and we’ll see who’s bigger.”
Sensing an unfair fight, Mac handed Diamond his cell phone, and she punched her phone number into his contact list. She then dialed herself up, leaving Mac’s number on her phone. The staff at Pearls of Asia had a name for this charade; Mac had just been “diamonded.”
“By the way,” she said while handing Mac his phone. “I saw you talking to Jasmine. You may think she’s pretty and all that, but you should know she’s just a lowlife whore. And she gets clocked everywhere she goes.”
“Clocked?” asked Mac. “Is there a radar gun in here?”
Diamond cackled louder than a lonely rooster. “’You’re a funny guy, you know that? ‘Getting clocked’ is when someone calls you out as a tranny. You know, like when Sheyla walks into a bar and some guy yells, ‘That’s a man.’ It happens to girls like her all the time, but never to me. I always pass.”
“I like you, Mac. Are you this funny when you’re lying on your back? ‘Pass’ means you look like a natural woman, like me. You should see how many guys try to pick me up at the grocery store when I’m not wearing makeup. It’s so annoying sometimes. Don’t you think I’m stunning?”
“Like a Taser gun,” answered Mac, pushing Diamond off his lap like a sack of potatoes.
A short Mexican food runner ran up and told Diamond an over-served woman at one of her tables wanted a ‘Blowjob Shot.’
“I love this place,” chortled Mac. “You need to take a vocabulary test before you walk in here. What’s a ‘Blowjob Shot?’”
Diamond placed her bulging bosoms under Mac’s chin and shoved a shot glass in between her over inflated mammary glands. “Here, I’ll show you. You see, I fill this glass full of booze, place it between my breasts, and a customer pays for the privilege of fishing it out with their mouth. Doesn’t it look like fun? We can do it all night at my place if you want.”
Before running off to perform her unique job requirement, Diamond reached between Mac’s legs and gave him a not-so-subtle squeeze to his groin. “Oh Mac, you are happy to see me, aren’t you? Wait here and Dr. Diamond will take care of this as soon as I get back.”
Sheyla witnessed the entire sophomoric episode from across the room while entering drink orders into a cash register. As they were about to pass one another, Diamond addressed Sheyla in Tagalog. “Akin s’ya maghanap ka ng iba!” (He’s mine, look for someone else!) Whatever words of wisdom Diamond tried to impart, Sheyla looked straight ahead and completely ignored her. To most of the girls at Pearls of Asia, Diamond’s antics were like a comedian’s tired jokes; she needed some new material.
Sheyla glided over to Mac’s chair and said in an amorous song that could have stop a train, “I’m sorry, Mac. I hope you’ll forgive me for not returning your calls.”