Pearls of Asia: A Love Story

by Lee Geiger

  “I’m so sorry,” said Mac. “That must have been terrible.”

  Sheyla dabbed a napkin beneath her eye. “Those were the last words my father ever said to me,” she said while sniffling. “My mom came to me a week later and gave me what little savings she had, along with this ring her mother had given to her. She was so brave to give it to me instead of my sister. I love her so much. Then I caught a plane and moved to Thailand…but that’s another story for another time.”

  Sheyla opened a compact from her purse to check her makeup. “Oh dear, I look like hell. Excuse me while I run off to the ladies room. If you see Nicole, ask her to bring me a Mimosa. I need one after telling you that story.”

  While Sheyla went to powder her nose, Mac recalled the last words his father ever said to him. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” announced Jack Fleet, upon hearing from his only son that he would be receiving a special commendation medal from Chief of Police David Stone after graduating at the top of his class at the Police Academy.

  One week later, at the graduation ceremony, Jack Fleet was a mysterious no-show. Chief Stone, cognizant of the raw emotions of his number one recruit, treated Mac and his mother to a celebratory dinner. The next day Mac showed up at his father’s barren apartment in North Beach, only to learn that just days earlier he had sold all his personal belongings and fled the country. Jack Fleet never told anyone why he left, or where he was going.

  Sheyla returned ten minutes later, sparkling with fresh mascara and ruby red lipstick. Her Mimosa was already waiting for her.

  “Tell me, Miss Samonte, how did you pick the name Sheyla?”

  Sheyla took a sip from her just arrived Mimosa. It was perfect, and her mood brightened by a factor of ten. “Believe it or not, it was Reyna who first called me Sheyla. I had chosen the name Sheila—S-H-E-I-L-A—which in Latin means ‘blind.’ I had this noble idea that I wanted to be judged by my actions, not by my looks. How silly of me, right? Anyway, Reyna thought I should try to find something unique, so I changed it to Sheyla—S-H-E-Y-L-A.”

  “Reyna helped pick out your name?”

  “She did. Don’t you think it fits me?”

  “Like a tight sweater,” he answered while flashing her a dimpled smile. Mac caught himself flirting with her. He needed to get the conversation back to business.

  “Miss Samonte, I know Paul Osher has been very generous with you. We have his bank and credit card statements, so we know how much money you’re receiving from him each month. Are those your terms or his?”

  Sheyla took a moment to polish off her eggs benedict before sliding over the plate of blueberry crepes. Mac added up the calories in his head and wondered how she could eat like a defensive lineman and still maintain a figure worthy of a swimsuit model.

  “I’ve never asked him for anything, but we have an understanding.”

  “An understanding? That’s quite the understatement. He’s paying you a king’s ransom.”

  Sheyla picked up her napkin and wiped a dollop of syrup from the side of her mouth. She turned her lips to Mac’s ear, while at the same time placing her hand on his lap, close to his Happy Zone. “You have to remember something, Mac. I’m a special girl…and I’m worth it.”

  Sheyla once again placed a kiss on Mac’s cheek, only this time he didn’t pull away. Mac had never been around a woman so bold, who used her femininity to such an advantage. Sheyla’s energy was exhilarating, and she possessed an aura that was unlike any woman he had ever met. Mac paused a moment to admire her. Sheyla was all woman, and an amazing one at that. She had beauty, style and class. Sheyla caught Mac staring at her and flashed a smile that said, ‘Yes.’

  Mac decided it was time to pop the big question, the ostensible reason for this out-of-the-ordinary encounter. “Miss Samonte, where were you Thursday morning, say between one and two o’clock in the morning?”

  “I already told you. I was at home, all by my lonesome I’m afraid.”

  “And of course no one can verify that?”

  “Not unless you want to ask my cat. Besides, why would I want to kill Paul’s wife? He gave me everything I could want. Why would I jeopardize that?”

  “Maybe you wanted more. Maybe you wanted to marry him and live in that palace of his.”

  Sheyla leaned back in her chair and laughed so hard she spilled a few drops of Mimosa onto her ultra-smooth thighs. “You’re joking, right? Paul already lets me live rent-free in one of his luxurious apartments. And he would never marry me. How long do you think it would take before the whole world learned he married a woman who worked at Pearls of Asia? He may have guts when it comes to business, but Paul would never be brave enough to marry a trans woman. Very few men do.”

  “Would you marry him if he ever got the nerve to ask you?”

  “Hell no!” she said, viciously stabbing a defenseless blueberry with her fork. “I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.”

  Nicole came over to clear their table. “My goodness, Sheyla. As usual, you managed to eat everything on your plate. What will this do to your fabulous figure? I think you and this gorgeous hunk of maleness need to have a few hours of raging sex to burn off some calories.”

  “We’re not there yet,” she purred while handing Nicole her credit card. “This is our first date. I must say he’s been quite the gentleman.”

  “Your first date! How exciting. Have you had ‘The Conversation’ yet?”

  “Not yet.” Sheyla began running her fingers through Mac’s hair. Women had a habit of doing that to him. Luckily for them, he didn’t mind.

  “What is ‘The Conversation?’” asked Mac.

  “Well, Mr. Mac,” answered Nicole, “it’s the discussion we special girls have when a man gets interested in us. He gets to ask all sorts of questions, you know, ‘TG 101’ kind of stuff: why, when, how come? We call it ‘The Conversation’ because you have to have it if you want to keep seeing each other. I’ve even thought of handing out a list of ‘frequently asked questions’ just to save time.”

  “I’m saving that for our next date,” said Sheyla, smacking her lips after having just applied fresh lipstick.

  “Next date?” remarked Mac, taken by surprise. “I don’t think so, Miss Samonte.”

  “Yes, Mac. There will be a next date. You know you want to learn more about me; to find more pieces to my puzzle.” She playfully flirted with him by flipping her long hair over her shoulder. “Plus, I want to wear something naughty and dazzle you while I’m telling you all about myself.”

  Mac wondered what a real ‘date’ with Sheyla would be like. Even the sight of her putting on lipstick was sensual. Sheyla was exotic and stunning, no doubt, but now Mac noticed the softness of the skin on her sun-kissed shoulders, and her lovely brown eyes, so bright, alluring and mischievous. He became aware of the gentle curves of her breasts, and legs that seemed to go on forever. Her rich brown hair, so soft and luxurious, fell perfectly onto her shoulders.. Her kissable lips, the ones that were smiling at him, were nothing less than a work of art.

  As they were about to leave the restaurant, Mac heard a woman call out his name. He turned and recognized Melanie, a female patrol officer from his precinct who was brunching with a group of girlfriends. Mac handed Sheyla the keys to The Sub and told her he’d meet her outside.

  “Mac, what a surprise to see you,” said Melanie. “Who’s the hot date? She’s a knockout!”

  “You should know me by now, Melanie. She’s just a friend.”

  “Oh, shut up, you freak. You two look like more than just ‘friends.’ Don’t worry, Mac. It’ll be our little secret.” Mac made small talk with Melanie and then sprinted to The Sub, praying he had dodged a bullet.

  WHILE DRIVING SHEYLA BACK to her South Beach apartment, Mac thought about what his mother had told him earlier, how the courage it took to transition from one sex to the other not only deserved, but also demanded, his respect. He also thought about Sheyla, and the stories she told him about her journey.

  “Miss Samon
te, were you ever scared about becoming a transsexual? Wouldn’t it have been safer just to stay ‘normal?’”

  Sheyla stared out the window, enjoying the buzz of a three-cocktail feast with a studly man on a beautiful September afternoon. “Being a transsexual doesn’t scare me, Mac, but being ‘normal’ does.”

  Mac nodded his head, and rode the rest of the way in silence.

  MAC ESCORTED SHEYLA TO the lobby door of her building. Mr. Doorman recognized him and flashed a discrete “thumbs up” signal. Mac wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. Though they had covered a lot of ground, Mac didn’t know how, or if, he would see her again.

  As he was about to open the door for her, Sheyla turned toward Mac, wrapped her arms around his neck, and gave him a long, steamy kiss. Mac could feel his shorts tighten. Again.

  “So do I get to see you tomorrow night?” she begged.

  This was a dangerous question. Sheyla was still a person of interest in the case. Her alibi was shaky at best, and the smart thing for Mac to do was to just say “no.” Besides, they had already been caught out in public together, and he couldn’t risk letting that happen again. And, though he enjoyed her company, it didn’t change the fact that Sheyla wasn’t his type of girl.

  “How about Tuesday?” he said, throwing every logical thought he just had out the window.

  “I work that night, but I’ll be done by eleven.

  “I’ll see you at eleven.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Monday, September 15, 2008 - 1:45 am

  “Reclusive billionaire Scott M. Johnson is offering $1,000,000 for the missing Teacup Yorkie belonging to murdered anchorwoman Michelle Osher. Johnson once offered a similar reward for the bloody glove worn by O.J. Simpson.

  “In other news, Lehman Brothers, the revered investment bank which began business as a Montgomery, Alabama grocery store in 1844, plans to file for bankruptcy protection later today.”

  CNBC

  MAC’S BACK WAS AGAINST the wall, next to the door, listening for sounds from the third floor flat. Customs agents at the Port of Oakland had provided Mayes the name and address of a man who received a case of illegally imported Balisong switchblades buried beneath some fresh mangos from the Philippines. San Francisco SWAT team members took positions inside the hallways and near the exits of the fleabag hotel located near the corner of Sixth and Mission.

  His silver .45 caliber Glock 21 pistol drawn, Mac adjusted his flak jacket one more time. Mayes, on the other side of the door, did the same. Mac reached around with his right hand and pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!” Nothing. He shouted one more time, and then heard what sounded like a window opening. Mayes motioned for Mac to break down the door.

  A young Filipino man in filthy jockey shorts was forcing open a window, trying to flee onto the fire escape. “Stop right there,” shouted Mac, running across the room. The poor half-naked sap was climbing out the window when Mac grabbed him by the leg and pulled him back inside. The perp then took a swing at Mac, who dodged the punch and hit him back as hard as he could, straight into his midsection. Falling to his knees, a rib or two broken, the alleged villain’s breath sounded like air being released from a balloon.

  Mayes ran over and applied the cuffs. “Fernando Mateo, you’re under arrest for attempting to distribute illegal Balisong switchblades in California.”

  AS HE STEPPED OUTSIDE the dilapidated hotel, Mac, still rubbing the soreness from his right hand, took a moment to be by himself. He looked straight up into the star-filled sky.

  “That one’s for you, partner,” he said in a quiet hush.

  Less than nine months earlier, on a rainy Christmas Day morning, Mac and Larry Kelso responded to this same hotel after a report of a brawl between two men devoid of Christmas cheer. As they were getting out of The Sub to investigate, Larry told Mac to wait in the car, to drink his coffee, and to sober up. Denise had just dumped him, so Mac was spending the holidays decking the halls with bottles of Jack Daniels. “Besides,” said Kelso, “I’m sure it’s routine. Just a couple of guys who got stiffed by Santa Claus. I’ll handle it, partner. I got your back.”

  Less than one minute later, Mac heard a single gunshot. Larry Kelso was dead.

  The way Mac saw it, as a partner, and as a best friend, he was a failure.

  BACK AT THE STATION, two hours of interrogation had yielded nothing. Fernando Mateo claimed he was just the drop and would have received two hundred dollars when he delivered the knives. He could also keep the mangos. Police records showed Fernando Mateo had been arrested fourteen times for petty theft, resulting in two deportations back to the Philippines. A search of his apartment didn’t turn up anything. At this point it still wasn’t clear who Fernando Mateo was working with, and he wasn’t about to give it up.

  “We can book him, but my guess is Fernando is telling the truth,” said Mayes. “He was nothing more than a courier for whoever was taking delivery of the knives. Who picks them up and sells them after that? I don’t know, but we obviously need to find out.”

  “A couple days at county jail on our nickel should do the trick,” said Mac, an ice pack resting atop his right hand.

  “Perhaps, but right now, Mr. Heavyweight Champ, I think Chief Stone is going to be less than thrilled with us. Here it is five days after the murder and we don’t have squat to show for it. No murder weapon, no eyewitnesses, and no real suspects. I’m telling you Mac, Stone’s going to make us wish we were never born.”

  “I’m glad you were born, Mr. Watching My Back,” replied Mac, “because when you’re around, I don’t have to look things up on Wikipedia.”

  MAYES WAS SURFING THE Internet looking for pictures of Misha, Michelle Osher’s tiny dog. Reports from all over the Bay Area poured in with sightings of mutts in all shapes and sizes, but none were pint-sized Teacup Yorkies. Mayes figured that since Michelle Osher was something of a celebrity, there should be pictures of her walking Misha along the streets of San Francisco. He was right.

  Mayes held a magnifying glass over a photo. “Mac, take a look at this picture. See that shiny spot inside Misha’s ear? This dog is wearing a diamond earring stud. A damn diamond earring. Can you believe that? Like the rich don’t have anything better to do with their money. You can hardly see it, but it’s there.”

  “That’s great,” answered his less-than-enthused partner. “So we’re looking for a piece of evidence the size of a tennis ball, wearing a diamond earring, that has four legs, and can outrun both of us. I don’t know about you Mayes, but I think our best chance of finding this dog is to put its picture on a milk carton.”

  “Laugh now,” responded Mayes, “but when we find that dog, we’ll find our killer. I’d bet my kid’s inheritance on it.”

  “You mean IF we find Misha. Mayes, for all we know that little rodent may be dead, lying in the middle of a road somewhere. And you’ve still got to convince me why someone would knock off Michelle Osher and take her dog.”

  “All I’m saying is it’s not a coincidence that the dog is missing. Do you remember seeing any bloody paw prints at the crime scene? Whoever killed Michelle Osher took the dog as soon as she hit the floor. I’m telling you, Mac. That dog is still alive.”

  “Whatever you say, partner. And just so you know, the suspense of waiting for the ransom note is cutting into my beauty sleep.”

  BACK AT THE WASTE dump masquerading as his desk, Mac began looking over a report Mayes produced about the Grisham guest list. After leaving the Port of Oakland, Mayes had managed to track down a couple of guests from Grisham’s party who remembered the two mystery women. The “skinny brunette” was a sophisticated woman in her mid-thirties who went by the name of Monique, while the “tall blonde from L.A.” was a much younger gal who called herself Savannah. Both were Asian.

  “Savannah and Monique,” laughed Mac. “They don’t exactly sound like the girls next door. Maybe we should stop by the Gold Club and see what the strippers are up to.”

  The mysterious twosome was seen ente
ring the party together around midnight, but no one recalled seeing them leave. Mayes’ notes made reference to the surveillance tapes that showed the blonde named Savannah leaving by herself around 1:30 a.m., while the brunette known as Monique was seen departing with a well-dressed man a half-hour later.

  “Good work, partner,” said Mac. “It might not win you a Pulitzer, but it’s good enough for government work. Do you think our killer could be one, or both, of these women?”

  “What do you think of this theory?” opined Mayes. “The girl who left the party alone, Savannah as she called herself, could have been in Grisham’s apartment just long enough to make her presence felt, gone upstairs, killed Michelle Osher, and then escaped before anyone could notice. CSI said the murder took place between one and two in the morning, so the timeline of her coming and going fits with the time of the murder.

  “I like your theory, Mayes. Besides, I don’t think Sheyla Samonte is our killer.”

  Mayes seemed taken aback by Mac’s response. “Why is that? How do you know she’s not one of the two women on the surveillance tape?”

  Mac had been dreading this question all day. Originally, he and Mayes had planned to meet up with Sheyla at Yank Sing, ask her a few questions about her relationship with Paul Osher, and then get on with their investigation. Mac knew he’d experience the dreaded ‘Wrath of Mayes’ if he told him he’d gone out to lunch with a potential murder suspect. Mac decided the smart thing to do was to tell Mayes the truth. He just didn’t want to tell him the whole truth.

  “I did get in touch with Miss Samonte as we planned, only she told me to meet her at the Hotel Monaco where she was having lunch with a friend. She said she knew Paul Osher, admitted having an affair with him, and confirmed that he was paying her a boatload of money to be his girlfriend. On the night of the murder, however, she still claims she was alone in her apartment.”