by Lee Geiger
“Are you joking?” proclaimed Mac. “That girl used to be a guy in the military? What a story. How did you find her?”
“Six months ago I took a client…I mean a ‘friend’…to a gay nightclub in West Hollywood. Ashley was one of the featured dancers. She had just started to transition, but it was clear she was going to be gorgeous. I mean, look at those lips, babe. She could suck start a Harley motorcycle. Anyway, this friend of mine became super infatuated with her, so I got to know her and became their matchmaker. He bought her those breasts as a birthday present.”
“Wait a second,” said Mac. “You mean to tell me some guy gave Ashley breast implants for her birthday?”
“Not for her birthday, babe. His.”
Mac asked Nadia for another beer. She casually strutted across the room as though she owned the place; fearless and confident in her own skin. Nadia knew exactly who she was, and she didn’t give a damn if anyone didn’t approve.
“Nadia, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” asked Mac upon her return.
“I don’t give freebies, babe. Not even for hot looking cops.”
“No, no. I’m not going there. But I’m curious. Where do you girls hide it?”
“Hide what, babe?” Nadia flashed a knowing smile. She knew full well what Mac was talking about.
“You know. IT. How do you girls keep IT from bulging through your panties, or slipping out like an uncaged snake?”
“I’ve got a secret for you, babe. It’s called the power of duct tape. There’s enough of it in the dressing room to supply a hardware store. And it comes in all kinds of shapes and colors to match our outfits. Now let me ask you a question, babe. Is it true you’re sleeping with Sheyla?”
Mac squirmed in his chair and paused for a moment before answering. He never discussed details of a case with anyone outside the department, but what bothered him more was the nature of Nadia’s question. He had seen Sheyla just once, yet the girls at Pearls of Asia seemed to think they were already an item. They gossiped more than a sewing circle. “I’m not dating her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Babe, you two had lunch together yesterday at The Grand Café, and you’re investigating the murder of her sugar daddy’s wife. In some countries that’s the same as saying ‘til death do you part.”
“Is nothing sacred in this place? So you know about Sheyla and Paul Osher?”
Nadia sat down on the bar stool next to Mac, taking a load off her Roberto Cavallis. “Are you kidding, babe? I’m the one who introduced them. Paul has been coming to Pearls of Asia since the place opened in 1998. He loves to bring his customers here. He figures they’ve already been to every fancy restaurant in the city, but they seldom remember where they went the next day. But bring them once to Pearls of Asia, where the food is fabulous and the scenery is sexy, and they’ll never forget it. It’s good business, babe, and if there is one thing I know,” she said, leaning in to whisper into Mac’s ear, “it’s business.”
“How well do you know Paul Osher?”
“That friend of mine I told you about? The one I took to that gay nightclub in West Hollywood? That was Paul.”
Mac was flabbergasted. “Time out, Nadia. You first called him a ‘client.’ Did you two date each other?”
“Babe, I’m not the kind of girl who likes to kiss and tell. Let’s just say that I date a lot of men. My dick is like a glue stick; once a man gets hold of it, it’s impossible to let go. To be honest, I know a lot of cops too, including some whose names you’d be surprised to hear. Very surprised.”
Mac couldn’t tell if Nadia was telling the truth or just trying to get a reaction. He was familiar with transvestite prostitutes who made a living walking the streets of the Tenderloin, but none of them came close to looking as natural, or being as well-spoken, as Nadia. Who on the force, he wondered, would be interested in a girl like her?
“Back to Paul Osher,” demanded Mac. “Why would you introduce him to Sheyla and then later introduce him to Ashley? My gut says something must have been in it for you.”
Nadia gave a hearty laugh. “Babe, you’re smart. I did it for the money, of course. Paul Osher has never met a tranny he didn’t like. Whenever I introduce him to a new girl, he pays me a very generous finder’s fee. For a while it was the perfect arrangement: Sheyla in Northern California and Ashley in Southern California. And babe, you should see the woman he has in New York. She’s a model.”
“I don’t understand,” questioned Mac. “Why would Ashley move to San Francisco? Wasn’t Osher taking care of her in Los Angeles like he takes care of Sheyla up here?”
“Not even close, babe. Ashley was living in a cramped Studio City dump with cockroaches for roommates. You’ve got to remember, babe. Sheyla’s been around the block a few times. She knows what a man wants from her, and she’s going to make them pay top dollar to get it. Ashley, meanwhile, is young and foolish, and for some crazy reason still believes in this ridiculous concept called love. Paul would throw her a bone every now and then when he went to L.A, and he even bought her a Louis Vuitton purse, which in our world is like a badge of honor. Ashley claims she moved to San Francisco to work at Pearls of Asia, but my guess is she did it to be closer to Paul. Big mistake, babe. Big mistake. Paul prefers his women cosmopolitan and sophisticated like Sheyla, not raw and naive like Ashley.”
Mac’s mind began working in overdrive. Paul Osher had dated Sheyla, Diamond, Ashley and Nadia: the Pearls of Asia version of the Grand Slam. “So what is Osher doing now that Sheyla and Ashley both live in the same zip code?”
“I have no idea, babe, although I was curious to see how he’d handle a wife and two girlfriends in the same city. Talk about your high-maintenance women. Juggling chainsaws might have been easier.”
“So would getting rid of one woman,” alleged Mac. He looked across the room and saw Ashley heading outside with a cigarette and a lighter. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was just another…tall blonde from Los Angeles. He took another look at Nadia…a skinny brunette.
“Nadia, I’ve got one more question. The other night I asked you and Ashley where you two were on Thursday morning between the hours of one and two o’clock, and you both gave me answers that could have fertilized a garden in Golden Gate Park. We checked surveillance tapes from Paul Osher’s building and saw two women matching your descriptions entering and leaving that night. There was a party on the nineteenth floor, and witnesses who were there said two women crashed it; a tall blonde named Savannah, and a skinny brunette named Monique. Are you two the girls on the tape?”
The house music was loud enough to enjoy, but quiet enough to talk. The color of the walls morphed from amber to purple. Reyna was delivering a round of rainbow colored martinis, and Diamond was writing her phone number on a man’s business card. Nadia flipped her expensive faux hair over her shoulder before clearing the table.
“Of course we are.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tuesday, September 16, 2008 - 6:45 am
“President George Bush sent Mark Leavitt, Secretary of Health and Human Services, to represent his administration at Michelle Osher’s funeral. Hank Paulson, Secretary of the Treasury, had planned to attend, but the ongoing crisis roiling the financial markets required his presence in New York.”
The Washington Post
“YOU’RE UP EARLY,” said a pajama clad Victoria Parker to her wider-than-awake son. The morning paper arrived before she did, and the born-to-trade mother of a San Francisco police detective never bothered going to bed. Besides, CNBC’s rendition of “Apocalypse Now” was being broadcast live and in color. The global financial meltdown was like a chain collision car wreck; difficult to watch, but you couldn’t look away. Victoria Parker’s short positions were paying off and, for today at least, her favorite color was red. “What’s going on with the Michelle Osher case?”
“I think we caught a break,” answered Mac, cinching a tie that accidentally matched his shirt. “I stopped by P
earls of Asia last night and learned that the two women we saw on a surveillance tape the night of Michelle Osher’s murder happen to work there. I also discovered that Paul Osher has turned the restaurant into his own personal dating site. Every girl who works there has him programmed on her speed dial. I’m telling you Mom, whoever did the wiring on this guy needs to get his license revoked. Now all I have to do is look for a motive. Why would any of these women want to kill Michelle Osher?”
“Maybe for her shoe collection,” chimed Victoria Parker, her eyes glued to a computer screen flashing stock prices screaming for mercy.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Oh, lighten up Mackey. By the way, did you know Michelle Osher’s funeral is this afternoon in Sacramento?”
“I did, and I’m planning on attending. Mayes and I like to attend the funerals of the victims. The perpetrator may decide to show up, pretending to be mourning, or observing the fruits of his crime. Not to mention we might find out something important about their relationships, who’s talking to whom, that kind of thing. That’s how we cracked the Larsen case. I’ve still got to work things out with Mayes, though. The service won’t end until late in the afternoon, and the traffic coming back to San Francisco is going to be brutal. His wife is expecting their third rug rat any day now, so he’s leaving the late night work to me.”
“I wish I could go,” lamented Victoria Parker. “Her funeral is going to be the social event of the season. Everyone who wants their face in the news is going to be there. Last night the gals and I ran into a few politically connected gentlemen on their way to Sacramento. These handsome men picked up the check at Bix, and then they rented one of those super-stretch Hummer limos to take us to Spruce for dessert. You know, that place with those incredible sugarcoated beignets dipped in chocolate? After eating a few of those and drinking enough Chateau d’Quem to bankrupt Goldman Sachs, I was ready to give our cute limo driver a hummer.”
Mac was aghast at his mother’s last statement. “Mom, I love you, but do me a favor. Try to remember I’m still your son and not a member of the Cougar Committee. Where on earth do you get all this energy at your age?”
Victoria Parker fixed her headset, ready for a morning of eat-what-you-kill trading. “Mackey, like I always tell you. I’m only as strong as the coffee I drink and the hairspray I use. Now let me get back to the markets. Japan hasn’t seen this much red since Godzilla went thirteen rounds with Tokyo.”
MAC WAS AT HIS desk by seven o’clock, which made him the second member of his two-man team to show up for work. “Where have you been, kid?” inquired Mayes. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“More like ninety seconds. You’re still out of breath.”
“What a good detective you are. You’ll go far some day.”
“Of course I will. So now that you’ve had a night to sleep on it, what do you think the connection is between Michelle Osher renting a suite at The Fairmont and Sonia Grisham having a collection of room keys?”
“I don’t know,” said Mayes. “One person who could tell us is dead, and the other is out of town. I looked at these hotel bills, and all I saw were room service charges for two and the occasional movie rental. We’ll have to ask their husbands what their wives were up to. I can bet you they weren’t throwing any Tupperware parties.”
Mac reached for his Rubik’s Cube. “Mayes, I think I’ve got something. I was at Pearls of Asia last night and we may have caught a break.”
“Let’s hear it, Mr. Late Night.”
“Longley’s in his office. Let’s go in there so I can tell you both at the same time.”
Mac’s cell phone suddenly began vibrating, demanding his attention. It was Sheyla. Mac told Mayes he’d meet him in Longley’s office in less than sixty seconds.
“What are you doing calling me at this hour of the morning?” asked Mac, dispensing with any notion of wishing Sheyla a pleasant good morning.
“Thinking of you, of course,” answered The Voice, in fine form for such an early hour. “I can’t wait to see you tonight. Listen, I’ve got some good news. I switched nights with Ashley, so I’m off tonight. Can we get together earlier, say around seven o’clock? I’ve already picked out the perfect dress. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”
There was no way Mac could meet Sheyla by seven. The earliest he’d be back from Sacramento and ready to see her would be nine o’clock at best. “Can’t do it, Miss Samonte. How about nine o’clock?”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” asserted Sheyla, who wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. “Besides, I’ve already planned my day. This morning I’m going to my favorite spa to get a massage, manicure and pedicure, and then after lunch I’ve got an appointment with my Maiden Lane stylist to get my hair cut and colored. By that time I’ll just have a few hours to take a silky bubble bath and get ready for you. I’m going to look and feel fabulous tonight, so don’t make me wait one minute longer than seven o’clock. Have a good day, Inspector Fleet.” She blew Mac a kiss before hanging up on him. Again.
“Dammit,” yelled Mac, fighting the urge to throw his phone across the room. Sheyla had made plans for a full-blown date, complete with all the expectations. Mac had to quickly figure out a Plan B, which included changing his plan to ride shotgun with Mayes to Sacramento. He hurried toward Longley’s office, spinning his Rubik’s Cube even faster.
THE SUNRISE HAD JUST kissed San Francisco good morning, and already the precinct’s compact commander was in a foul mood. “You guys better have something for me,” barked Longley.
“We do,” said Mac. “I went to Pearls of Asia last night and found out the two women who crashed Jim Grisham’s party were two waitresses who work there named Nadia and Ashley, and Paul Osher has a direct connection to both of them.”
That’s great work, partner,” Mayes chimed, “and I can confirm you’re onto something. I was rechecking Osher’s phone records, and there are dozens of calls between Osher and someone by the name of Damian Puti, including one call just an hour before the murder. I then pulled Puti’s phone records, and I saw a steady flow of calls between his phone and Pearls of Asia. To put the cherry on top, Osher’s bank records show two $10,000 checks made out to Puti, one six months ago and another last Friday, the day after Michelle Osher’s murder.”
“Wait a second,” paused Mac. “Last night Nadia told me Osher pays her a ‘finders fee’ if she hooks him up with women. She also said she introduced him to Ashley six months ago. Ten grand is a pretty steep price for her to pimp girls for him. Osher’s got to be paying Nadia off for something else, for some other ‘service’ she’s providing. We’ve got to find out what those checks are for.”
“Damian Puti? That name sounds familiar,” mused Longley, his morning frown tinged by a worried look. “What do we know about him?”
“I did a Google search and learned he’s some kind of software consultant,” answered Mayes, handing Mac and Longley a recent photo of Damian Puti that he scanned from the Internet. Longley looked at the picture for a nano-second before throwing it onto his desk, while Mac took a longer, harder look. Minus the expensive wig, mascara and fake eyelashes, he recognized the ultra-thin Asian gentleman in the picture.
“I never would have believed it,” he said. “That’s the one they call Nadia at Pearls of Asia. Damian Puti is Nadia. Damn, that’s incredible. You would never think she, or he, is anything but a woman.”
“I also pulled his credit card information,” continued Mayes, “and it looks like he owns his own company and travels all over the world. He’s wicked smart too. He graduated summa cum laude from M.I.T. thirty years ago.”
“Wait a second,” contested Mac. “That would make Damian Puti, I mean Nadia, over fifty years old. She doesn’t look a day over thirty-five.”
“That’s because Asian women always look at least ten years younger than their actual age,” interjected Longley.
The two detectives gawked at their rotund boss, shock
ed that he knew anything more extraneous than the police compliance manual. Something must have been in the air, because Longley’s mood had turned from irritable to intoxicated. “Excuse me?” asked Mayes.
“I just know these things,” rendered Longley, signaling that he wanted to get back to the case rather than discuss his apparent extensive knowledge about exotic Asian woman.
Mac became more animated and seemed to be spinning the Rubik’s Cube at light speed. “One thing we’re missing in this case is motive. What if Paul Osher paid Nadia, or Damian Puti, twenty grand to kill his wife? We know she called him on the night of the murder. He was conveniently out of town, and she’s seen leaving the building after Michelle Osher was killed.”
Mayes didn’t quite share the same enthusiasm as his partner. “I don’t know, Mac. I think a mistress always has a motive. I’m sticking with my theory that Michelle Osher was killed in a moment of passionate rage. A murder for hire is more calculated and coldblooded, like a bullet to the back of the head. A ‘no fuss, no muss’ type of thing.”
It was rare for the two partners to disagree. “You and I are usually on the same page, Mac,” continued Mayes, “but this time we’re looking at the same picture and seeing two different things. Let’s hit the road and talk about it on our way to Sacramento.”
Mac’s mind began oscillating faster than the Rubik’s cube. He came up with a Plan B, except “B” stood for bullshit. “Mayes, something’s come up. That was my mom on the phone, and she’s come down with something. Headaches, fever, sore muscles. She needs me to take her to see her doctor this afternoon. Do you mind taking the trip yourself?”
Mayes flashed his partner a stern look of disappointment, as if he’d caught Mac feeding the liver to the dog. “Mac, you know we work better together on stuff like this. Who knows what we might find up there, and two sets of eyes are better than one. Plus we’ve got a lot to discuss. Your mom’s a grown woman. Can’t she drive herself to the doctor, or take a cab?”