by Lee Geiger
“I’ve seen those villages, Fernando. The dirt, the poverty, the hopelessness. Are you sure you want to go back there? Tell me about those knives or else you’ll be riding in the cargo section on the next plane back to Manila.”
Fernando Mateo conferred with his lawyer in Tagalog. “Seryosa ba s’ya?” (“Is he serious?”)
“Damn straight, I’m serious,” yelled Mayes, who was fluent in Tagalog, Spanish, French and Italian. He was getting pretty good at Mandarin, too.
“Okay, man, I’ll tell you what you want to know, but you have to promise me I won’t get deported.”
Mac woke up just in time to play the good cop. “I can assure you, Mr. Mateo, that if you cooperate, I’ll make sure my partner treats you right.”
“Okay, man, here’s how it goes down. I go to Oakland and pickup these knives, see. After that I take them to a pier in Hunter’s Point, and deliver them to some dude named ‘RC.’ He then gives me two hundred bucks. I have no idea what he does with them after that. That’s the truth, man. I swear.”
“When were you supposed to meet this ‘RC’ character?” asked Mayes.
“Friday, man.”
“What’s RC’s story?” asked Mac. “What do you know about him?”
“I don’t know, man. I’ve never seen him before. I was told to look for a big dude with long hair and a nasty scar over his eye. That’s it, man. That’s all I know.”
Mayes pushed away his chair and stood up from the table. This interrogation was over. “Fernando Mateo, you’re going to keep that appointment, and my partner and I will be there with you. If everything works out, you won’t have to worry about being deported. At least not this time…man!”
MAC FELT LIKE SIX-POUNDS of shit in a five-pound bag. Walking back to The Sub with a caffeine-induced headache, the septic combination of guilt and remorse began stirring the acid parked in his stomach. Mayes strode six steps in front of him, chatting on his phone to confirm an appointment with Jim Grisham. What was he going to say to Mayes? Here he was, Inspector Mac Fleet, working on the biggest case of his life, and he’s out on the town sharing soufflés and body fluids with a potential murder suspect. Why was he acting like such a fool? Taking a chance is one thing, but risking everything you’ve worked for because an attractive woman walks into your life is another. There’s a fine line between duty and danger, and Mac had taken an eraser to it.
“Mayes, let’s take a walk. We need to talk.”
After strolling south on Bryant Street toward Eighth, and managing not to step on two homeless men sleeping on steam grates, Mac opened up to his partner underneath a freeway over-pass. “I’ve got good news and bad news, Mayes. Which do you want to hear first?”
“You know I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy. Lay on the good news.”
“Sheyla Samonte is left-handed.”
Mayes nodded. “OK. Good work, partner. It goes with my theory about ‘the other woman.’ It means we’ll have to look closer at those surveillance tapes, or figure out another way she could have gotten into the building. Hell, maybe Paul Osher and Sheyla Samonte were working together. So what’s the bad news?”
“I found out while having dinner with her last night.”
Mayes jaw dropped faster than a suicide jumper off the Golden Gate Bridge. “Did I just hear you say you had dinner with a murder suspect last night?”
“I did. We went to Fleur de Lys. The foie gras was fantastic.”
Volcanoes don’t explode without warning, and neither did the Wrath of Mayes. First, he starts breathing heavily through his nose, like a prairie thunderstorm gathering strength. Then his eyes turn red, like an enraged bull readying to mow down tourists running along the streets of Pamplona. The muscles of his jaw begin to tighten, and if you listen close enough, you can hear him grind the enamel from his teeth. Then, like swollen rivers, the veins on the side of his head threaten to spill over their banks. Once the process is complete, the Wrath of Mayes convulses, releasing the antagonized fury amassed in one very angry black man.
“You sonofabitch,” said Mayes in his normal tone of voice. “You goddamn, sonofabitch,” he repeated, a touch louder and this time uttered with a heightened sense of urgency. “You goddamn, nogood, lying-ass, SONOFABITCH!” This time the cars driving overhead thought they were in an earthquake.
“I know Mayes. I know.”
“You don’t know shit, Mac Fleet,” shouted Mayes. The Wrath was in full force. A look of incredulity crossed his face, like a big brother discovering his little brother had just lied about smoking, drinking, and borrowing the car without permission. All on the same day. “You saw Sheyla Samonte last night? When the hell were you going to tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“So that story about your mom being sick was all bullshit,” screamed Mayes, his voice loud enough to wake up a nearby drunk curled up on the sidewalk using a cardboard box as a blanket. “What the hell were you thinking, Mac? What else haven’t you told me? What other stories have you been lying to me about?”
“I don’t know what’s happening to me, Mayes. I was just going to ask Sheyla Samonte a few questions, and then she drew me in like a fly to honey. I tried to hold back, but I couldn’t help myself. This chick’s gotten into my head.”
Mayes got within an inch of Mac’s face. “It sounds like she’s also gotten into your pants. Is that why you think Sheyla Samonte has nothing to do with Michelle Osher’s murder? Which head are you thinking with, Mac? The one above your neck, or the one below your belt? You didn’t think it was worth checking her alibi, her phone records, her timeline, nothing? I swear, Mac, I should report you to Longley right now. This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. If you think Internal Affairs roughed you up after Larry Kelso got shot, wait until they hear about this. They’ll skin you alive.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Here’s another warning, my friend. How do you know Sheyla Samonte isn’t setting you up? Of course she’s going to say she has no reason to kill Michelle Osher, that all she cared about was her sugar daddy’s money. What did you expect her to say? That she loves him, and now that his wife’s head was nearly cut off she hopes to have him to herself someday? Are you that stupid? For all you know she could be luring you into a trap, making you think she’s interested in you to keep the heat off her. Or even worse, Paul Osher. Get a grip, Mac. You’re better than this.”
Mac backed away from his partner. Mayes was right, but like a cornered animal, Mac had to at least try to defend himself. “I made a mistake, Mayes. No question about it. I’m sorry for lying to you. I thought I’d be able to get away with it, but once I learned she was a lefty I knew I had to tell you. I still believe she’s innocent, though I’m not as sure as I was before.”
Mayes started to calm down, a hint of rationality returning to his voice. “Even if she were innocent, Mac, can you imagine what would happen if the guys on the force found out you were dating a transsexual woman? San Francisco may be a liberal town, but the police department is more homophobic than a Nebraska prayer group. The guys look up to you, Mac, but they will disown you for this. Not to mention that if Stone ever catches wind of this you’d better hope the only thing he would do is fire you.”
“I know, Mayes. You’re right. You’re always right. Something about this woman just got to me. I can’t explain it. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I just couldn’t stop myself.”
“You couldn’t stop yourself?” exclaimed Mayes in disbelief. “Teenage boys have urges, Mac, not hardened detectives. In all the time we’ve been partners, I’ve never known you to be anything less than a professional. You love this job too much. Why would you risk losing it over a woman?”
“Mayes, I don’t know what to say, except that I’ll keep it strictly professional with Sheyla from now on. I need you to do me a favor, though. Let’s just keep this between you and me. I don’t want Longley or Stone to know anything about this. If we end up arresting her, then fine, I’ll come cl
ean and take the bullet.”
“Mac, do you realize what you’re asking me to do? My obligation as an officer of the court is to report what you’ve done. Now you’re asking me to put my career at risk. I’m not like your buddy, Larry Kelso. I’ve got a family to support; two kids, and another one on the way. I don’t know if I can do that.”
Mac was pleading. “Mayes, please. We’re partners. We’re supposed to look out for each other. You know how much I love this job.”
Mayes paused and took a deep breath. Like a Kansas tornado, the Wrath of Mayes had blown itself out. His head told him to go to the brass, but his heart said to give his talented partner another chance.
“Ok, Mac, I’ll do it. But so help me, if you screw up one more time, I’ll go straight to Longley. And if Sheyla Samonte is involved in any way, I’m going to have to tell Stone what I know.”
“Thanks partner. I won’t let you down.”
“You better not. Now let’s go talk to Grisham.”
THE TRANSAMERICA PYRAMID IS the tallest and most recognizable skyscraper in San Francisco. Located at the base of Columbus Avenue and Montgomery and Washington streets, the building is a stone’s throw from the Financial District, Chinatown, and the city’s Italian North Beach neighborhood, where pasta and red wine are considered two of the four major food groups. The building has two unique design features. The first is the “wings” on the east and west sides of the building, used to accommodate an elevator shaft and a stairwell. The other is the size of the floors. The higher the floor, the smaller the space. The top floor, the forty-eighth, is barely big enough for a pool table.
Mac and Mayes rode up to the sixth-floor offices of the prestigious law firm of Goddard and Goddard, where Jim Grisham was a senior partner. Fifteen years earlier, Goddard and Goddard was located on the twenty-first floor. The firm doubled in size during the next five years and moved down to the twelfth floor. Two years ago, after merging with another law firm, Goddard and Goddard moved down to the sixth floor. Unlike most buildings in San Francisco, where the most successful firms moved higher to improve their views of the scenic Bay Area, the more prosperous you were working in the Pyramid, the closer you got to the parking garage.
“Mr. Grisham, what was going on between your wife and Michelle Osher?” asked Mayes, refusing Grisham’s offer to take a seat.
Grisham walked over to a window in his corner office and stared down the steel and concrete canyon better known as Montgomery Street. “What do you think was going on, Inspector?”
“You tell me, Mr. Grisham. Michelle Osher has been renting the same suite at the Fairmont Hotel every Tuesday for the last three years, and those hotel key cards we found in your apartment have your wife’s fingerprints all over them. What reason would two women living one floor from each other have to get together at a hotel room one block from their apartments?”
A pained look etched across Grisham’s face. “Because they were lovers.”
The awkward silence in Grisham’s office was punctured by the wailing siren of a fire engine rushing through the intersection of Montgomery and Clay.
“They started seeing each other several years ago,” continued Grisham, moving from the window to his glass-covered contemporary desk. “It started out very innocently. Paul Osher is a client, and we would get together with the Oshers to play tennis.” Grisham pointed to a photo on his wall of Paul Osher and Sonia Grisham. Both were on the same side of the net and dressed in their fashionably correct whites. Sonia was up at the net, holding her racket with both hands, while Paul Osher was returning a serve, smoking his ever-familiar cigar. “We’d have animated discussions over dinner, a bunch of wealthy conservatives working each other into a frenzy. Then Sonia and Michelle started spending time together, just the two of them. They spent hours walking Michelle’s dog. They even arranged for several ‘girls only’ trips to the Canyon Ranch spa in Tucson. It was after one of those trips that Sonia told me she had fallen in love with Michelle.”
“How did you feel about that, Mr. Grisham?” asked Mac. “That must have been one hell of a shock to your system.”
“I was floored. I’ll never forget that night. Sonia told me to fix myself a stiff drink and sit down because she had a story she needed to tell me.”
“Do you mind sharing it with us?”
Grisham leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head, and put his feet up on his desk. “I might as well. You’re going to find out anyway. The first thing you need to know is that the Osher’s marriage was nothing but a facade. Michelle Osher was gay.”
Mac was too flabbergasted to ask a follow up question. Mayes, meanwhile, who had been exposed to more of life’s peccadilloes while a student at UC Berkeley, was unfazed. “You mean it’s not legal?” he asked.
“Oh I assure you, Inspector, it’s all legal. Michelle Osher was all about being politically correct. However, she thought it wouldn’t look right for a former Miss America to come out as a lesbian, so she wanted to get married to maintain her image. The problem was finding the right guy who would go along with her charade. Then she met Paul Osher at a cocktail party, and after too many vodka martinis she spilled the beans on her lifestyle. Paul viewed Michelle’s predicament as an opportunity, so he offered to marry her. Their union had all the romance of a corporate merger. It was only after marrying him that she learned about his unique ‘hobbies.’ Yet they somehow managed to make it work. Throughout their marriage, they’ve had only one hard and fast rule; that one spouse’s behavior doesn’t embarrass the other. That’s why Michelle rented the room at The Fairmont.”
“So Michelle Osher was adopted and gay,” pondered Mayes. “Man, this woman sure liked to keep secrets. We’re they planning on getting married, Mr. Grisham? Is that the real reason Michelle Osher changed her mind and became a supporter of gay marriage?”
“I know they talked about it many times. Michelle wanted to leave Paul and marry Sonia, but Sonia would never leave me.”
“Why not?”
“Because we love each other. Sonia and I have been married for over thirty years. We have a good marriage. It’s just not very traditional, that’s all. I never knew Sonia was bisexual, and quite frankly, neither did she. Sometimes you learn things about yourself later in life, but it’s no reason to destroy what two people have spent a lifetime building together. Like the Oshers, we figured out a way to make it work.”
Mac’s mind went numb trying to comprehend the lifestyles of the rich and bizarre. Even Mayes, who was as open-minded as they come, was taken aback by Jim Grisham’s revelations. The 1969 free love movie Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice seemed like Sesame Street compared to the worlds of Jim and Sonia and Paul and Michelle.
Mayes brought the discussion back to the murder case. “Mr. Grisham, why did your wife leave town after Michelle Osher was murdered?”
“I don’t know why. And I also lied to you when I said she flew to New York. The truth is I don’t know where she is. I went back to sleep after you left Thursday morning, and when I woke up around noon I opened the door of the guest room and discovered Sonia was gone. All she left was a note on the bed saying she needed to be by herself. I haven’t heard from her since. You can check our phone records.”
“Mr. Grisham, you’re an attorney. For God’s sake, why would you lie to us about your wife’s disappearance?”
“Because she’s done this before, that’s why. Sonia’s a very emotional woman, and her first instinct when she’s under a lot of stress is to get away and be by herself. She’s not normally gone this long, however. I pray that Michelle’s death hasn’t pushed her over the edge.”
“Do you have any idea where she is, or where she could be?” asked Mac.
“I don’t know. I’m telling you the truth. To be perfectly frank, I’m worried sick about her. I hope she hasn’t done anything stupid.”
Mayes jumped on his phone and contacted the F.B.I., informing them of Sonia Grisham’s disappearance. Mac thumbed through his notepad, and the
n slapped it on his knee in a moment of frustration. “Mr. Grisham, I still don’t understand why you denigrated Michelle Osher the morning after her murder. You made it clear you didn’t like her.”
Grisham’s face turned red, and began to fill with rage. “Again, I might as well tell you because you’ll find out anyway. I was angry at Michelle. The Sunday before her murder, Michelle told Sonia she wanted to end their romantic relationship. She said she had met someone else, a much younger woman who worked at the news bureau. Sonia was very upset, as you can imagine. She cried for days. I even stayed home from work last Tuesday to help console her. That was the day I saw Michelle in the elevator. I lied when I told you I had invited her to my party. Instead, I confronted her about breaking up with Sonia. She said she was sorry, but that she had already moved on.” Grisham pounded his fist on his desk. “That bitch! I hate what she did to my wife.”
“We need to talk to your wife, Mr. Grisham,” insisted Mac. “Now.”
“I understand, Inspector, and I know what you’re thinking. Sonia may have been upset with Michelle, but she would never kill her. I can assure you of that.”
Mayes pulled a pen from his coat pocket. He had a spark in his eye, the kind of look he gets when his brilliant mind slips into overdrive. “A couple more questions, Mr. Grisham. Did you and your wife ever own a dog?”
“No. Never. I can’t stand pets.”
“What about Sonia? Does she like dogs?”
“She loves them. She’s like a godmother to Misha. Sonia likes to carry that miniature mutt whenever she and Michelle go on their walks. Sonia takes care of Misha when the Oshers go out of town. Why do you ask?”