by Lee Geiger
“Reyna?”
“You know who I am?” she cried.
“Hell yes,” replied Mac, the shock of the moment etched on his face. “You’re Reyna. You work at Pearls of Asia.”
Mac removed his ratty 49er hat. “Oh my gosh. You’re Mac Fleet,” she declared. “You’re Sheyla’s boyfriend.”
“Say what?” asked Mayes.
“Stay focused, Mayes,” snapped Mac. “Okay, Reyna, where does the ‘RC’ come from?”
“Those are my initials. My real name is Reyna Cruz. Please, Mac. Don’t arrest me. It’s not what it looks like.”
Mayes grabbed Reyna’s coat with a massive hand and lifted her like a tackling dummy. “It looks to me like you’re pimping illegal switchblades.”
“No, that isn’t it at all,” she pleaded. “I’m a counselor at a health clinic, not some kind of dealer. Have you seen how much these Balisong knives are selling for on eBay? I thought it might be a good way to raise money for “Catwalk,” my transgender beauty pageant. Please, you have to believe me.”
Mayes called into the precinct to see if there were any prior arrests of Reyna Cruz. She had been locked up six times in the past for prostitution and drug possession, but her rap sheet had been clean for the past ten years.
“Talk to me, Reyna Cruz,” demanded Mayes. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been busted. How do we know you’re telling the truth?”
Reyna broke down crying as she tried to explain. “Things were different when I first got to America. I came here with nothing and lived on the streets. I’m not proud of it, but I did what I had to do to survive. It took me awhile, but I got on my feet and found a place to live. Then I started going to night school to become a counselor. I swear to you, I haven’t been in trouble since.
“Last year, I was attending an AIDS conference in Los Angeles where I met this girl who traded me a half-dozen Balisongs for a bag of hormones. I always carried a Balisong knife for protection when I lived in the Philippines, and I thought it would be smart to have another one. You can keep it in your pocket or your purse without anyone noticing.”
“How many of these have you sold?” asked Mac.
“I haven’t sold a single one. I decided instead to give them away to the girls at Pearls of Asia. Walking back to your car so late at night after work, usually alone, can be pretty scary.”
Mayes put on his most intimidating scowl. “Alright, Miss Cruz. Here’s what we’re going to do. We need to account for every knife you’ve given away. You CANNOT, I repeat, CANNOT speak to anyone until we talk to them first. You got me? If you do, I’m going to put you in jail with a bunch of thugs who’d be delighted to share a cell with a woman like you. Do you get my drift?”
“Yes, sir” she begged, too scared to cry anymore. “I understand. I’m so sorry. I’ll never do this again.”
Mac removed Reyna’s handcuffs. “You’re lucky he likes you,” remarked Mac. “Normally he’d break one of your fingers before letting you go.”
Mac escorted Fernando Mateo back to The Sub, while Mayes grabbed the box of Balisong knives. Before he had gone too far, Mayes turned to ask Reyna a question. “Miss Cruz, by any chance, do you know if any of the girls at Pearls of Asia are left-handed?”
“I’m not sure about everyone,” she answered, “but I know Sheyla is.”
BACK AT THE PRECIENCT, Mac and Mayes discussed what to do next. “It’s pretty simple,” said Mayes. “We now have probable cause to search Pearls of Asia. I say we get a search warrant and go straight there and see which one of the girls is carrying a Balisong. Then we’ll have each one sign the search warrant to see which of them is left-handed. If I’m right, and we can confirm Sheyla Samonte is the only one who meets both criteria, then we’ll have no choice but to arrest her.”
Mac fired back, still reeking of 49er fumes, “What about my theory that Osher and Nadia conspired to kill his wife? She admits being at the party, she spoke to Osher only an hour before the murder, and we now know Osher had a financial motive to kill his wife. Ten million bucks pays for a lot of grief counseling.”
Mayes walked over and rested his massive posterior on a corner of Mac’s desk. “Let me ask you something, Inspector Fleet. Which would you rather tell Stone? That you arrested Sheyla Samonte based on strong circumstantial evidence, or that you arrested Paul Osher, who happens to be one of his close personal friends, on a hunch?”
Mac picked up his Rubik’s Cube. “Do you want to drive to Pearls of Asia, or should I?”
THE TWO DETECTIVES WAITED outside on Howard Street for Pearls of Asia to open. Mayes called ahead and learned that Nadia, Sheyla, Diamond and Reyna were scheduled to work tonight. “We’ll go in right after they open,” said Mayes. “That way every girl will be upstairs hustling tables. I doubt they carry switchblades while they’re working.”
“They don’t have to,” said Mac, who never bothered to change out of his smelly undercover outfit. “Their tongues are sharper than any knife.”
Mayes flashed his badge at Mr. Ponytail, explaining that he was there on police business. Mac followed behind, hoping the pair of sunglasses he added to his ensemble would prevent him from being recognized. Mr. Ponytail sat Mayes and his grubby companion at a table next to the back stairs, which led down to the girls’ dressing room. Mayes pulled out the search warrant and began asking the girls to come over to his table.
Reyna was the first to provide her signature. Righty. “Where’s the one they call Diamond?” asked Mayes.
“I don’t know,” said Reyna. “She’s scheduled to work tonight but she didn’t show up. She’s missed her last few shifts, which is strange. No one has seen her since she and a friend went to Mexico earlier this week.”
Mayes didn’t hesitate. “Then would you mind asking the one they call Nadia to come over here?”
Nadia strutted toward the detectives, wearing more attitude than clothes. “Hello gentlemen. It’s so nice to see you. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Really?” asked Mayes. “Why is that, Mr. Puti?”
“I’ve got videotape of you boys searching my place last week. I hope your boss enjoyed going through my panty drawer. What’s his name? Oh yes, Longley. He’s one of my regulars. He likes his girls to be like his cops…versatile.”
“We understand you’ve been traveling quite a bit,” said Mayes, “I guess those $10,000 checks from Paul Osher aren’t enough to pay for your lifestyle.”
“Babe, between New York, Las Vegas and Sacramento, in the last week I’ve been to four paydays and a funeral. As for those checks, let’s just say Paul thinks I’m a better broker than half the guys who work for him.”
Mayes slid the warrant and a pen in front of Nadia, who then executed a right-handed signature worthy of John Hancock. Mac’s shoulders slumped; his theory for the case just went down the drain.
“Get me Sheyla Samonte,” Mayes barked to Nadia. It was an order, not a request.
“I’ve got to use the head,” conveyed Mac, who wanted no part of this exercise. He walked far enough away to be out of Mayes’ line of sight, but close enough to keep an eye on the action. Sheyla stopped by and nonchalantly signed the warrant. No one was shocked to see her use her left hand. She then proceeded toward the top of the stairway where Mac was standing. He removed his hat and sunglasses and in a hushed tone called out her name.
“Oh my God, Mackey. I barely recognized you.” Sheyla wrapped her arms around him and gave him a soft kiss. She didn’t seem to notice, or care for that matter, that he smelled like a fraternity basement. “You surprised me, baby. What are you doing here, and why are you wearing those awful clothes?”
Mac looked at her with desperate eyes. “Sheyla, do you trust me?”
“Do I trust you?” she asked. “What kind of question is that?”
“Sheyla, something’s going down tonight. It’s out of my control and I can’t stop it. I need to know if you trust me?”
Sheyla sensed Mac was serious. “You’re scaring me, Mac
key. Please tell me what this is all about.”
Mac pleaded for her attention. “Sheyla, you need to know that no matter what happens tonight, I’m going to make things right. You have to believe me.”
“Okay Mac. Okay. Yes, I trust you. Now I need to get ready for a show. Promise you’ll wait for me.” Sheyla blew him a kiss and hurried down the stairs.
“Oh, I promise,” he said to himself with more than a tinge of regret. “I promise.”
MAC RETURNED TO HIS table, where Mayes waved the warrant in his face. Nadia, Reyna, and Sheyla had all signed. Sheyla was the only southpaw.
“Well?” asked Mayes.
“I hear you, Mayes, but this isn’t right. Besides, we still don’t know about the other girls who work here. How come no one has seen Diamond for the past few days? Did she skip town? And what about Ashley? She certainly had the opportunity.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mac. We’re out of time.”
The lights dimmed and Sheyla ascended the stairs to begin her number. Mayes walked over to Nadia and grabbed her by the arm. “Take me to your dressing room. Now!”
“Not unless you’ve got a thousand bucks, babe,” she protested before leading the detectives down the stairs.
The dressing room at Pearls of Asia reeked of perfume and hairspray. It’s where the girls got ready for work, caught up on the latest gossip, and sometimes did battle. Each girl is assigned a locker where she kept outfits, makeup, and the occasional fifth of vodka. Graffiti on the walls bore more phone numbers than the Yellow pages. Pictures of boyfriends young and not so young were plastered on the locker doors, like fishermen displaying their catch of the day. Diamond posted pictures of herself, although in her absence someone had blackened out her teeth. Mac stood by the door while Mayes began the search.
“Which locker belongs to Sheyla Samonte?” demanded Mayes.
Nadia pointed to the only locker without photos or scribble scratched across the front of it. Mayes walked over with a pair of pocketsize bolt cutters and snapped open the lock. Inside he found several dresses, nylons, a few t-shirts, and lots of makeup and brushes. On top of a pile of shoes was her Louis Vuitton travel bag. Mayes opened it and began to sort through the clutter of hairbrushes, lip balms, parking tickets and empty water bottles. After a few seconds, he zipped open an interior pocket and, lying at the bottom, found what he had been looking for; a Balisong switchblade.
“Paydirt!” yelled Mayes. Mac, meanwhile, stood stone-faced and silent, as rigid as a wooden tobacco store Indian.
“Of all the times you were with her,” lamented Mayes, waving the knife in Macs face, “you never once thought to look in her work bag. It’s pathetic, Mac. It really is. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Sheyla’s number was just about to end, and once again the room was in a lather. The song over, she waved to the crowd and walked off to a roaring ovation. As soon as she stepped off the stage, Mayes grabbed Sheyla’s arm and flashed his badge in her face.
“Sheyla Samonte, I’m Inspector Taylor Mayes of the San Francisco Police Department. You’re under arrest for the murder of Michelle Osher.” He pulled her wrists behind her back and handcuffed her. “You have the right to remain silent. Whatever you say…”
“What are you doing?” she protested.
“…can be used against you in a court of law…”
“I didn’t kill anyone!”
The room went silent as Mayes finished reading Sheyla her rights. Nadia and Reyna stood in a corner near the back entrance, speechless. Mayes took Sheyla by the arm and led her out of the restaurant. Mac followed behind, his head down, as the three of them walked to The Sub.
SHEYLA SAMONTE WAS TAKEN to the San Francisco County jail to be booked and processed. She was angry and confused. Once before she had experienced the degradation of being arrested for prostitution, and she knew the smartest thing she could do was to keep her mouth shut. Mac remained silent, doing his best not to make eye contact with her.
After being fingerprinted and photographed, Mayes asked Mac what side of the prison they should put her in: male or female. “She’s not exactly a woman, and she’s not exactly a man. You tell me, Mac, where should we put her for the night?”
Mac was in no mood for his partner’s sarcasm. “Don’t be an asshole, Mayes. If you put her with those animals in the male section, they’ll eat her alive. You said yourself she’s a woman. Put her in with the female population.”
Sheyla was escorted to the women’s side of the prison. Rivers of mascara streamed down her face. As the door was locked behind her, she turned to Mac, her eyes wide with panic. When he returned the look, the serious expression that had been plastered on his face since the moment of her arrest never wavered.
Except for the wink.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Saturday, September 20, 2008 - 10:00 am
“Police have announced the arrest of thirty-year-old Sheyla Samonte for the murder of Michelle Osher. Miss Samonte is the rumored mistress of Paul Osher, the victim’s wealthy husband. Unconfirmed reports indicate Miss Samonte is employed as a ‘gender illusionist’ at a popular San Francisco restaurant called ‘Pearls of Asia.’”
Associated Press
DOZENS OF MEDIA TRUCKS, satellite dishes, and cherry picker vans were stacked outside Police Headquarters like so many egg cartons. Inside, reporters from CNN to the E! Network were crammed into the department’s stuffy auditorium for a televised press conference with Police Chief David Stone on the arrest of Sheyla Samonte.
Mayes ran though the hallways searching for Stone. He found him backstage, looking into a mirror while rehearsing his prepared remarks. “Chief Stone, I need to speak to you before you talk to the press. It’s very important, sir.”
“Dammit, Mayes,” said Stone, fussing with his gelled hair that a tornado couldn’t have budged. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Sir, I need to make you aware of something. It concerns both Mac and me.”
“What is it, Mayes? You guys are my all-stars. I’ll make sure you both get the recognition you deserve.”
“That’s not it, sir. It’s about Inspector Fleet’s conduct. Somewhere during the course of our investigation he became romantically involved with Sheyla Samonte.”
Stone stared straight into the mirror, hardly noticing his face turning red, or the veins in his neck beginning to bulge like a set of frozen water pipes. “What the hell did you just say?”
“Mac got too close to our suspect, Chief. He also doesn’t believe she murdered Michelle Osher. He went along with it only because you put the squeeze on us to make an arrest.”
“How long have you known about this, Inspector Mayes? And why the hell have you waited until now to tell me?” Stone’s muffled rage could he heard outside by reporters.
“I wanted to, sir, but we’re partners, and partners look out for each other. We were hoping that Sheyla Samonte wasn’t our suspect and that this would all blow over.”
Stone turned to face Mayes, glaring at him like a Marine boot camp instructor. “So let me see if I’ve got this straight. My top team of detectives disagrees about whether or not the person we have in custody actually committed this crime; one of my best officers is jeopardizing the biggest case this city has seen in years, along with his own career, by getting romantically involved with our primary suspect; and you just admitted to the Chief of Police that you withheld evidence of your partner committing a major department violation. Have I missed anything, Inspector Mayes?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now go find former Inspector Mac Fleet and tell him to wait for me in my office.”
ATTIRED IN FULL DRESS uniform, Stone stood tall behind a podium as he addressed the scores of reporters. “Ladies and Gentlemen. It is my pleasure to announce that the great men and women of the San Francisco Police Department have made an arrest in the murder of KNTV anchorwoman Michelle Osher. The suspect in custody is Sheyla Samonte. She is thirty years old, born in the Philippines, and e
mployed as a waitress at a local restaurant. We are not at liberty to discuss the facts of the case, but we will try to answer as many of your questions as we can.”
Copies of the press release were handed out, which included Sheyla’s mug shot. It may have been the worst picture ever taken of her. Her face was ashen, swollen, and smeared with heavy makeup.
“Is it true she’s a transsexual?” asked a reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle.
“We have not ascertained that fact as of yet,” answered Stone.
“But she works at Pearls of Asia. Wouldn’t it make sense?” repeated the pesky journalist.
“As I just said, right now we do not know that for a fact.”
“Is it true she was Paul Osher’s mistress?” asked a newshound from CBS news.
“Paul Osher did have a relationship with the suspect. That is all we can tell you.”
“Did he give her money?” asked a scribe from The Wall Street Journal.
“As I’ve said, we cannot disclose the facts of this case.”
“What motive would Sheyla Samonte have to kill Michelle Osher?” asked a columnist from People.
“We won’t discuss a possible motive at this time.”
Questions started firing in from all over the room, like tennis balls shot out of a machine.
“Had the suspect ever met Michelle Osher?”
“How long had she known Paul Osher?”
“Is there one ‘s’ or two in ‘transsexual?’”
Sensing the onset of a media feeding frenzy, Stone brought the press conference to a quick conclusion. Within a few short hours, Sheyla Samonte’s picture, and the incredible story of a beautiful transsexual woman suspected of murdering the famous wife of her wealthy lover, was spread to every corner of the planet.