Pearls of Asia: A Love Story (2 page)

“It sure looks that way,” responded Mayes. “She has a single slash wound across the front of her neck, and the killer nearly cut her head off. We haven’t found a murder weapon, and the knife block on the kitchen counter is full. Based on her body temperature, CSI puts the time of death about five hours ago, between one and two o’clock in the morning.”

“She must have just gotten home from work,” opined Mac. He picked up Michelle Osher’s left hand. She was still wearing her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch, and the track lighting made the rock resting on her fourth finger sparkle like a disco ball. Robbery wasn’t a motive.

“Her wedding ring is the size of a small house,” said Mayes. “
PEOPLE
magazine had pictures of her and her husband buying it at Shreve and Company near Union Square.”

“You read
PEOPLE
magazine?”

“I do when Pamela sends me to the grocery store.”

“Another reason why my wife dumped me,” countered Mac, his broad shoulders slumping. “Who does our victim send to the grocery store?”

“Oh right, I keep forgetting you don’t read anything besides the sports page. His name is Paul Osher. No reason why you should know him. He only owns half the apartment buildings in town. He’s also a major venture capitalist who’s bankrolled about a dozen companies in Silicon Valley. The man could write a check and bailout Greece.”

“So where is he now?”

“Out of town,” answered Mayes, his tone reeking of confidence. “I already called his office. His voicemail said he’d be in Los Angeles all week, so I left a message to call back ASAP. I also left a message on his cell phone.”

Mac looked up at Mayes and shook his head in amazement, astonished at the efficiency of his senior partner. “You’re incredible, Mayes. Remind me to be like you when I grow up.”

“You mean bald, black, and brilliant?”

“I’d settle for two out of three,” quipped Mac.

Precinct Captain Steve Longley waddled into the kitchen. Mac’s broad-shouldered and lanky six-foot-two swimmer’s frame towered over his Napoleonic boss, yet both men looked like school boys next to Mayes, who played football in college and still maintained the physique of a heat-seeking linebacker.

“Who found the body?” asked Mac, who left his respect for his squad chief at home. Again.

“The live-in maid,” answered the diminutive Longley. “She’s waiting in the next room. She woke up at 5:00 a.m. and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. Found her boss dead on the floor. Hell of a way to start your day, don’t you think?”

“Depends who my boss is.”

“Don’t start with me, Mac,” scorned Longley, whose sense of humor was even shorter than he was. “Now pay attention you two. See all those news vans parked outside? Michelle Osher is the textbook example of a high profile victim. She had the best ratings in town, her husband is filthy rich, and if you’ll pardon the expression, she was drop-dead gorgeous. After Dispatch alerted me as to the identity of our murder victim, I phoned the Chief of Police and we both agreed you two should have this one.”

“Of course you did,” conveyed Mac while giving Mayes an early morning fist pump. The twosome had collared several notable criminals since being paired together less than nine months ago after the Christmas Day shooting death of Mac’s former partner.

A uniformed officer appeared in the kitchen. “Gentlemen, you’re all needed in the living room. The Big Guy wants to see you.”

The Big Guy meant Chief of Police David Stone. A thirty-year veteran of the force, Stone had a well-deserved reputation as a nimble politician. Mac and Stone shared a close bond. The first time they ever met, Stone presented Mac with a medal for graduating at the top of his class at the Police Academy. Mac looked up to Stone like a second father. Mac’s real father left the country over a decade ago and failed to leave a forwarding address.

The three men shuffled around the kitchen floor’s blood-soaked occupant and gathered in the living room. The contemporary artwork and oversized vases reminded Mac of the lobby of the historic Fairmont Hotel, located a scant single block down the street.

“Good morning, Chief. You wanted to see us?” asked Longley.

“Yes I did, Captain,” insisted Stone, already dressed in an expensive black suit and tie. He knew the cameras would be rolling. “Listen up you guys, the press is going to be all over us like white on rice. Michelle Osher was beloved in this town, and it’s no secret that Paul Osher has showered money like pixie dust on a lot of politicians. You all need to bring you ‘A’ games to this case.”

“We’ll do your best, sir,” asserted Mac. “You know Mayes and I will put everything we’ve got into this one.”

“I don’t doubt that. As soon as I learned who the victim was, I told Captain Longley I wanted you two on this case. You guys did stellar work on the Larsen murders, and then you arrested that Russian wife slayer from Canada a few months ago.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” proclaimed Mac, his eyes locked with Stone’s. “We won’t let you down.”

“Of course you won’t,” replied Stone, parroting his favorite detective. “Because if you do, we’ll all look bad, the police and city of San Francisco will lose face, and you two will be off homicide and back on narcotics busting crack dealers on Sixth Street.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Thursday, September 11, 2008 - 7:42 am

“A body has been removed from a Nob Hill apartment building located at the corner of Sacramento and Taylor, across from Huntington Park. We don’t have official confirmation, but it is rumored to be that of Michelle Osher, the popular evening anchor of KNTV Nightly News.”

KGO Radio

A
FTER HOSTING A
$10,000 a plate fundraiser at their home for President George Bush’s reelection campaign in 2004, The New York Times described Paul and Michelle Osher as, “…not content with having a single luxury apartment on the penthouse floor. They had to own the entire floor. Their opulent six-bedroom palace, located two hundred feet above San Francisco’s privileged Nob Hill, may appear excessive for a childless couple, but not to the Oshers. They view their private residence as the San Francisco equivalent of the Kennedy compound on Cape Cod: an appropriate stage for their generous activities–along with their equally generous egos.”

The sun was rising as the detectives searched the six thousand square foot home. Mayes took a moment to admire the breathtaking views provided by the floor-to-ceiling windows: the Berkeley Hills to the east, Alcatraz Island to the north, and the morning sunshine radiating off the Golden Gate Bridge to the west. “Great God Almighty,” marveled Mayes. “I’ve lived in the Bay Area my whole life, and if I could look at this view every day, I’d be thankful just to be alive.”

“The only way we’d get to see a view like that every day,” countered Mac, refusing to take a moment to glance outside, “is if we became window washers.”

Mac Fleet loved being a detective, or as they are called in San Francisco, an inspector. His blue-collar father, who served up for his impressionable son a healthy dose of “Dirty Harry” movies, planted the seeds for what would later become his passion. Jack Fleet and his son spent hours together sitting on the couch, snacking on chips and soda, watching Clint Eastwood hunt down the bad guys and exact vigilante justice. To Mac, who possessed a curiosity worthy of the Smithsonian, every case was like a puzzle, with evidence to discover, clues to follow, and unique characters to question. When he graduated ten years ago from San Jose State with a degree in Criminal Justice, he dreamed of making arrests and bringing Bay Area scum to justice. Wearing a badge was more than a job to Mac. It defined who he was as a man.

Taylor Mayes enjoyed a high-definition life on a 50-inch chest. Born with brains and a matching set of brawn, Mayes graduated magna cum laude with a degree in English Literature from UC Berkeley. When he wasn’t quoting Kipling or dissecting Byron, Mayes crushed quarterbacks as an All-Pac Ten linebacker until a knee injury dashed his dream of an NFL career. Despite being considered the brightest detective on the force, Mayes refused to take department exams or put in the hundreds of extra man-hours necessary to help him move up the ranks. He valued his free time, and Mayes preferred hanging around his Sunset District home with his very pregnant wife Pamela and their three-year-old twins, Buddy and Holly.

Chief Stone and Captain Longley had gone downstairs to address the growing throng of reporters assembled outside the exclusive art-deco building. Armed with their press cameras, boom mikes and satellite dishes, journalists representing media outlets from all around the world peppered the twosome with questions. The distinguished and well-dressed Stone stood in stark contrast next to the rumpled and vertically challenged Longley. At this point of the investigation, the juiciest thing they could say was “no comment.”

Mac and Mayes combed the apartment and confirmed no signs of a struggle or forcible entry. Jewelry, artwork and antiques were left untouched. It was time to talk to the maid.

MARIA MADRIGAL, FIFTY-TWO
years old, sat on the edge of a sofa, nervously holding a cigarette and staring out the window. Her hands shook in a shroud of blue smoke. No doubt she was in shock over discovering a dead body, but Mac wondered if she were frightened about something else.

“Ms. Madrigal, I’m Inspector Mac Fleet and this is my partner, Inspector Taylor Mayes. We know how upsetting this must be for you, but we need to ask you a few questions about what you saw and heard this morning. When did you last see Mrs. Osher alive?”

“I’m not in trouble, am I?” she asked with a heavy Mexican accent.

“No ma’am. We’re with homicide, not immigration.”

Maria breathed an audible sigh of relief, and the color rushed back to her face. Mac was right. She was worried about something else besides a dead employer. “Mrs. Osher came home from work, usual time. Close to midnight. She was very tired.”

Mayes squatted down to Maria’s eye level and sat on a coffee table to make her feel more at ease. Mayes had an instinct regarding when to use his massive physical presence to intimidate or encourage. “Ms. Madrigal, please tell us what you saw and heard last night.”

Maria teared up. “I don’t know,” she said in a halting voice. “She…was still in the kitchen. I say goodnight…then go to my room and turn on the TV. Leno was almost over…but I was sleepy. I turn it off and go to bed.”

“So the last time you saw Michelle Osher alive was around 12:30?” confirmed Mac. She nodded. “Ms. Madrigal, between the time you went to bed and the time you found her, did you hear anything at all during the night?”

“No,” she answered, composing herself. “There was a party on the floor right below. Very noisy. People shouting, loud music, so I wear earplugs. I’m sorry.” Maria began to cry again, and she buried her face in a handkerchief. “Can I go to my room now?”

“A couple more questions,” said Mac, who knew the last thing Maria wanted to do was answer a couple more questions. “Do you know who was having the party?”

“Oh, that rude man. Mr. Grisham in 1901. He has parties all the time. He and Mr. Osher are friends.”

“Speaking of Mr. Osher,” said Mayes, standing up and returning to not-your-best-friend mode. “Do you know where he is?”

“Los Angeles. He left Monday. He goes there on business all the time. He is to come home tomorrow. Does he know what happened to Mrs. Osher?”

“We’re trying to get in touch with him. One more question, Ms. Madrigal,” said Mac, who stopped writing and looked at Maria as though the fate of the free world rested on her answer to his next question. “How would you describe the Osher’s marriage?”

Maria wiped away her tears and blew her nose. Her eyes brightened and a smile appeared on her face. “Wonderful,” she said. “Mr. Osher loves her. He sends her flowers all the time.”

“Thank you Maria,” said Mayes, handing her his business card. “Please call us if you can think of anything else.”

Maria began walking toward her room. Then, for no apparent reason, she dropped down onto her hands and knees to peek under a chair. She then crawled along the white-carpeted living room floor, whistled softly, and looked behind an armoire. She got up to walk into dining room, then dropped down onto her knees and whistled again, this time to look under a china cabinet. After several more “stop and drop” moments, she returned to ask the detectives a question.