Pearls of Asia: A Love Story (20 page)

Before dismissing his detectives, Longley had one more question he wanted to ask. “Mac, how did you find out Nadia was at the party?”

“You’re not going to believe this, Captain. She told me.”

“You’re kidding? That woman sure has balls,” said Longley.

“Yes she does, Captain,” laughed Mac. “Yes she does.”

MAYES STOMPED BACK TO
his desk, pulled out his notepad, and glared at his scribble. “You sound like you’re ready to lock up Osher and Nadia and throw away the key,” he argued to Mac, who was concentrating on his Rubik’s Cube to avoid eye contact with his seething partner. “I want to remind you that just a few days ago you were ready to slap handcuffs on Paul Osher and his girlfriend. Before you get all carried away, don’t you think we should do a little more homework first, like find a murder weapon? Or the dog? Or maybe find out something simple, like whether or not Nadia or Sheyla is left-handed?”

“I hear you,” replied Mac, putting down his puzzling security blanket. “Remember Mayes, I met with Sheyla Samonte, and I don’t think she could have done it. You have to trust me on this one. We didn’t find her on the surveillance tape, and she doesn’t have a motive to kill Michelle Osher.”

“I do trust you, Mac, but I haven’t looked into her eyes like you have, so I still have my doubts. Osher may have taken good care of her, but she’s still his mistress, and you and I both know she’s still holding onto a few secrets. The fact she doesn’t have a solid alibi still concerns me.”

“Trust me, Taylor,” said Mac, who rarely called his Terminator-sized partner by his first name unless it was absolutely, positively necessary. “Sheyla Samonte didn’t kill Michelle Osher.”

NADIA, OR DAMIAN PUTI
, lived on Upper Terrace Drive, a prestigious address in Ashbury Heights that overlooked the famous Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. Mac docked The Sub next to a small park located in the center of a cul-de-sac roundabout, which featured a century-old phallic-shaped stone structure. Filled with weeds, over-grown trees, and cracked concrete, it was easy to be under whelmed by this piece of San Francisco history. In 1887, a statue of then-mayor Adolph Sutro was erected on top of 570-foot Mt. Olympus, and it served as a beacon to mark what was, at the time, the geographic center of the city. The statue of Mayor Sutro is gone, but not his name. From the park you could also see San Francisco’s 981-foot Sutro Tower. Now considered a prominent part of the city’s skyline, popular local writer Herb Caen once wrote of the three-pronged antennae tower, “I keep waiting for it to stalk down the hill and attack the Golden Gate Bridge.”

It was late in the afternoon and Nadia wasn’t home, so Mac, armed with years of experience picking locks, used a nail file to get inside. A search of her spacious two-bedroom condo, complete with two wood burning fireplaces and a large bearskin rug, revealed plenty of camera equipment, purses, sexy lingerie, and a closet full of expensive wigs. Unfortunately, the detectives found nothing like a date book, calendar, or answering machine that would connect Nadia to either Osher or the murder. Not even a missing Tea Cup Yorkie wearing a diamond earring.

A neighbor from across the hall poked his head in. “So this is what his place looks like,” he said.

“Do you know who lives here?” asked Longley.

“Yeah. His name is Damian something. Travels a lot, so I don’t see him around much. The guy’s a strange bird. He’s okay and all, but he’s some kind of crossdresser. Popular too. He’s got guys coming up here all the time, well-dressed corporate types.” Mr. Neighbor took a strong look at Longley. “Hey, haven’t I seen you before? Weren’t you just here a couple weeks ago?”

“Must have been somebody else,” insisted Longley, who wanted nothing more at that moment than for Mr. Neighbor to vanish like a fart in the wind. “Did you happen to see him today?”

“Yeah, I did. I saw him walking out the door this morning. He was dressed in a fancy black suit. He said it was made of pure silk and that he got it hand tailored in Hong Kong. Whatever. Like anyone gives a rat’s ass.”

“Did he tell you where he was going?” asked Mac.

“Yeah. He said he was going to a funeral.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Tuesday, September 16, 2008 - 6:00 pm

“Though they are illegal to carry in many parts of the world, prices for hand-made Balisong switchblades from the Philippines have skyrocketed on eBay since Michelle Osher’s murder, with some going for as much as $10,000.”

The Los Angeles Times

T
URNING THE SHOWER ON
as hot as he could stand it, Mac killed the lights and settled in for a thirty-minute deluge. Resting his butt on the tile floor, his mind filled with as much excitement as confusion, Mac tried to picture the evening ahead. What would they do? What would they talk about? Absent was the grinding void in his stomach, replaced instead by guilty anticipation. He was going on a date with a transsexual woman, something he never would have imagined. Not even in his wildest dreams. The thought of them together seemed abnormal, risky, and even dangerous. But like a planet’s pull on a neighboring moon, there was a mysterious force that drew him to Sheyla. Mac couldn’t wait to see her.

But why? Why jeopardize his career by lying to Mayes and Longley? Moreover, two people from the precinct had already seen them together. Why take the risk of being seen with her again? Sheyla had already answered most of his questions. No logic justified seeing her again. Yet Mac was obsessed. He wanted to be with her, to talk to her, to listen and learn more about her. Sheyla was right. She was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

Mac arrived a few minutes before Sheyla’s mandated arrival time of 7:00. He took a moment to check himself out in the mirrored elevator doors. Black sports coat, matching black jeans, and a white button down shirt. No tie. Nothing special. Just the way he liked to dress.

Sheyla had left the front door ajar, and Mac strolled into her apartment. What he saw reminded him more of a museum lobby than a single woman’s apartment. An original landscape from Belle Yang graced the foyer. A Cosmopolitan magazine, next to a book about Chinese calligraphy, was on a cut glass coffee table. A ceramic vase from Japan rested on an antique dresser. A reproduction of a nude painting by Renoir stood guard over the dining room. The soulful sounds of “Something Special” by Tina Turner emanated from the stereo. A diamond-collared black cat, her tummy full after a bowl of milk, was curled up fast asleep on the L-shaped leather sofa.

From down the hall came The Voice. “Pour us some champagne, Mac. It’s on the kitchen table. I’ll be out in a minute.” Mac did as he was told, but the woman of the moment never gave him a chance to savor even a single sip.

Sheyla didn’t just enter a room. She penetrated it, like a spotlight piercing a moonless sky. Born with glitter in her veins, Sheyla knew how to make an entrance. Wearing a slinky ivory spaghetti strap silk dress with matching high heels, Sheyla looked sleek, modern and vogue. Diamond chandelier earrings dangled like falling snowflakes. Her brown hair, tipped with provocative highlights, was swept into an elegant updo. A strand of pink pearls added a touch of class. Standing before Mac was more than just a feast for the eyes. Sheyla was the most glamorous woman he had ever seen.

“Well Mr. Fleet,” she purred, “don’t just stand there with your mouth open. How do I look?”

Mac was speechless. Her aura of chic style mixed with modern sophistication had knocked the wind from his sails. He didn’t even realize he was spilling champagne onto her kitchen floor.

“Sheyla…I…I….”

Her hair smelled of lust, and her perfume hinted of sin. Her radiant brown eyes, surrounded by smoky makeup, said she wanted to get the evening started. She leaned in and put her arm inside Mac’s. “See, I knew you’d call me Sheyla. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

Mac felt as nervous as a teenager on his first blind date. Navigating The Sub through the streets of San Francisco, Mac struggled to keep his eyes on the road. He had chosen an inexpensive Fillmore District bistro, but Sheyla disapproved as soon as she saw it. “Honey, I’m afraid I’m a touch overdressed for this place. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Where else do you suggest?” he asked. “At this hour, we’d be lucky to score a table at In-N-Out Burger.”

“You let me worry about that. Follow my directions and I’ll tell you how to get there.” Once again, Mac did as he was told. He changed coordinates and guided The Sub to 777 Sutter Street, better known as Fleur de Lys.

MAC BEGAN TO PANIC
as soon as he saw the restaurant’s majestic awning hovering over the sidewalk. “Sheyla, I can’t afford a place like this. I’m a C.O.P., not a C.E.O.”

“Don’t worry, baby. You’re with me.” Sheyla wrapped her long delicate fingers around Mac’s neck and kissed him hard, holding the kiss until the valet came knocking. Mac didn’t mind the wait. In fact, he hoped the valet was running laps around the block.

Once inside the restaurant’s exquisite lounge, Mac knew right away he was out of his league, socially as well as financially. “Don’t you need a letter of introduction to eat here?”

“Not to worry, baby. You’re here with me. Just let me do the talking.”

The gracious hostess, who spoke with a heavy French accent, recognized Sheyla and greeted her as though they were life long friends. “My darling Sheyla, what a wonderful surprise to see you. You look amazing!”

“Good evening, Chantal. It’s so good to see you, too. Allow me to introduce you to my date. His name is Mac Fleet. He’s a police detective. I know we don’t have a reservation, but I so much wanted to bring him here.”

“You’re a lucky man to have this woman on your arm, Mr. Fleet,” added Chantal, a striking women in her mid-forties.

“Yes, I know,” answered Mac, peering into the dining room, hoping luck would strike twice and he wouldn’t recognize anyone he knew. Then again, at these prices, the chances of that happening were slim.

“Sheyla, you know you never have to worry about a reservation,” offered Chantal. “You are always welcome here. Hubert will be so excited to see you.”

Fleur de Lys had been a San Francisco institution for years, known for its extravagant décor, romantic ambiance, and a wine list second to none. As the maitre d’ showed them to their corner table beneath the richly colored fabric-draped ceiling, every eye in the restaurant was taking a peek at Mac and his luminous date. The only thing missing was a red carpet.