Pearls of Asia: A Love Story (9 page)

“Good afternoon, Inspectors,” welcomed Osher, who remained seated at his desk without bothering to shake their hands. The picturesque view of San Francisco Bay behind him was stunning, extending from the Golden Gate Bridge all the way past Angel Island, with a hundred tiny white sailboats in between. Standing next to Osher was his attorney, Ray Woodson, who glared at the detectives without saying a word. Woodson, a tall, thin man who fancied himself more of a Mafia consigliore than a mere lawyer, was dressed in white slacks, white blazer, and some kind of brown Italian loafers with tassels that Mac could never afford. Or ever want to.

“Mr. Osher, we’ve checked your alibi and verified that you were in Los Angeles at the time of your wife’s murder,” said Mac. “You also told us you loved your wife and that you’ve been faithful to her since the day you were married. Do you still stand by that statement?”

Lawyer Woodson made his presence felt immediately. “What does that have to do with the case? He doesn’t have to answer that.”

“I’ll be happy to answer that,” responded Osher. He reached for a cigar humidor on his enormous glass desk and pulled out a Montecristo 2. Mac wondered if Osher smoked cigars because he liked them or because he mistakenly thought they made him look taller. “Yes, I stand by that statement. Why do you ask?”

Mac looked down at his notes and paused before asking his next question, giving Osher the impression he was having difficulty putting the pieces of the puzzle together. This was Mac’s mode of operation. He never went into an interview without knowing exactly what he was looking for.

“Well Mr. Osher, can you help me out here? We’re trying to understand the large deposits and daily cash withdrawals associated with your bank account.” Mac pulled out bank statements with numerous transactions highlighted in yellow. “Can you tell us what’s going on here?”

Osher put on his reading glasses and looked over the statements. He handed them over to Lawyer Woodson. “You have a subpoena from a judge to get these from the bank, I assume?” asked Woodson in a futile attempt to justify his thousand-dollar an hour fee.

“Of course we did,” replied Mayes. “Do you think Wells Fargo would have handed them over without one?”

Lawyer Woodson glanced at them, nodded, and handed them back to Osher. “You don’t have to answer any questions about this, Paul. This isn’t a court of law and you’re not under oath.”

“I’m fine with this,” said Osher. He took a draw on his forty-dollar cigar. “The truth is, I always like to carry cash on me. I use it as walking-around money for tips, wagers, cab fares, that kind of stuff. I’m also a very generous man, Inspector. I’m sure I have the highest paid shoe shine guy in San Francisco.”

Mayes presented credit card receipts and asked about the frequent trips in and out of the country. Osher glanced at Lawyer Woodson, who nodded his head. “My job requires me to travel, and taking side trips to Vegas or Mexico helps me to relax. You guys got something against laying in the sun and playing a little golf?”

Lawyer Woodson had heard enough. “Okay gentlemen, he’s answered your questions. This interview is over. Unless you have any evidence that Mr. Osher was involved in his wife’s murder, then I suggest you come back with a grand jury indictment. I can assure you that Mr. Osher was not involved, and that he will help you in any way he can once you identify a suspect.”

Mac and Mayes said their goodbyes, but not before Mac noticed a picture on a wall of Osher swinging a golf club. He had just teed off on the 18
^th
hole at Pebble Beach, one of the most famous golf holes in the world. Mac had been fortunate to play the famous oceanside course once in his life, and he could still remember every shot he hit on every hole.

“That’s the 18
^th
hole at Pebble Beach, isn’t it Mr. Osher?” asked Mac.

“Why, yes it is. That picture was taken at last year’s AT&T Pro-Am tournament. The gentleman watching the flight of my ball is the other amateur in our foursome, Maury Povich, the famous talk show host. He’s a great guy and an outstanding golfer. Have you played there?”

“Yes I have. Once. I can’t help but notice that you’re aiming at the sand trap to the right of the tree in the middle of the fairway. Weren’t you afraid your ball was going to fly that bunker and land out-of-bounds in some mega-millionaire’s backyard?”

“Not at all,” said Osher, sounding like he was about to give Mac a golf lesson. “Look at where my hands are when I finish my swing. You can tell I play a strong fade off the tee.”

“Of course you do, Mr. Osher. How foolish of me.” The detectives thanked Osher and Lawyer Woodson for their time and departed.

The elevator doors closed. Mac and Mayes stood in silence, alone in their thoughts. As the elevator approached the parking garage, Mayes, who had never picked up a golf club in his life, asked Mac what the last conversation was all about.

“Sorry Mayes. I forgot you’re too manly to play golf. Anyway, a ‘strong fade’ is another way of saying he slices the ball.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means he sucks at golf.”

“So what does that mean?” repeated Mayes, his patience falling faster than the elevator.

“It means he hits the ball from right to left.”

“Am I going to have to beat the answer out of you, because you know I can? I’m going to ask you one more time, Mac. What the hell does it mean and what does it have to do with the case?”

“It means he’s left-handed.”

The elevators doors opened to the garage. “Damn, you’re good,” said Mayes.

“Of course I am.”

MAC DROPPED MAYS OFF
at his home located at the corner of Moraga and 28
^th
street, across from the Sunset Recreation Center tennis courts where Mayes liked to work on his backhand. Buddy and Holly sprinted out the front door and wrapped their tiny bodies around their super-sized father. Pamela walked outside, welcomed her husband home, and waved to Mac as he drove away.

Partnering with Mayes was a hundred and eighty degrees from working with Larry Kelso. Mac and Larry were like two college fraternity brothers. They worked hard when they had to, and played even harder when they didn’t. Forty-eight hour shifts were not uncommon, and neither were spontaneous trips to Reno. Kelso had been more than just Mac’s partner. He was also his best friend. And he still was.

Mac peered into The Sub’s rear view mirror. Mayes looked like Gulliver fighting off the Lilliputians. The rambunctious kids had their gargantuan dad pinned to the ground and were tickling him while Pamela caught the frolicking action on a video camera. Daddy’s suit was getting dirty, and no one cared.

Mac never had a brother or sister. Despite being told often by his mother that he was a bundle of joy and the love of her life, Mac grew up blaming himself for the lack of a sibling. Maybe he was such a difficult child his parents couldn’t bear the thought of having another. Why else, he figured, would his father abandon his five-year old son for a life with Miss Lap Dance?

The way Mac saw it, as a child, he was a failure.

SHEYLA NEVER CALLED MAC
as promised. He tried calling again several times, none of them successful. So he decided to take another shot at finding her at work. After guiding The Sub back to
Pearls of Asia,
Mac flashed his police badge at Mr. Ponytail, who then ushered him past the throng of table seekers.

Mac been there for an hour nursing a Pellegrino, and there still was no sign of Sheyla. A waitress on the floor appeared to be in charge, so he decided to ask her about Sheyla Samonte’s whereabouts. “Excuse me, Miss, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Yes, I’ll go home with you tonight,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.

“That wasn’t going to be my question.”

“Okay, my name is Reyna, and my phone number is…”

Reyna was tall like the other girls, but a bit stockier, and a touch older. She was wearing a black dress and a heavy dose of makeup that failed to hide a nasty scar above her left eye. Mac was more likely to share a foxhole with her than a bed.

“Not that either,” laughed Mac. “I was wondering if you could help me. Do you know someone who works here named Sheyla Samonte?”

“Yes, but when she’s here she’s better known as Jasmine, Sheyla’s evil twin sister. Jasmine’s our most popular girl. The customers call her human Viagra.”

“And she’s a ‘gender illusionist’ like yourself?”

“Of course she is, silly,” she answered while at the same time getting her picture taken. “All the ladies who work here are transsexuals. We’re Women 2.0; special girls with special equipment. That’s what makes us, as well as this place, so unique.”

“Trust me, I get it. Is she working tonight?”

The restaurant was packed, and Reyna was being bumped and shoved in the tight aisle like a pinball. A hand reached out from the crowd and grabbed onto her breast. She didn’t seem to mind. “No. Sheyla doesn’t work on Fridays, but she’ll be here tomorrow night.”

“Damn,” said Mac, his face doing a poor job of hiding his disappointment. “Do you know where I can find her? It’s important that I talk to her.”

“It’s not my turn to watch her,” replied Reyna. “But I’d be more than happy to sleep with…I mean…talk to you. What would you like to know?”

“How well do you know Sheyla?”

Reyna had no idea who Mac was, but this was a woman who never passed on the opportunity to chat up a handsome man. She described how Sheyla, whom she had known while growing up in the Philippines, showed up at the doorstep of her small Mission District home ten years ago after moving to San Francisco from Thailand. Out of money and out of work, Reyna let Sheyla stay with her. She even helped Sheyla get a job selling makeup at Macy’s. They were good roommates and each other’s best friend, but Reyna had asked Sheyla to move out of her house two years ago after Reyna and her boyfriend decided to live together. “A gal’s got to have her priorities,” she said.

Mac asked Reyna what she did for a living when she wasn’t slinging cocktails and flirting with strange men. Or women. “I oversee the Transgender Advocacy Program at a local health clinic. Our budget is over a million dollars. I may not be as pretty as some of these young pop tarts running around here in their underwear, but I’ve got three things they don’t have: a good job, a home that I own, and a wonderfully supportive boyfriend who wakes up with me every morning. Otherwise, I’ll beat the crap out of him.”

Mac was suitably impressed. “It sounds like you’re a big deal in this town.”

“I am. I have the mayor’s private number on my speed dial.”

“For business or pleasure?”

“Depends if his wife’s around. Anyway, last year he appointed me to a special commission on transgender rights. The way I see it, one of my job descriptions is to be a role model. Too many girls in the trans community ‘think they’re all that’ and measure themselves by what kind of shoes they wear, or which designer purse they carry. And whenever they meet a quality guy, they use them to pay their bills or promote themselves. I feel it’s my responsibility to make these girls wake up and realize there’s more to life than makeup and men. Although I’m not sure what.”

Mac took an immediate liking to Reyna. Her plus-size personality made it easy to forget her plus-size body. A passerby shoved Reyna in the back, and she used it as an opportunity to wedge herself between Mac’s legs. “You know,” she whispered into his ear, “if you take real good care of me, I can get you Sheyla’s phone number.”