Pearls of Asia: A Love Story (19 page)

The Washington Post

“Y
OU’RE UP EARLY,”
said a pajama clad Victoria Parker to her wider-than-awake son. The morning paper arrived before she did, and the born-to-trade mother of a San Francisco police detective never bothered going to bed. Besides, CNBC’s rendition of “Apocalypse Now” was being broadcast live and in color. The global financial meltdown was like a chain collision car wreck; difficult to watch, but you couldn’t look away. Victoria Parker’s short positions were paying off and, for today at least, her favorite color was red. “What’s going on with the Michelle Osher case?”

“I think we caught a break,” answered Mac, cinching a tie that accidentally matched his shirt. “I stopped by
Pearls of Asia
last night and learned that the two women we saw on a surveillance tape the night of Michelle Osher’s murder happen to work there. I also discovered that Paul Osher has turned the restaurant into his own personal dating site. Every girl who works there has him programmed on her speed dial. I’m telling you Mom, whoever did the wiring on this guy needs to get his license revoked. Now all I have to do is look for a motive. Why would any of these women want to kill Michelle Osher?”

“Maybe for her shoe collection,” chimed Victoria Parker, her eyes glued to a computer screen flashing stock prices screaming for mercy.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Oh, lighten up Mackey. By the way, did you know Michelle Osher’s funeral is this afternoon in Sacramento?”

“I did, and I’m planning on attending. Mayes and I like to attend the funerals of the victims. The perpetrator may decide to show up, pretending to be mourning, or observing the fruits of his crime. Not to mention we might find out something important about their relationships, who’s talking to whom, that kind of thing. That’s how we cracked the Larsen case. I’ve still got to work things out with Mayes, though. The service won’t end until late in the afternoon, and the traffic coming back to San Francisco is going to be brutal. His wife is expecting their third rug rat any day now, so he’s leaving the late night work to me.”

“I wish I could go,” lamented Victoria Parker. “Her funeral is going to be the social event of the season. Everyone who wants their face in the news is going to be there. Last night the gals and I ran into a few politically connected gentlemen on their way to Sacramento. These handsome men picked up the check at Bix, and then they rented one of those super-stretch Hummer limos to take us to Spruce for dessert. You know, that place with those incredible sugarcoated beignets dipped in chocolate? After eating a few of those and drinking enough Chateau d’Quem to bankrupt Goldman Sachs, I was ready to give our cute limo driver a hummer.”

Mac was aghast at his mother’s last statement. “Mom, I love you, but do me a favor. Try to remember I’m still your son and not a member of the Cougar Committee. Where on earth do you get all this energy at your age?”

Victoria Parker fixed her headset, ready for a morning of eat-what-you-kill trading. “Mackey, like I always tell you. I’m only as strong as the coffee I drink and the hairspray I use. Now let me get back to the markets. Japan hasn’t seen this much red since Godzilla went thirteen rounds with Tokyo.”

MAC WAS AT HIS
desk by seven o’clock, which made him the second member of his two-man team to show up for work. “Where have you been, kid?” inquired Mayes. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

“More like ninety seconds. You’re still out of breath.”

“What a good detective you are. You’ll go far some day.”

“Of course I will. So now that you’ve had a night to sleep on it, what do you think the connection is between Michelle Osher renting a suite at The Fairmont and Sonia Grisham having a collection of room keys?”

“I don’t know,” said Mayes. “One person who could tell us is dead, and the other is out of town. I looked at these hotel bills, and all I saw were room service charges for two and the occasional movie rental. We’ll have to ask their husbands what their wives were up to. I can bet you they weren’t throwing any Tupperware parties.”

Mac reached for his Rubik’s Cube. “Mayes, I think I’ve got something. I was at
Pearls of Asia
last night and we may have caught a break.”

“Let’s hear it, Mr. Late Night.”

“Longley’s in his office. Let’s go in there so I can tell you both at the same time.”

Mac’s cell phone suddenly began vibrating, demanding his attention. It was Sheyla. Mac told Mayes he’d meet him in Longley’s office in less than sixty seconds.

“What are you doing calling me at this hour of the morning?” asked Mac, dispensing with any notion of wishing Sheyla a pleasant good morning.

“Thinking of you, of course,” answered The Voice, in fine form for such an early hour. “I can’t wait to see you tonight. Listen, I’ve got some good news. I switched nights with Ashley, so I’m off tonight. Can we get together earlier, say around seven o’clock? I’ve already picked out the perfect dress. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”

There was no way Mac could meet Sheyla by seven. The earliest he’d be back from Sacramento and ready to see her would be nine o’clock at best. “Can’t do it, Miss Samonte. How about nine o’clock?”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” asserted Sheyla, who wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. “Besides, I’ve already planned my day. This morning I’m going to my favorite spa to get a massage, manicure and pedicure, and then after lunch I’ve got an appointment with my Maiden Lane stylist to get my hair cut and colored. By that time I’ll just have a few hours to take a silky bubble bath and get ready for you. I’m going to look and feel fabulous tonight, so don’t make me wait one minute longer than seven o’clock. Have a good day, Inspector Fleet.” She blew Mac a kiss before hanging up on him. Again.

“Dammit,” yelled Mac, fighting the urge to throw his phone across the room. Sheyla had made plans for a full-blown date, complete with all the expectations. Mac had to quickly figure out a Plan B, which included changing his plan to ride shotgun with Mayes to Sacramento. He hurried toward Longley’s office, spinning his Rubik’s Cube even faster.

THE SUNRISE HAD JUST
kissed San Francisco good morning, and already the precinct’s compact commander was in a foul mood. “You guys better have something for me,” barked Longley.

“We do,” said Mac. “I went to
Pearls of Asia
last night and found out the two women who crashed Jim Grisham’s party were two waitresses who work there named Nadia and Ashley, and Paul Osher has a direct connection to both of them.”

That’s great work, partner,” Mayes chimed, “and I can confirm you’re onto something. I was rechecking Osher’s phone records, and there are dozens of calls between Osher and someone by the name of Damian Puti, including one call just an hour before the murder. I then pulled Puti’s phone records, and I saw a steady flow of calls between his phone and
Pearls of Asia.
To put the cherry on top, Osher’s bank records show two $10,000 checks made out to Puti, one six months ago and another last Friday, the day after Michelle Osher’s murder.”

“Wait a second,” paused Mac. “Last night Nadia told me Osher pays her a ‘finders fee’ if she hooks him up with women. She also said she introduced him to Ashley six months ago. Ten grand is a pretty steep price for her to pimp girls for him. Osher’s got to be paying Nadia off for something else, for some other ‘service’ she’s providing. We’ve got to find out what those checks are for.”

“Damian Puti? That name sounds familiar,” mused Longley, his morning frown tinged by a worried look. “What do we know about him?”

“I did a Google search and learned he’s some kind of software consultant,” answered Mayes, handing Mac and Longley a recent photo of Damian Puti that he scanned from the Internet. Longley looked at the picture for a nano-second before throwing it onto his desk, while Mac took a longer, harder look. Minus the expensive wig, mascara and fake eyelashes, he recognized the ultra-thin Asian gentleman in the picture.

“I never would have believed it,” he said. “That’s the one they call Nadia at
Pearls of Asia.
Damian Puti is Nadia. Damn, that’s incredible. You would never think she, or he, is anything but a woman.”

“I also pulled his credit card information,” continued Mayes, “and it looks like he owns his own company and travels all over the world. He’s wicked smart too. He graduated summa cum laude from M.I.T. thirty years ago.”

“Wait a second,” contested Mac. “That would make Damian Puti, I mean Nadia, over fifty years old. She doesn’t look a day over thirty-five.”

“That’s because Asian women always look at least ten years younger than their actual age,” interjected Longley.

The two detectives gawked at their rotund boss, shocked that he knew anything more extraneous than the police compliance manual. Something must have been in the air, because Longley’s mood had turned from irritable to intoxicated. “Excuse me?” asked Mayes.

“I just know these things,” rendered Longley, signaling that he wanted to get back to the case rather than discuss his apparent extensive knowledge about exotic Asian woman.

Mac became more animated and seemed to be spinning the Rubik’s Cube at light speed. “One thing we’re missing in this case is motive. What if Paul Osher paid Nadia, or Damian Puti, twenty grand to kill his wife? We know she called him on the night of the murder. He was conveniently out of town, and she’s seen leaving the building after Michelle Osher was killed.”

Mayes didn’t quite share the same enthusiasm as his partner. “I don’t know, Mac. I think a mistress always has a motive. I’m sticking with my theory that Michelle Osher was killed in a moment of passionate rage. A murder for hire is more calculated and coldblooded, like a bullet to the back of the head. A ‘no fuss, no muss’ type of thing.”

It was rare for the two partners to disagree. “You and I are usually on the same page, Mac,” continued Mayes, “but this time we’re looking at the same picture and seeing two different things. Let’s hit the road and talk about it on our way to Sacramento.”

Mac’s mind began oscillating faster than the Rubik’s cube. He came up with a Plan B, except “B” stood for bullshit. “Mayes, something’s come up. That was my mom on the phone, and she’s come down with something. Headaches, fever, sore muscles. She needs me to take her to see her doctor this afternoon. Do you mind taking the trip yourself?”

Mayes flashed his partner a stern look of disappointment, as if he’d caught Mac feeding the liver to the dog. “Mac, you know we work better together on stuff like this. Who knows what we might find up there, and two sets of eyes are better than one. Plus we’ve got a lot to discuss. Your mom’s a grown woman. Can’t she drive herself to the doctor, or take a cab?”

Mac couldn’t believe what he was doing. It was like an out-of-body experience. Here he was, working on the case of his life, and he was flat out lying to his partner and precinct captain. He was violating every rule in the book, every instinct he learned as a cop. But at that very moment, Mac was more afraid of disappointing Sheyla than facing the Wrath of Mayes. He had no grand plan for her, no probing questions, and no information to confirm. Sheyla wasn’t his wife, his mother, or even a good friend. She was a murder suspect, yet Mac was willing to risk everything to see her.

“Listen Mayes, Mom’s also complaining about dizziness. I can’t let her drive alone.”

Longley chimed in as well. “Let him go, Mayes. Besides, I think we’ve got enough to get a search warrant on Damian Puti, and I’ll go with Mac to Puti’s place. We’ll call you right away if we find anything.”