Pearls of Asia: A Love Story (16 page)

“Reclusive billionaire Scott M. Johnson is offering $1,000,000 for the missing Teacup Yorkie belonging to murdered anchorwoman Michelle Osher. Johnson once offered a similar reward for the bloody glove worn by O.J. Simpson.

“In other news, Lehman Brothers, the revered investment bank which began business as a Montgomery, Alabama grocery store in 1844, plans to file for bankruptcy protection later today.”

CNBC

M
AC’S BACK WAS AGAINST
the wall, next to the door, listening for sounds from the third floor flat. Customs agents at the Port of Oakland had provided Mayes the name and address of a man who received a case of illegally imported Balisong switchblades buried beneath some fresh mangos from the Philippines. San Francisco SWAT team members took positions inside the hallways and near the exits of the fleabag hotel located near the corner of Sixth and Mission.

His silver .45 caliber Glock 21 pistol drawn, Mac adjusted his flak jacket one more time. Mayes, on the other side of the door, did the same. Mac reached around with his right hand and pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!” Nothing. He shouted one more time, and then heard what sounded like a window opening. Mayes motioned for Mac to break down the door.

A young Filipino man in filthy jockey shorts was forcing open a window, trying to flee onto the fire escape. “Stop right there,” shouted Mac, running across the room. The poor half-naked sap was climbing out the window when Mac grabbed him by the leg and pulled him back inside. The perp then took a swing at Mac, who dodged the punch and hit him back as hard as he could, straight into his midsection. Falling to his knees, a rib or two broken, the alleged villain’s breath sounded like air being released from a balloon.

Mayes ran over and applied the cuffs. “Fernando Mateo, you’re under arrest for attempting to distribute illegal Balisong switchblades in California.”

AS HE STEPPED OUTSIDE
the dilapidated hotel, Mac, still rubbing the soreness from his right hand, took a moment to be by himself. He looked straight up into the star-filled sky.

“That one’s for you, partner,” he said in a quiet hush.

Less than nine months earlier, on a rainy Christmas Day morning, Mac and Larry Kelso responded to this same hotel after a report of a brawl between two men devoid of Christmas cheer. As they were getting out of The Sub to investigate, Larry told Mac to wait in the car, to drink his coffee, and to sober up. Denise had just dumped him, so Mac was spending the holidays decking the halls with bottles of Jack Daniels. “Besides,” said Kelso, “I’m sure it’s routine. Just a couple of guys who got stiffed by Santa Claus. I’ll handle it, partner. I got your back.”

Less than one minute later, Mac heard a single gunshot. Larry Kelso was dead.

The way Mac saw it, as a partner, and as a best friend, he was a failure.

BACK AT THE STATION
, two hours of interrogation had yielded nothing. Fernando Mateo claimed he was just the drop and would have received two hundred dollars when he delivered the knives. He could also keep the mangos. Police records showed Fernando Mateo had been arrested fourteen times for petty theft, resulting in two deportations back to the Philippines. A search of his apartment didn’t turn up anything. At this point it still wasn’t clear who Fernando Mateo was working with, and he wasn’t about to give it up.

“We can book him, but my guess is Fernando is telling the truth,” said Mayes. “He was nothing more than a courier for whoever was taking delivery of the knives. Who picks them up and sells them after that? I don’t know, but we obviously need to find out.”

“A couple days at county jail on our nickel should do the trick,” said Mac, an ice pack resting atop his right hand.

“Perhaps, but right now, Mr. Heavyweight Champ, I think Chief Stone is going to be less than thrilled with us. Here it is five days after the murder and we don’t have squat to show for it. No murder weapon, no eyewitnesses, and no real suspects. I’m telling you Mac, Stone’s going to make us wish we were never born.”

“I’m glad you were born, Mr. Watching My Back,” replied Mac, “because when you’re around, I don’t have to look things up on Wikipedia.”

MAYES WAS SURFING THE
Internet looking for pictures of Misha, Michelle Osher’s tiny dog. Reports from all over the Bay Area poured in with sightings of mutts in all shapes and sizes, but none were pint-sized Teacup Yorkies. Mayes figured that since Michelle Osher was something of a celebrity, there should be pictures of her walking Misha along the streets of San Francisco. He was right.

Mayes held a magnifying glass over a photo. “Mac, take a look at this picture. See that shiny spot inside Misha’s ear? This dog is wearing a diamond earring stud. A damn diamond earring. Can you believe that? Like the rich don’t have anything better to do with their money. You can hardly see it, but it’s there.”

“That’s great,” answered his less-than-enthused partner. “So we’re looking for a piece of evidence the size of a tennis ball, wearing a diamond earring, that has four legs, and can outrun both of us. I don’t know about you Mayes, but I think our best chance of finding this dog is to put its picture on a milk carton.”

“Laugh now,” responded Mayes, “but when we find that dog, we’ll find our killer. I’d bet my kid’s inheritance on it.”

“You mean IF we find Misha. Mayes, for all we know that little rodent may be dead, lying in the middle of a road somewhere. And you’ve still got to convince me why someone would knock off Michelle Osher and take her dog.”

“All I’m saying is it’s not a coincidence that the dog is missing. Do you remember seeing any bloody paw prints at the crime scene? Whoever killed Michelle Osher took the dog as soon as she hit the floor. I’m telling you, Mac. That dog is still alive.”

“Whatever you say, partner. And just so you know, the suspense of waiting for the ransom note is cutting into my beauty sleep.”

BACK AT THE WASTE
dump masquerading as his desk, Mac began looking over a report Mayes produced about the Grisham guest list. After leaving the Port of Oakland, Mayes had managed to track down a couple of guests from Grisham’s party who remembered the two mystery women. The “skinny brunette” was a sophisticated woman in her mid-thirties who went by the name of Monique, while the “tall blonde from L.A.” was a much younger gal who called herself Savannah. Both were Asian.

“Savannah and Monique,” laughed Mac. “They don’t exactly sound like the girls next door. Maybe we should stop by the Gold Club and see what the strippers are up to.”

The mysterious twosome was seen entering the party together around midnight, but no one recalled seeing them leave. Mayes’ notes made reference to the surveillance tapes that showed the blonde named Savannah leaving by herself around 1:30 a.m., while the brunette known as Monique was seen departing with a well-dressed man a half-hour later.

“Good work, partner,” said Mac. “It might not win you a Pulitzer, but it’s good enough for government work. Do you think our killer could be one, or both, of these women?”

“What do you think of this theory?” opined Mayes. “The girl who left the party alone, Savannah as she called herself, could have been in Grisham’s apartment just long enough to make her presence felt, gone upstairs, killed Michelle Osher, and then escaped before anyone could notice. CSI said the murder took place between one and two in the morning, so the timeline of her coming and going fits with the time of the murder.

“I like your theory, Mayes. Besides, I don’t think Sheyla Samonte is our killer.”

Mayes seemed taken aback by Mac’s response. “Why is that? How do you know she’s not one of the two women on the surveillance tape?”

Mac had been dreading this question all day. Originally, he and Mayes had planned to meet up with Sheyla at Yank Sing, ask her a few questions about her relationship with Paul Osher, and then get on with their investigation. Mac knew he’d experience the dreaded ‘Wrath of Mayes’ if he told him he’d gone out to lunch with a potential murder suspect. Mac decided the smart thing to do was to tell Mayes the truth. He just didn’t want to tell him the whole truth.

“I did get in touch with Miss Samonte as we planned, only she told me to meet her at the Hotel Monaco where she was having lunch with a friend. She said she knew Paul Osher, admitted having an affair with him, and confirmed that he was paying her a boatload of money to be his girlfriend. On the night of the murder, however, she still claims she was alone in her apartment.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I do, Mayes. I really do. There doesn’t appear to be any way to corroborate her alibi, but I believe she’s telling the truth. Osher was paying her a fortune. Why would she want to screw that up?”

“I don’t know, Mac. But Sheyla Samonte admitted to you that she is having an affair with a married man. That makes her a professional liar.”

“Mayes, under most circumstances I would agree with you. But my gut is telling me Sheyla Samonte isn’t the type of person who would kill anyone.”

Mayes glared at his partner. His gut was telling him something else.