Pearls of Asia: A Love Story (4 page)

“See these pictures and plaques on the wall?” said Osher, taking time to carefully light his cigar. “You not only have to be smart to get those, but it also helps to be a real prick.”

Mac opened his notebook to pen another thought from this initial interview with Paul Osher; “prick.”

The detectives continued to question Osher about his slain wife: friends, family, and acquaintances. Osher claimed he didn’t know anyone close to Michelle who would want to kill her. Mayes asked about her relationship with her co-workers. Paul Osher said as far as he knew his wife got along with everybody and was the apple of her boss’ eye. “Fortunately, I don’t have to deal with crap like that,” he added with a prideful smirk, “since I am the boss.”

“Of course you are,” said Mac, hoping Osher wouldn’t pick up on his natural sarcasm. Mac couldn’t help himself. Just like some people are wired to be alcoholics, he was wired to be a wiseass.

“Mr. Osher, besides you, the maid and your wife, does anyone else have access to your apartment?” continued Mayes.

“The Grisham’s have a key just in case we lock ourselves out. Why do you ask?”

“Just doing our job, sir.”

It was time for Mac to ask “the question,” the one that stood in the corner like an eight hundred pound gorilla. “Mr. Osher, how would you describe your relationship with your wife?”

Paul Osher gave Mac a contemptuous look while flicking away his cigar ash. “I know where you’re going with this, Inspector. I’m aware that the husband is an obvious suspect. However, not a day goes by when our names are not in the headlines, so if Michelle and I were cheating on one another, you can bet the whole goddamn world would know about it.” Osher took another long drag on his Cohiba. “The truth is, I loved my wife very much, and I haven’t so much as looked at another woman since the day we were married.”

There were two things Mac knew as a cop: when a suspect was lying, and when to conclude an interview. This was one of those times when both applied.

MAC AND MAYES EXITED
the building and marched past the banks of microphones and cameras.

“You like the husband?” asked Mayes.

“I always like the husband.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Thursday, September 11, 2008 - 12:00 pm

“Chief of Police David Stone refused to comment on the identity of the Nob Hill murder victim, rumored to be KNTV news anchor Michelle Osher, once again giving credence to his familiar nickname of “David Stone-Walling.”

KCBS Radio

M
AC LIKED TO
SAY that if you’re going to play baseball, then be a Yankee. If you’re going to play basketball, be a Laker. And if you’re going to be a cop, patrol the Tenderloin. The notorious San Francisco neighborhood, bordered by Geary, Market, and Larkin streets, offered up a troublesome dose of crime served with a strip club chaser, and featured enough seedy characters to fill a Dashiell Hammett novel. The police station located at the corner of Jones and Eddy was more than just a place where cops collected a paycheck. It was destitution’s address for Ground Zero.

Mac and Mayes were seated with Captain Longley in his cramp office, which reflected the personality of its occupant: cheap, humorless and uninspiring. The detectives brought Longley up to speed while wolfing down a lunch of cold pizza. They had spent a fruitless morning canvassing the building’s residents and the surrounding neighborhood, asking if anyone had observed anything unusual or suspicious. Nobody had seen a thing, though several did ask if there was a reward for the missing dog.

“We’ve ruled out robbery as a motive,” said Mac between bites of jalapeno and garlic, “and whoever killed Michelle Osher was let into her apartment. At this point we have no eyewitnesses and no murder weapon. The building’s entrance does have a surveillance camera and we’re getting a copy of the tape. One occupant, a Mr. Jim Grisham, was throwing a party one floor below the Osher’s apartment and we’ve asked him to provide us with a guest list. You should have seen this guy, Captain. He looked worse than a Keith Richards mug shot. He also made it clear he didn’t think a whole lot of Michelle Osher.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Longley. “Jim Grisham not only parties like a rock star, but he’s got the bank account of one as well. He also loves a fight, and he’s one of the few Republicans in this town besides Paul Osher who isn’t afraid to write a big check. When Michelle Osher changed her mind and went against her conservative brethren to support same-sex marriages, I’m sure it drew a line in the sand between her and Grisham.”

“There you go, Mac,” joked Mayes, who also was a strong supporter of gay marriage. “If a right-winger like Michelle Osher can change her mind, maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

“Not in this lifetime,” responded Mac, refusing to take the bait from his left-leaning partner. Though Mac had grown up in the Bay Area and considered himself something of a social liberal, his support of gay rights stopped at the altar.

“Can we move on, please?” protested Longley, who was never in the mood for political banter. The fact that he had the debating skills of a diseased porcupine might have had something to do with it. “What else have you got?”

“We’ve also spoken to the victim’s husband, Paul Osher, who claims he was in L.A. at the time of his wife’s death. Of course, he says he loved his wife and has no idea who would want to hurt her. In fact, he believes the killer may have been trying to kill him.”

“I’m sure you loved that line,” said Longley, all too familiar with Mac’s penchant for fingering the husband. “Be careful with Osher, though. He’s tight with Stone and every other politician in this town.”

“There’s one more thing,” continued Mac. “Michelle Osher’s dog is missing, although calling her pet a dog is an insult to the canine profession. She’s a Teacup Yorkie, a tail-wagger whose native habitat appears to be the inside of a woman’s purse. Her name is Misha, and she may have run out of the building during all the confusion. It’s probably not a big deal, but it’s worth noting.”

“Duly noted. But remember, you guys aren’t paid to be dog-catchers,” chided Longley. “You guys got anything else?”

“It’s just a thought, Captain, but I’ve got a theory on this case,” chimed Mayes, who polished off half a pie. To the two hundred-fifty pound mass of muscle, consuming food was a sprint, not a marathon. Not to mention that Mayes thought jalapeño and garlic was the best California combination since Beach and Boy. “Based on what we know so far, whoever killed Michelle Osher realized news of her death would make headlines all over the world. My hunch is the murderer was trying to send a message.”

Mac and Captain Longley nodded their heads in agreement. Mayes was usually right.

MAC’S CELL PHONE HAD
three text messages, all from his mother. The last one made him laugh out loud. She had attached a photo featuring the cover model from the last winter’s
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue, saying in big bold letters, “CALL ME!” Mac checked his watch. It was 1:30 p.m., which meant the stock market had been closed on the West Coast for a half hour. He pulled out his iPhone and tapped the entry for “Victoria Parker.”

Victoria Parker was more than Mac’s mother. She was his hero. Despite being old enough to carry an AARP card, she still bore a striking resemblance to her favorite singer, Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac. When Jack Fleet abandoned his young family for a stripper with the I.Q. of a head of lettuce, the then-Victoria Fleet was compelled to take a minimum wage job at a brokerage firm to support herself and her precocious adolescent. When she wasn’t answering phones or getting her boss a pastrami on rye, she taught herself finance by listening to the parade of pundits shepherded daily on CNBC. Her charming personality, along with her penchant for wearing short skirts on casual Fridays, caught the attention of Henry Parker, her branch manager. At her first annual year-end performance review, Mr. Parker wisely offered her a promotion to Trophy Wife.

After her second husband dropped dead at his desk from a heart attack, Victoria Parker decided to try her hand earning a living by day-trading stocks. She turned out to be a gifted trader with natural instincts and uncanny timing. Moreover, bored with watching soap operas after the stock market closed, she joined a fitness center and started pumping iron instead of chocolate. Armed with six-pack abs and the body fat of a carrot stick, the hours in the gym soon turned Victoria Parker into a Hall of Fame cougar.

“Mackey, where have you been?” she answered joyfully. “I’ve been thinking about you all morning. CNBC even interrupted their countdown of Lehman Brothers going to zero to break the news about Michelle Osher. I can’t believe that poor woman is dead, though I never thought she was the sharpest knife in the drawer. I know, I know, bad choice of words. Did you get assigned the case?”

Mac sat at his desk and pulled out a drawer to use as a footrest. “I always told you, Mom. You may have raised an ugly child, but not a stupid one. Yes, I’m on the case.”

“That’s fabulous!” she shouted, causing Mac to pull the phone away from his ear. “I can’t wait to celebrate. Listen Mackey, I’ve got to run to the gym or my personal trainer will make me wish I were never born. Not to mention I’ve got to fit into that lethal red cocktail dress I picked up last weekend at Saks. This handsome defense attorney invited me to join him for dinner on his yacht tomorrow night, and I’m going to make sure he has no objections. Gotta go, Mackey. Love ya.”

Mac hung up and laughed. His mother made him smile, but Victoria Parker made him laugh.

A PILE OF SUBPOENAED
phone records and bank statements sat atop Mac’s forever-disorganized desk. To him they were just pieces of a puzzle that needed to be solved. It was late in the afternoon, and he and Mayes began the task of finding out as much as they could about Paul Osher.

“You’re going to love this,” gushed Mac after spending an hour poring over Paul Osher’s luds. “Over the past six months, these were his three most dialed phone numbers. Number three was to his wife, and most of those calls lasted less than two minutes.”

“Maybe he was checking to see if she got the flowers,” joked Mayes. Compared to Mac’s desk, which resembled a landfill, Mayes’s work area was better organized than West Point.

“Or maybe she wanted to talk to him as little as possible. Number two was to his office, and wait until you hear who was Numero Uno.”