Pearls of Asia: A Love Story Read online

  Copyright © 2011 by Lee Geiger

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1463587562

  eBook ISBN:978-1-62111-036-1

  EAN-13: 9781463587567

  PREFACE

  BECAUSE SO MANY people seem to enjoy The Marginal Prophet (marginalprophet.com), my online newsletter, I’ve been told many times I should write a book. I agreed, as penning a novel has always been one of my lifelong dreams. The problem was figuring out what to write about.

  In the fall of 2000, I made my first visit to Asia SF, a wildly popular San Francisco restaurant staffed by “gender illusionists.” The food and ambiance were addictive, and it quickly became one of my favorite places in a city full of favorite places. Over the years I had the pleasure of getting to know the special “Ladies of Asia,” and I always thought their stories would make a great book. However, I didn’t think writing a biography or a series of short stories would be the right way to go. But a murder mystery, wrapped around a love story, might do the trick. I even came up with a catchy title; Pearls of Asia.

  In May of 2005, I shared a dinner with Belle Yang, a highly respected author and artist who was also a classmate of mine from Carmel High School in quaint Carmel, CA. Belle had always encouraged me to become a writer. There was only one problem. I had no idea how to get started. Over penne pasta and red wine, I told Belle about a story I had brewing in the dark recesses of my demented mind; a romantic mystery, revolving around a unique San Francisco restaurant, that contained elements of Law and Order, The Crying Game, Sex and The City, and Cheers. “You HAVE to write that story,” she said.

  One night in the summer of 2007, I stumbled into Asia SF after a Giant’s baseball game. Lo and behold, seated in the middle of the restaurant having dinner together were authors Danielle Steele and Jackie Collins. After downing four martinis in fifteen minutes, I summoned the courage to introduce myself and blather to these publishing megastars my crazy idea for a novel. “Darling, you HAVE to write that story,” proclaimed Ms. Collins, who could not have been nicer. She’s gorgeous, too.

  On Thanksgiving 2009, at one o’clock in the morning, I found myself staring at my bedroom ceiling fan. A series of events over the prior days, weeks and months had been personally challenging, and sleep was difficult to come by. To distract myself, I thought about my novel, when suddenly a possible ending popped into my head. I jumped out of bed and scribbled a five-page outline. Hours later, I typed the first word of my first novel.

  What an incredible journey this has been.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THEY SAY IT takes a village to raise a child. Perhaps, but it takes a small army to write a book. I owe a round of drinks to the following:

  To Belle Yang, my writing mentor, guru, spiritual advisor, and former classmate from the Carmel High School class of 1978. Belle threw down the gauntlet and challenged me to become a writer. In the process, she helped me find myself. Thank you, Belle. You saved me.

  To Ivory Madison of Redroom.com, my first editor. Ivory taught me the concept of “The Hero’s Journey.” She also told me there are three phases to creating a successful book: writing, editing, and marketing. Each one is critical, and each one is difficult. She was right. Damn.

  To Alan Rinzler, my second editor. Alan set the story on its proper course, and put in motion the tools for a possible series. Numerous people told me Alan was a legend in the publishing business. That was an understatement. What people didn’t tell me was how much fun we’d have working together.

  To those who were kind enough to volunteer their valuable time to reading my earlier drafts and delivering indispensable feedback; Scott Johnson, Susan Klein, Susan Morgan, Julianne Goldberg, Barbara Galligan, Angel Manaois, Carin Hawkins, Sheila Krystal, Pat Moran, Kerry Lacy, Pam Eveleth, Ericka San Miguel, Kyle Bradbury, Jill Malley, Gerald Katz, Kimi Cole, and Victoria Parker. Yes, there really is a Victoria Parker.

  To Cecilia Chung, who helped me to overcome the most painful episode of writer’s block I encountered writing this book. A San Francisco-based human rights and HIV policy advocate, Cecilia is a leader who has the heart of a lion and the soul of a child.

  To Katherine Patti, who spent countless hours painstakingly copyediting the manuscript not once, but twice. She also became the novel’s cheerleader, encouraging me to aggressively pursue every avenue known to mankind to market Pearls of Asia. Katherine is more than a long-time friend. She is a godsend.

  To Carole Galassi of Creativemediaweb.com, who designed Pearlsofasia.net, Leegeiger.com, and Marginalprophet.com. Technically, she’s brilliant. Creatively, she’s even better.

  To Rich Lee at Richleedraws.com. Rich created the book’s captivating cover, as well as the fun and imaginative graphics at Pearlsofasia.net. Rich is more than just a rabid Giants and Sharks fan. He is also very, very talented.

  Finally, to the Ladies of Asia SF. Thank you for sharing your stories, your experiences, and your time. I hope you are as proud of this book as I am.

  DISCLAIMER

  Pearls of Asia is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to Mom, whom I miss very much.

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DISCLAIMER

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thursday, September 11, 2008 - 6:10 am

  “That’s the news for tonight. I’m Michelle Osher. The ‘Tonight Show with Jay Leno’ is next. Have a pleasant evening San Francisco, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  KNTV Nightly News

  THE WHITE WALLS AND bright lights all but blinded San Francisco Homicide Inspector Mac Fleet. The polished granite counters were spotless, and the sink hadn’t seen a dirty casserole dish since the Clinton Administration. The gourmet kitchen was bigger than his first apartment, and it looked as though it made more reservations than recipes. You could eat a meal off the hardwood floor, although you’d have to set a place for the dead body bleeding all over it.

  Mac stepped around the grisly corpse, making sure not to get any blood on his shoes. His Herculean African-American partner, Taylor Mayes, was kneeling next to the deceased, writing in his notebook. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  “Of course you were,” replied the oft-cynical detective, still rubbing the sleep out of his ocean blue eyes. Seventeen minutes earlier, Mac had been trying to get comfortable in his now too-short-for-him kid’s bed, reclaimed since moving back in with his mother after the breakup of his marriage. “I had to crash through a wall of reporters to get here. What have we got?”

  “A bloody mess is what we’ve got,” answered Mayes, who at forty-two was ten years older than Mac and often spoke to him like a naughty kid brother. Everyone above ground addressed Taylor Mayes by his last name. Especially if they wanted to stay above ground. “Since you never watch anything except ‘Sports-Center,’ allow me to introduce you to our victim. Her name is Michelle Osher
, forty-nine years old, and the evening news anchor on KNTV. I’ve been watching her for years. She was like a female version of Anderson Cooper. Smart, tough, funny. Damn, what a pity. Did you know she was a Miss America back in the Eighties?”

  “You’re kidding right? I was watching Big Bird back in the Eighties.”

  Mac knelt down next to Mayes and examined the body. Michelle Osher was wearing a navy blue business suit, though he doubted the fluffy pink bedroom slippers were an original part of her ensemble. Her hands and arms lacked any bruising, and there didn’t appear to be any skin under her fingernails. Mac glanced over his shoulder at the undamaged front door. “Whoever killed her took her by surprise.”

  “It sure looks that way,” responded Mayes. “She has a single slash wound across the front of her neck, and the killer nearly cut her head off. We haven’t found a murder weapon, and the knife block on the kitchen counter is full. Based on her body temperature, CSI puts the time of death about five hours ago, between one and two o’clock in the morning.”

  “She must have just gotten home from work,” opined Mac. He picked up Michelle Osher’s left hand. She was still wearing her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch, and the track lighting made the rock resting on her fourth finger sparkle like a disco ball. Robbery wasn’t a motive.

  “Her wedding ring is the size of a small house,” said Mayes. “PEOPLE magazine had pictures of her and her husband buying it at Shreve and Company near Union Square.”

  “You read PEOPLE magazine?”

  “I do when Pamela sends me to the grocery store.”

  “Another reason why my wife dumped me,” countered Mac, his broad shoulders slumping. “Who does our victim send to the grocery store?”

  “Oh right, I keep forgetting you don’t read anything besides the sports page. His name is Paul Osher. No reason why you should know him. He only owns half the apartment buildings in town. He’s also a major venture capitalist who’s bankrolled about a dozen companies in Silicon Valley. The man could write a check and bailout Greece.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “Out of town,” answered Mayes, his tone reeking of confidence. “I already called his office. His voicemail said he’d be in Los Angeles all week, so I left a message to call back ASAP. I also left a message on his cell phone.”

  Mac looked up at Mayes and shook his head in amazement, astonished at the efficiency of his senior partner. “You’re incredible, Mayes. Remind me to be like you when I grow up.”

  “You mean bald, black, and brilliant?”

  “I’d settle for two out of three,” quipped Mac.

  Precinct Captain Steve Longley waddled into the kitchen. Mac’s broad-shouldered and lanky six-foot-two swimmer’s frame towered over his Napoleonic boss, yet both men looked like school boys next to Mayes, who played football in college and still maintained the physique of a heat-seeking linebacker.

  “Who found the body?” asked Mac, who left his respect for his squad chief at home. Again.

  “The live-in maid,” answered the diminutive Longley. “She’s waiting in the next room. She woke up at 5:00 a.m. and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. Found her boss dead on the floor. Hell of a way to start your day, don’t you think?”

  “Depends who my boss is.”

  “Don’t start with me, Mac,” scorned Longley, whose sense of humor was even shorter than he was. “Now pay attention you two. See all those news vans parked outside? Michelle Osher is the textbook example of a high profile victim. She had the best ratings in town, her husband is filthy rich, and if you’ll pardon the expression, she was drop-dead gorgeous. After Dispatch alerted me as to the identity of our murder victim, I phoned the Chief of Police and we both agreed you two should have this one.”

  “Of course you did,” conveyed Mac while giving Mayes an early morning fist pump. The twosome had collared several notable criminals since being paired together less than nine months ago after the Christmas Day shooting death of Mac’s former partner.

  A uniformed officer appeared in the kitchen. “Gentlemen, you’re all needed in the living room. The Big Guy wants to see you.”

  The Big Guy meant Chief of Police David Stone. A thirty-year veteran of the force, Stone had a well-deserved reputation as a nimble politician. Mac and Stone shared a close bond. The first time they ever met, Stone presented Mac with a medal for graduating at the top of his class at the Police Academy. Mac looked up to Stone like a second father. Mac’s real father left the country over a decade ago and failed to leave a forwarding address.

  The three men shuffled around the kitchen floor’s blood-soaked occupant and gathered in the living room. The contemporary artwork and oversized vases reminded Mac of the lobby of the historic Fairmont Hotel, located a scant single block down the street.

  “Good morning, Chief. You wanted to see us?” asked Longley.

  “Yes I did, Captain,” insisted Stone, already dressed in an expensive black suit and tie. He knew the cameras would be rolling. “Listen up you guys, the press is going to be all over us like white on rice. Michelle Osher was beloved in this town, and it’s no secret that Paul Osher has showered money like pixie dust on a lot of politicians. You all need to bring you ‘A’ games to this case.”

  “We’ll do your best, sir,” asserted Mac. “You know Mayes and I will put everything we’ve got into this one.”

  “I don’t doubt that. As soon as I learned who the victim was, I told Captain Longley I wanted you two on this case. You guys did stellar work on the Larsen murders, and then you arrested that Russian wife slayer from Canada a few months ago.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” proclaimed Mac, his eyes locked with Stone’s. “We won’t let you down.”

  “Of course you won’t,” replied Stone, parroting his favorite detective. “Because if you do, we’ll all look bad, the police and city of San Francisco will lose face, and you two will be off homicide and back on narcotics busting crack dealers on Sixth Street.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Thursday, September 11, 2008 - 7:42 am

  “A body has been removed from a Nob Hill apartment building located at the corner of Sacramento and Taylor, across from Huntington Park. We don’t have official confirmation, but it is rumored to be that of Michelle Osher, the popular evening anchor of KNTV Nightly News.”

  KGO Radio

  AFTER HOSTING A $10,000 a plate fundraiser at their home for President George Bush’s reelection campaign in 2004, The New York Times described Paul and Michelle Osher as, “…not content with having a single luxury apartment on the penthouse floor. They had to own the entire floor. Their opulent six-bedroom palace, located two hundred feet above San Francisco’s privileged Nob Hill, may appear excessive for a childless couple, but not to the Oshers. They view their private residence as the San Francisco equivalent of the Kennedy compound on Cape Cod: an appropriate stage for their generous activities–along with their equally generous egos.”

  The sun was rising as the detectives searched the six thousand square foot home. Mayes took a moment to admire the breathtaking views provided by the floor-to-ceiling windows: the Berkeley Hills to the east, Alcatraz Island to the north, and the morning sunshine radiating off the Golden Gate Bridge to the west. “Great God Almighty,” marveled Mayes. “I’ve lived in the Bay Area my whole life, and if I could look at this view every day, I’d be thankful just to be alive.”

  “The only way we’d get to see a view like that every day,” countered Mac, refusing to take a moment to glance outside, “is if we became window washers.”

  Mac Fleet loved being a detective, or as they are called in San Francisco, an inspector. His blue-collar father, who served up for his impressionable son a healthy dose of “Dirty Harry” movies, planted the seeds for what would later become his passion. Jack Fleet and his son spent hours together sitting on the couch, snacking on chips and soda, watching Clint Eastwood hunt down the bad guys and exact vigilante justice. To Mac, who possessed a curiosity wort
hy of the Smithsonian, every case was like a puzzle, with evidence to discover, clues to follow, and unique characters to question. When he graduated ten years ago from San Jose State with a degree in Criminal Justice, he dreamed of making arrests and bringing Bay Area scum to justice. Wearing a badge was more than a job to Mac. It defined who he was as a man.

  Taylor Mayes enjoyed a high-definition life on a 50-inch chest. Born with brains and a matching set of brawn, Mayes graduated magna cum laude with a degree in English Literature from UC Berkeley. When he wasn’t quoting Kipling or dissecting Byron, Mayes crushed quarterbacks as an All-Pac Ten linebacker until a knee injury dashed his dream of an NFL career. Despite being considered the brightest detective on the force, Mayes refused to take department exams or put in the hundreds of extra man-hours necessary to help him move up the ranks. He valued his free time, and Mayes preferred hanging around his Sunset District home with his very pregnant wife Pamela and their three-year-old twins, Buddy and Holly.

  Chief Stone and Captain Longley had gone downstairs to address the growing throng of reporters assembled outside the exclusive art-deco building. Armed with their press cameras, boom mikes and satellite dishes, journalists representing media outlets from all around the world peppered the twosome with questions. The distinguished and well-dressed Stone stood in stark contrast next to the rumpled and vertically challenged Longley. At this point of the investigation, the juiciest thing they could say was “no comment.”

  Mac and Mayes combed the apartment and confirmed no signs of a struggle or forcible entry. Jewelry, artwork and antiques were left untouched. It was time to talk to the maid.

  MARIA MADRIGAL, FIFTY-TWO years old, sat on the edge of a sofa, nervously holding a cigarette and staring out the window. Her hands shook in a shroud of blue smoke. No doubt she was in shock over discovering a dead body, but Mac wondered if she were frightened about something else.