Pearls of Asia: A Love Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

this straight. Sheyla Samonte lives in this Trump Tower wanna-be, drives a Mercedes, and works as a waitress? She must get tipped in gold bars.”
    “I don’t know how she does it, either. All I can tell you is she usually leaves for work around six o’clock.”
    Mac checked his watch. It was 5:30 pm.
    He loved stakeouts.

     
    MAC HUNKERED IN THE Sub and stared at the entrance of the building’s garage. It had already been quite the day. He needed a little quiet time for himself anyway. Not too long, however. Otherwise the pit in his stomach would show up and start grinding away at his psyche. Again. Ever since the “Twelve Days of Christmas,” the term Mac used to describe the most difficult and tragic time of his life, when he lost both his wife and his partner in a matter of days, the toxic brew of anger, resentment and guilt woke up with him every morning. It joined him at every meal, and then climbed into bed with him every night. Mac may have been lonely, but he was never alone.
    After waiting almost an hour, Mac noticed a late model silver Mercedes Benz leave the garage. “Waitress, my ass,” he said to himself. “The only thing this gal waits on is a guy’s wallet.”
    Mac slouched in The Sub and let Sheyla Samonte get a block ahead of him. He followed her for less than two miles before the Mercedes pulled over and parked on the east side of Ninth Street, across from a combination gas station and fast-food restaurant. He passed her and turned left onto Howard Street, where he found a shipyard-sized parking spot next to a discount furniture store.
    Sheyla got out of her car wearing workout clothes and carrying a fashionable Louis Vuitton travel bag. Mac’s ten years as a hardbitten professional investigator told him three things about this potential murder suspect; she was Asian, she was tall, and she was gorgeous. Sheyla disappeared through a doorway at the southeast corner of Ninth and Howard Street. Mac looked over and noticed a small sign on the side of the restaurant. For a guy who knew every trendy spot in town, this was one place he had never heard of.
    The sign said Pearls of Asia .

C HAPTER F OUR
     
    Thursday, September 11, 2008 - 9:00 pm
     
    “Residents of this upper-class neighborhood are not used to seeing news vans, squad cars, and yellow crime scene tape while walking their dogs past freshly planted flowers and trimmed trees. South of Market, perhaps, but never Nob Hill.”
     
    Entertainment Tonight
    T HE MODEST SIGN OUTSIDE Pearls of Asia said in small letters “since 1998.” Located at the corner of Ninth and Howard streets, in a neighborhood called South of Market, or SOMA for short, the restaurant was located one block away from Folsom Street, where San Francisco’s gay leather subculture thrived. Folsom was home for the notorious Folsom Street Fair, San Francisco’s annual celebration of bondage, discipline, submission, and masochism. You won’t find a Disney store anywhere in the neighborhood.
    Mac watched an assortment of customers stream into the restaurant. They would first walk past a glass door, speak to a host, and then proceed through a floor length black curtain. A black stretch limousine was parked near the entrance, and six women wearing skimpy clothing and celebrating a bachelorette party tumbled out onto the street, each one already fortified with a healthy dose of liquid courage.
    Mac wanted to go inside and scope out the scene, but he wondered if he’d be out of place wearing a cheap suit and tie. “I’m going to stand out like a black crow in a bowl of milk,” he muttered to himself. Undeterred, he slammed the door of The Sub and headed toward the restaurant.
    A slight Asian man wearing a black silk shirt, red silk tie, and black leather pants greeted Mac at the door. His jet-black hair was tied in a ponytail, and his head was bobbing to the pulsating beat of the music. Mac pushed back the curtain and looked inside. Judging from the volume of voices and music,