Dead Soon Enough: A Juniper Song Mystery (19 page)

“You’re not sticking around to breastfeed and all that?”

She groaned. “Jesus, no. I’d have to sleep in their bed, pretty much. Babies need to feed, like, every two hours when they’re breastfed.”

“I’m surprised Rubina doesn’t insist on it.”

“Don’t suggest it. I’ll seriously kill you.”

We laughed and fell into a comfortable silence, Lusig resting her eyes as she lay on my bed.

“I donated eggs a while back,” I said, suddenly wanting to talk about it.

She opened her eyes. “You did? That’s intense.”

“Not more intense than being pregnant with someone else’s baby.”

“Well it’s the opposite, I guess. Somewhere, someone got pregnant with your baby.”

“I don’t know that that happened.”

“Really?” She sat up. “You mean you could have kids out there and you wouldn’t know?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Okay, then tell me this: How is it possible that you investigate people for a living, and you’ve never bothered to find this out? There must be a way.”

I felt a thrill as she articulated the forbidden thought that had been lapping at the edges of my consciousness. “I’m sure there is,” I said.

“So how would you do it?”

“I’d talk to the adoption agency first. In case they’d give me a break.”

“How likely is that?”

“If none of my eggs took, I don’t see why they wouldn’t tell me.”

“And if they did?”

“I think they’d reach out to the parents for me, and it would depend on them.”

“I’ll bet they’d want to meet you, wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe. They could be curious. But it’s likely the complications wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Like, what kind of complications?”

I blinked hard and gave her a quizzical look. “Okay, now you’re worrying me a little bit. You have thought through the implications of your arrangement, yeah?”

“Sure. Which is why I’m bowing out as soon as the baby’s born.”

“As a mother, you mean.”

“Yeah. Van and Ruby are the bakers. I’m just the oven.”

“Except that you’re family, too.”

“I’ll be the aunt.”

“And are you guys going to tell the kid?”

“Of course. That’s always been the plan.”

“Okay, so he’ll know that you acted as his surrogate mother. What happens during his rebellious stage? When he hates his mom and says you’re his real mother?”

“That would be ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head.

“And what about you? You feel nothing for this kid? You’ve been carrying him around for months.”

“I feel something, definitely. I feel him swimming around in there and I’m really conscious of the fact that he’s this whole other life, and that he wouldn’t be able to live without me. That’s a cool feeling. But when we found out the IVF had worked? That I was pregnant? You should’ve seen her face. She looked like she’d been rescued from the brink of death. It’s one of the only times in my life that I’ve ever seen Ruby sob.”

I tried to picture it and couldn’t.

“It wouldn’t take a Solomon to pick the real mother here.”

I was still thinking of what to say next when my phone buzzed. Rob had responded:

Can we talk in person?

Lusig watched me read the text. “Something about Nora?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Rob Park asked around about EARTH.”

“What’d he find out?”

“He wants to tell me in person, it sounds like.”

“Really?” She stroked her chin. “Why?”

“I asked him to look into some pretty confidential shit. Maybe he did something that could expose him to disciplinary action.”

She kept stroking and narrowed her eyes theatrically. “And why would he do that?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do, given there’s a woman missing?”

“Or maybe he’s a young red-blooded Korean-American man, and he noticed that you’re clearly single.”

“I’m that clearly single?”

“You’re, like, the most single person I’ve ever met.”

“Well that can’t possibly be a compliment.”

She laughed. “It’s not an insult. I mean, you seem single like Bond or something.”

“All right, I’ll let it go,” I said. “Do you think it’s cool if I have him come over?”

“As long as you don’t send me to bed early so you can make out.”

I told him to swing by and he offered to pick up lunch. I asked Lusig if she wanted to take him up on it and she said yes immediately, specifying that she wanted a
medianoche
and potato balls from Porto’s.

He showed up an hour later, carrying two bags heavy with food.

“I got cheese rolls, too,” he said, after I introduced him to Lusig.

“Are you a god?” she asked, her wide eyes shimmering.

I forced him to accept cash for the meal—he only gave in when I pointed out Rubina was paying, and that he was unemployed. We sat in the kitchen and ate our Cuban sandwiches while he told me what he’d uncovered.

“I don’t have any slam dunks here,” he started.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Just walk me through what you have.”

“I got to look at the engagement letter.”

“Nice work. Harriett Lehr?”

“Your instincts were good there,” he said. “It didn’t take much convincing to get her to talk to me.”

“So, whose name was on that engagement letter?”

“Kizil’s. Representing EARTH.”

“And how much was the bill?”

“Wasn’t a fixed amount, but I know what we all billed out for. This is costing someone probably hundreds of thousands, at least.”

“And Kizil lives at an address in Torrance that ends in a fraction.”

“Right. So I’m thinking he’s a mouthpiece.”

“Agreed. Either a true believer or well-paid insulation. Actually, I’ll bet he’s both.” I put my sandwich down and leaned into Rob. “Which begs the question: Who for?”

“I asked Harriett what she knew about other EARTH members, specifically that rich housewife I mentioned.”

“And?”

“Her name’s Deniz Kahraman. Married to multimillionaire Adam Kahraman.”

“If they’re footing the bill, and their names are already involved with EARTH, then why bother with Kizil?”

“Could be for more insulation, but I have another theory.” He smiled like he’d just handed me a velvet jewelry box. “The Kahramans are covering for the Turkish government.”

Lusig’s fist banged heartily on the table. “Oh, shit,” she exclaimed through a mouthful of sandwich. “Of course.”

“Hold on. Walk us through it.”

“Harriett mentioned, very casually, that the Kahraman kids go to a very small private elementary school, where they play with the daughter of Mustafa Sahin. Do you know that name?”

Lusig and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

“He’s the Consul General of Turkey to Los Angeles.”

“Interesting,” I said, mapping money trails in my head. “So, you think the Consul General tapped the Kahramans at soccer practice to funnel money to fund this lawsuit?”

“It makes sense to me,” Lusig jumped in. “The Turkish government always seems to show up when someone wants to talk about the genocide. It’s fucking weird. They issue public statements denying every documentary, book, whatever. They even responded to Nora’s blog. I should’ve guessed they were involved in this suit.”

“Then why hide behind the Kahramans?” I asked.

“Maybe they don’t want to push their luck with the centennial coming,” Rob said. “This is all about PR, after all.”

“Now I really want to talk to Kizil,” I said. “How long until Rubina gets home?”

*   *   *

Rob stayed and hung out for another hour, then left to take Murry for a checkup. Lusig ranted against Turkey and fell asleep, and I spent the afternoon reading up on the Turkish government’s ongoing role in genocide denial.

I was surprised by the extent of its involvement—it seemed petty, like a director taking Netflix users to task for one-star ratings. There was a movie involved, too—multiple attempts to film a novel about the genocide called
The Forty Days of Musa Dagh
. The Turkish government shut it down, showing a style since emulated by eminent powers like North Korea.

I thought about Rob’s theory, the lines that could lead back to the government. I traced them in my head, tested their strength and elasticity. But what did any of this mean for Nora? How did it bring me closer to finding her?

By the time Rubina came home, I was feeling antsy, ready to find Kizil and learn what he knew. When I heard the garage door open, I was ready. I waved good-bye to Rubina before she could stop me to ask about Lusig.

*   *   *

It took me half an hour to get to Torrance, another city, like Glendale, that I tended to think of as a suburb of L.A. Bordering both Redondo Beach and Manhattan Beach, it felt spiritually distant from the ocean—a sober mix of homes and industry, with more Japanese noodle shops than shark-themed boardwalk bars.

Kizil lived about two miles from the 405, and I drove down wide flat streets as the darkness strengthened around me.

It was amazing, how easy it was to find another person these days. I’d long given up any delusions of privacy, but it was always a little startling to be reminded of how naked we were, how thoroughly exposed, pinned, and labeled. There were the normative walls, the ones that dictated polite behavior, but all it took to breach them was some curiosity and brashness, a little presumption and nerve. I could muster up enough willpower to cross those lines when necessary. I wouldn’t have been much of a private eye if I couldn’t.

Still, it wasn’t too often I went to a strange man’s home unannounced at night, especially a strange man with a sketchy connection to a missing girl. I thought about giving him a call—it would’ve been nice to know whether I would find him at home, for instance. But maybe I didn’t want to tip him off, either.

He was home, it looked like. I recognized his license plate number on a Civic parked in front of his building.

I opened my driver’s-side mirror and did a quick check of my face. It looked as good as it was going to get, but I ran a hand through my hair to smooth it out. I wasn’t molded for the sexy-damsel routine, but it wouldn’t hurt to look presentable, especially if he were the type who thought women were purely decorative.

My plan was pretty straightforward—catch him off guard, invite myself in, ask as many questions as possible without making him angry. I’d work out the details as I went along.

I knocked on the door to his apartment. There was a light on beyond the blinds, and the place looked and felt inhabited. When there was no answer, I knocked again, louder. There was a sound of shifting this time, an elongated word flung at the door: “Coming!”

He was a short man, with a dark complexion and dark, droopy eyes. Thick black hair covered his head, his hands, and the top of his chest, a wiry tuft just visible over the neck of a white tank top. He wasn’t much to look at.

“Who are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes into flesh-shrouded slits.

I put out my hand. “Name’s Song,” I said. “I’d like a word.”

He looked me up and down, a few times over, lingering at my chest and hips with a tired absence of lust. “Not interested,” he said, and went to close the door.

I wedged myself into the doorway and smiled. “I wanted to talk to you about EARTH.”

His face went dark, and for a moment, I felt an arrow of fear slice down my body.

“Who are you?” he asked again. “And I don’t care about your name.”

I dropped my smile in a dramatic change of expression, to signal that I was conceding to his manly discernment. “I’m a detective,” I said. “I’m looking into the disappearance of Nora Mkrtchian.”

His stony eyes grew stonier and his mouth stiffened at the edges like he was clamping his teeth on a stick. “I already told you people everything I know.”

I allowed myself an interior sigh of relief. This man was nervous, but he was also an idiot who thought I was a cop. I wondered what exactly he’d told the LAPD, and what he’d held back.

“Maybe you wouldn’t mind repeating yourself for a minute, then. What’s the harm, Mr. Kizil?”

I stepped forward, and he stepped into my track. He was an inch shorter than I was, but he was thick and muscular and I had no doubt he could take eight of me in a fight.

“You can’t come in here,” he said. “This is my house.”

I decided to push my luck. “You’re nervous. You have something to hide.”

A small tremor ran across his jawline. “I’m not hiding shit,” he said. “Now get the fuck out of my face.”

I retreated with a smile, one designed to be infuriating. “Fine,” I said, raising my hands. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I turned around and he called after me. “I hope she
is
dead,” he said, almost shouting. “She was a dirty whore.”

*   *   *

I’d had the foresight to park under a tree a couple blocks away, where my car wouldn’t tip off my quarry, even if I had a pair of binoculars pressed on my face. I looked through them to see if I could catch any views of his apartment, but there was nothing visible past a crack in a shitty pair of curtains. His car was still parked in front—good news for me. I’d worried he’d lam it before I even got to my spying spot.

I’d poked an active nest, and I was curious to see what Enver Kizil would do next. He was jumpy enough that I doubted he’d sit at home and do nothing for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, he came out of his apartment, dressed in a short-sleeve button-down over his tank top, which still showed over the top with the dark patch of hair. He wore chinos and loafers and looked like a sleazeball trying to look like something else.

I kept a loose tail, as loose as I could manage without losing sight of him altogether. I’d tinted my windows like the creep I was, but there was no reason to take chances with a man with accurate paranoid leanings. I followed him across Torrance, driving down Normandie, one of the long streets that snaked south all the way from Koreatown. The blocks were long and unwalkable, occupied by warehouses bearing names like Sonic Industries, Global Accents.

He pulled into a parking lot behind a bland beige building that looked more or less like a post office. It had a flagpole in front, with two flags flapping over a tired patch of lawn. The top flag was the old red, white, and blue. The bottom one waved the building’s emblem—a rhino’s head in silhouette.