The Serenity Murders (12 page)

She picked up the phone just as I was saying my name.

“I’ve been expecting your call,” she said scoldingly.

“Well, here I am,” I replied. “Long time no see. How have you been?”

The truth was, our last encounter had been far from lovely.

“Fabulous! As always!”

The word “understatement” did not exist in the vocabulary of Sofya, that marvelous specimen of femininity.

“What’s up with you forwarding your phone calls to Ponpon’s? What adorable bonding…Yuck!”

I really didn’t have the energy for a second dose; this time listening to Sofya complaining about Ponpon.

“You called me?” I said, in my most professional, in other words dull and numb, tone of voice.

One should never reveal any soft spots to Sofya. She’d nail you in the Achilles the first chance she got.

“There are people who want to see you.”

If she was intending to pimp me out again, she was in for a disappointment.
She couldn’t use me the same way she did most of the girls; pimping them to celebrities at precious prices, getting them sucked into weird prostitution networks. I had fallen for that trick once in the past, and had learned my lesson. If there was anyone who fancied me since I’d appeared on TV and wanted to sleep with me, well, I had no intention whatsoever of reciprocating. No way would I tolerate being with someone whose understanding of sports was watching soccer on TV, who had saggy skin, a fat belly, a bald head, and greasy hands he’d move across my body, imagining himself to be the most attractive man on earth as his wheezing lungs breathed air all over me. I now chose my partners myself, according to my own taste. I never expect to find someone like John Pruitt, but I do prefer men who are clean-cut, smell fresh, and show concern for my feelings as well as their own pleasure. No matter the price she named, my answer was going to be no. Then again, what would be the harm in negotiating a sum? Just like there was a price for everyone, there was quite naturally one for me. I immediately began imagining astronomical sums and all the things I could do with the money.

“I don’t do that anymore,” I said. “It’s been years…”

She let out an artificial hoot of laughter. How did she manage to be so pretentious?

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she said, abruptly cutting her laughter short. “Who would want you when there are so many young chicks available? To think that they’d pay for it…”

She sure knew how to hit a gal where it hurts. And so I ceased counting dollars in my head and dreaming of the around the world tours I might embark upon.

“These people are important…I can’t give you their names on the phone…”

Oh, how she loved being mysterious.

“So why do they want to see me?” I asked.

“You’re after something, apparently…So Hasan said…They have some information for you…”

The wheel had started turning. Hasan had told everyone, the news had spread fast, and now some mysterious people wanted to share information with me. Seeing as they were somehow connected to Sofya, these very important people whose names were to be kept secret had to be the Mafia.

“They can call me…” I said. “Give them my number.”

“
Ayol
, stop being so childish! These people don’t order takeout on the phone. It has to be face-to-face…”

“So?”

“I’ve been told to arrange a rendezvous for you.”

So she took orders too.

“I don’t know if I can arrange it right away. These people are always busy. I’ll let you know as soon as I set it up. Give me your mobile.”

What would important people want with me? If the people in question were the types engaged in dark, sordid dealings, the types Sofya was prone to be involved with herself, then I’d really rather prefer to keep my distance. I didn’t owe them anything, they didn’t owe me anything. And I’d rather keep it that way, but I knew they had eyes and ears everywhere. Perhaps they did have information for me.

I still had to call Alı, Andelip, and Gül back. I was going to the office anyway. I’d call them later.

“Y
ou’re not going to follow me around all day, are you?” I asked him. “That’ll really suck, for the both of us.”

Hüseyin was slouched in front of the television, zapping through channels.

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“What?”

“Sucking, I wouldn’t mind. In fact, we could replace that
s
with an
f
.”

It was a stupid joke. He was the only one to laugh.

“What?” he said. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m only safe if I stay with you!”

He’d made breakfast but hadn’t set about cleaning up. The kitchen where he’d made himself an omelet looked like it had been hit by a bomb. He’d used dozens of bowls, cups, and saucers to make a single omelet and then left them just sitting there.

Luckily, Satı was coming the next day. I can never stay at home when there’s cleaning. Not only does the sound of the vacuum cleaner make my hair stand on end, but I get tense, feeling that Satı is following me around no matter where I hide.

We received a text message from our psycho on my mobile saying, “Don’t mess around. I’m waiting for you,” whereby he kindly reminded us of his existence. What did he expect me to do? Walk
around in the streets with a magnifying glass in my hand like Sherlock Holmes? I hadn’t yet found a single clue. Perhaps if Türkanş Hilmi brought me the CD tonight, I might have something. The television channels had already forgotten all about Süheyl, which was now yesterday’s news. I had no hope of finding anything from that lead anyway. The police would handle it much more effectively using their own sources.

Hüseyin and I went to the office. He had promised to sit quietly no matter how bored he got. He was going to play games on the computer.

“We haven’t seen you around for a while, sir,” our secretary Figen greeted me. She eyed Hüseyin up and down, her gaze fixed on him; no shame at all! She was wondering what to make of us arriving together.

I confessed to save her the trouble.

“My chauffeur.”

Hüseyin’s eyes widened in objection.

“Open a game for him in a window. He’s going to wait for me all day,” I told her. God only knows what, as an experienced employee, she’d tell Hüseyin behind my back.

And with that, I barged into Alı’s office.

He was playing games on his computer too.

He began showering me with compliments immediately. This meant there was something important, something I’d be expected to do as a favor that would remain unreturned. Alı would never think of complimenting someone without an ulterior motive.

“Come out with it,
ayol
,” I said. “Seriously, I’m not in the mood.”

“Okay, you go first, then,” he said.

Offering to listen to me first was a sign that the request in question was going to be a difficult task.

In the hopes that he might change his mind about asking me for
a favor if he knew the current situation I was in—so that I wouldn’t have to have
that
on my hands too—I told him all about the threats, about Master Sermet’s death, and finally, about Hüseyin.

“He’s outside, playing games on the computer next to Figen,” I said, giving him the latest update.

He shook his head thoughtfully.

He was musing on whether, given the circumstances, he still had the nerve to ask of me whatever it was he wanted.

“Come on, now it’s your turn,” I said. “What is it you want?”

“Well, it’s really not that urgent, but it is important…”

The company Mare T. Docile, which we’d done work for recently, wanted their Web site updated. Free of charge.

It really wasn’t such a big deal. If they were to send me all the documents, I could get it done in half a day.

“And to increase their Web site security.”

Now, expecting that for free too was a big no-no. That was how we were planning to make the real money.

“But just think about it, these guys have sent a lot of work our way. We were able to get into the maritime transport sector thanks to their references.”

He was right.

“Look, I’ll do the job, but I need to postpone it for now. Let me go on their Web site and hack it a little first, so they realize why they need security, then they’ll have to pay for it.”

“No, man. Let’s not do it that way this time. Let’s do something clean for once.”

Something was up with Alı. This dialogue would normally be reversed. He was the one obsessed with money. The yuppie lifestyle he led demanded it. He had to earn good money. “So what are you going to do for me in return?”

He looked into my eyes to gauge how serious I was. I was serious. He let out a forced laugh.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “You name it and I promise to give it to you.”

He thought that if he laughed it off, the promise he had just given would be invalidated.

“A week in Rio!” I said, without hesitation. That was the first thing I could think of. Being among cheerful, easygoing people; the sun, the ocean, the beaches filled with men with bodies that looked just like Greek and Roman statues…That would be enough to help me forget pretty much everything.

“That would cost a fortune!” he said immediately, switching on the calculator in his head.

“Not really,” I said. “Plus, you just promised…”

As I went into my own office I asked Figen to make me a cup of Turkish coffee, without sugar. We had bought a new coffee machine that made superb Turkish coffee without fuss in less than two minutes.

“And you, you can get up and help yourself to whatever you want,” I told Hüseyin. “There’s fruit juice, Coke, and other stuff inside, in the kitchen.”

“I’d like a cup of coffee too. With sugar, if that’s okay,” he told Figen, not missing a beat.

Figen turned to me, trying to understand if she should or shouldn’t be serving him. Who was higher in rank? A driver or a secretary? But Hüseyin was a guest. I nodded my head yes. I was sure Figen felt humiliated. I’d call her to my office and explain the situation when I had the time.

My desk was buried under a mountain of mail. Magazines I was subscribed to, bills, advertisements…a gigantic mountain. I quickly separated out what could be thrown away. I put the magazines to one side. There was a card from my darling Nimet Hanoğlu. Her husband had first been accused of killing a gigolo and then was murdered himself. Nimet and I had met while trying
to track down his murderer and had become fast friends. I had let her down, using work as an excuse, so that she ended up having to go by herself on the trip to Croatia that we had originally planned to take together. The postcard was a fairy-tale scene of a place called Primosten. It was a tear-shaped island in the Adriatic, with a narrow little road connecting it to the mainland. “Wish you were here,” it said. “A pearl beach, marvelous seafood, juvenile lads, all of whom resemble the young Franco Nero, graceful girls the likes of Milla Jovovich. And at sunset, I play ‘Stabat Mater’ on a CD. It’s a dream come true!” She knew I adored Franco Nero’s youth; and our taste for Pergolesi’s “Stabat Mater” was something we had in common.

There was one personal envelope. And inside, a single-line note. It was from my psycho!

In the middle of a huge blank page it said, “I know this place.”

He had typed it up on a computer.

I quickly looked at the envelope. It had been posted from the post office in Taksim two days ago. I never knew the Turkish post could be so prompt.

I rushed outside, the envelope in my hand. I almost bumped straight into Figen, who was carrying my coffee.

“When did this arrive?” I asked.

My voice came out a bit too loud and tense.

Puzzled, Figen looked first at me, and then at the envelope. She placed the tray she was holding on my desk and said, “If you’ll excuse me,” as she pulled the envelope out of my hand; she then studied it, turning it over and over again.

“I don’t know,” she said. “The postman probably brought it.”

I was expecting a much more helpful reply after all of that scrutinizing.

Having heard me, Alı had come out of his room and was trying to make sense of what was going on.

I took the letter to him.

“There you go!” I said. “He knows this place too.”

Hüseyin and Alı buried their heads in the letter.

The only person who didn’t understand what was going on, who had no clue about who it was that knew this place, and why their knowing caused such a fuss, was Figen.

“Who does?” she asked hesitantly.

The game Hüseyin had left unattended started beeping. He was dead.

“Someone tell Figen. I’m fed up with telling the same story over and over again,” I said.

I was sure they were both eager to tell her.

I spent the whole day dealing with trivial matters. Not only was I incapable of getting anything done, but my thoughts were entirely preoccupied with the psycho. I wondered what he was like. Was he young or old? Was he an ignorant conservative, or a bully who had developed these skills later on in life? Or a commando who had become addicted to murder while he served in the military in southeastern Turkey? An ex–political militant? Or someone who simply suffered from dementia? No doubt he would turn out to be someone completely ordinary, someone I wouldn’t stop to look at twice if I were to see him on the street.