The Serenity Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  He paused again when the waiter approached.

  My mineral water and his main course, hünkar beğendi, had arrived.

  He pushed the salad away, indicating that he was done with it. He had ruined that darling of a salad. He began separating the fat on the meat, with the delicacy of a surgeon.

  “But you see, after that show, the wheel started turning. A series of events; you could never guess…”

  He tossed a tender, trimmed lump of meat into his mouth and began chewing, leaving nothing to the imagination, his inner mouth activities once again on display for all the world to see. The parsley leaf was still in place.

  “There were some goods that shouldn’t have been there where he was shooting. With labels on them. It was dangerous enough, for those who saw.”

  Certainly he wouldn’t loudly chomp on the beğendi that he was about to put in his mouth? After all, it was already in purée form.

  “First we gave him a polite warning…”

  God only knows what they had done.

  No, the beğendi he did whirl around in his mouth, from side to side. Yuck.

  “He didn’t listen.”

  He took a sip of water to help it go down.

  “He broadcasted it again on purpose…”

  He set about operating on the lamb again. There it was, that awful sound of the knife screeching against the plate—oh, how it grated on my nerves!

  “The rules of our world are crystal clear.”

  I knew.

  “This time we warned him in a way he would clearly understand.”

  He put another newly trimmed piece in his mouth.

  “But he’s seriously wounded. To my knowledge, warning bullets are generally aimed at the leg.”

  He laughed. I saw everything he had in his mouth.

  “It turns out the boy was clumsy. He got nervous and missed the target. By sheer accident.”

  So what did it have to do with me? Why was I here? I already knew this much from the news report.

  “The TV guy being shot has nothing to do with the threat you received. It’s just a coincidence.”

  He was squashing the beğendi with his fork. As if he were searching for something inside it.

  “So what about me?” I asked.

  “You?” he said, looking at me as if he were setting eyes on me for the very first time.

  “Where do I stand in this distasteful coincidence? What’s it got to do with me?”

  He put the beğendi that hung from his fork into his mouth, as if he couldn’t possibly talk with his mouth empty.

  “You are the reason why the police have taken an exaggerated interest in the matter.”

  My coffee finally arrived.

  “Through your connections the matter has turned into a complicated mess. They’re digging unnecessarily deep. We’re now connected too. Our boy was bound to get caught after their investigation.”

  I always knew the police were into shady double-dealing, but I wasn’t used to it being expressed so openly. I now understood why he was so cautious about voice recorders. Selçuk getting involved upon my request, and the way the investigation was consequently being followed by those higher up in command, had served to make the case more urgent. No wonder they were incredibly disturbed by their man being caught.

  “Now…”

  I silently begged for him to finish what he was saying without putting more food in his mouth. The look I gave him had the desired effect. His fork remained suspended in midair.

  “What we ask of you…”

  Aaaand the fork reached his mouth.

  “…in the hope that you won’t turn us down…”

  “I’ll try,” I said, lowering my head to stare at my coffee.

  “Don’t avert your eyes. It makes you seem insecure,” he said, bestowing upon me a few crumbs of his infinite wisdom on the topic of body language and psychology.

  “Right,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “Your request?”

  “Have a word with your connection. Have them stop meddling. The boy has already confessed and surrendered.”

  “That’s even better,” I said. “He’ll plea bargain and get a reduced sentence.”

  “They said you had a strange sense of humor. But we’re serious.”

  His gaze was as cold as ice. If what they called charisma meant making people tremble with just one look, then this man definitely had it.

  “Somewhere down the line, we’ll be of help to you too. I gave you my card. You’ve got my private number.”

  I had already understood when it was handed to me what a great privilege it was to possess this card.

  Now was the time for negotiation, if I played my cards right.

  “I’m the one who’s stuck with the psycho that made the threatening call,” I told him. “He’s claimed responsibility for shooting Süheyl Arkın and killing Sermet Kılıç.”

  He put his knife and fork down on the table, making a loud clatter.

  “I thought we agreed, no names.”

  “Sorry, ayol,” I said. The “ayol” had slipped out of my mouth out of sheer nervousness.

  “Your psycho is lying,” he said, taking his knife and fork and placing them across his plate, which was still only half empty. So that’s as much as he ate. No wonder he was so skinny.

  “But he’s continuing to threaten me,” I said, leaning toward him over the table. He quickly pulled back.

  “We’ll see what we can do,” he said.

  That was the best answer possible.

  “You’ve made a promise,” I said. “I could remain silent until you help me.”

  His tongue, which had discovered the parsley leaf on his tooth, kept moving around underneath his upper lip. When his tongue failed to do the trick, he stuck his finger in his mouth and swiped the parsley leaf off his tooth. And then he wiped his finger on a tissue, nice and clean.

  “This is a pointless negotiation,” he said. “It has nothing to do with our case.”

  “You said you’d see what you could do.”

  He reached out to pick up his glass and took another sip of water. He was thinking.

  “I could assign you a bodyguard.”

  The solution he had offered was not appealing. I had already grown tired of Hüseyin, and now the last thing I needed was a bodyguard following me around like my shadow.

  “That’s no solution…” I said.

  “So what is it you want, then?”

  I could sense that he was getting angry.

  The waiter was bringing him a dish of sunchokes cooked in olive oil. It would be a good idea if I left before he started eating. I was already beginning to feel sick.

  As I stood up, I waved his business card curtly in the air.

  “I’ll call you when I think of something.”

  15.

  Isummarized the situation for Hüseyin, who was dying of curiosity, without going into too much detail. I only told him as much as he needed to know. It’s never a good idea to know too much when involved in sordid affairs like this. If you do, one slip of the tongue and you could end up in big trouble.

  I had to think of something quick, decide what I would ask Cemil Kazancı for and let him know. My delay gave me some power, but unwanted events for them could lead to undesired trouble for me. Right now they owed me. The tables, however, could turn at any moment.

  I didn’t know how much influence I could exercise over Selçuk, but if the wheel had already started turning, and if they really had obtained important clues, then it was going to be impossible to stop the police. Still, I was going to have to give it a shot.

  But later. We had other business to attend to right now: like visiting Melek, who wore a large snow-white ribbon in her hair, but was horribly ugly nonetheless!

  I had switched my cell phone off before handing it over to the bodyguards, and as soon as I turned it back on, I received a text message from that oh-so-familiar number.

  “Switch your phone on, or else…” It was
official, now confirmed by both the police and the Mafia: my psycho had not carried through with his threat. He was a liar and a coward. So much for his power to threaten me; he was scary no more. He could call me when he felt like it. I had a couple of things to say to him too.

  Hüseyin was totally confused.

  “So now there’s two of them, right?” he asked. “And the one who was caught is the one who’s not after me.”

  The phone rang and I grabbed it, thinking it was the liar psycho, but it wasn’t. It was Ponpon. I answered.

  “Ayolcuğum, something reeeally strange is going on,” she said.

  “Like what?”

  “I received an envelope. Through the post. But it’s got your name on it.”

  “What? What do you mean? In my name but to your address?”

  “That’s right, cream puff.”

  This expression was new.

  “Who from?”

  “Now, that I don’t know, ayolcuğum. It doesn’t say on the envelope. I can tell from the stamp that it was posted from Taksim. But there’s something tiny in the envelope. I can feel it. Something like a button.”

  “Open it and see,” I said.

  “Well, if there’s something private in it, don’t go moaning afterwards!”

  “Ayol, Ponpon, what do I have to hide from you? Open it, I’m telling you.”

  “Okay, then I will. But don’t think I just believed you. You hide lots from me. I know you do.”

  She deliberately held the envelope near the handset so that I could hear the tearing sound of paper clearly.

  “What is it?”

  “A rosette” she said. “And there’s a note.”

  “What kind of rosette? What does it say in the note? Read it to me.”

  We were just pulling in to Hüseyin’s parents’ marvelous estate. There were more cars than there had been that morning, and a great many more children.

  “I’m reading it…The note, I mean…‘I know this place too. You’ll remember this.’ That’s it. No name, no signature, no addressee. Nothing. I mean, you end a letter with ‘good day’ or ‘kind regards’ or something. I’m telling you, these days, people’s manners have gone to pot. They used to teach etiquette in school, back in the old days. Nowadays they don’t give two hoots about it in school. The right education is really very important—”

  A long tirade was clearly on its way if I didn’t intervene immediately.

  “I know,” I told her. “What about the rosette? What’s on it?”

  “I’m checking, darling…But it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s black. Square. It looks like something new age and fashionable. You know, the type girls pin on their clothes here or there. I think the pin is broken. Let me check if it’s in the envelope.”

  She put the phone aside, making a racket as she rustled the paper again.

  Given the style in which the latest threat had been delivered, it appeared to be my psycho’s doing. He was proving to me that he knew the addresses of my friends, that he could go straight to them if he wanted to. I was curious to find out what he had sent me, though, since he claimed I would remember it…

  “Nope! The pin isn’t in the envelope.”

  “Anything written on it, or an emblem?”

  “There’s nothing written on it. Just a random combination of letters and numbers. Come see for yourself.”

  The thing she was describing wasn’t a rosette; it was a computer chip. Ponpon’s relationship with technology is based entirely upon consumption. She buys some piece of modern equipment on a whim, and then promptly fidgets with it, in an attempt to actually use it, of course, until it’s broken and ends up in the bin. She even complains about the number of buttons on a remote control. On numerous occasions she has called me over when she can’t use something because it’s “not working!” Most recently she was trying to watch a DVD without connecting cables to her DVD player. So you can imagine: she wouldn’t recognize a chip if she saw one.

  “I’ll drop by soon,” I said.

  “And tell me your latest secret too when you arrive, so that you’re no longer lying about not having anything to hide from me. It’s obvious you’re up to something secretive again.”

  Melek was playing hopscotch with the other neighborhood girls. Mrs. Kozalak’s description of her neighbor’s child had been perfect. I immediately recognized Melek among the other kids, even if she wasn’t wearing a gigantic starched ribbon on her head.

  She wouldn’t know me, but she knew her Hüseyin Abi. She stopped playing, apologized to her friends in the manner of a grown-up woman, and walked over to us. Clearly we were the news of the day in the neighborhood.

  “Hello, Hüseyin Abi,” she said affectionately, straightening her clothes. “Mrs. Kozalak told me you needed to ask me some questions.”

  The way she stared at Hüseyin was not at all innocent. It bespoke the bawdy interest in men so blatantly apparent in girls her age. If Ponpon had been there, she’d have called her a “Lolita.”

  Before shaking my hand and introducing herself, she looked me up and down, studying me closely in an effort to discern just what I was made of. It was like she was taking an MRI. Her instincts must have been strong, for she quickly sensed what was going on. Until today, she had admired her Hüseyin Abi from afar, and now as she gave me my grade, she graded him too, for hanging out with me. I’d bet you anything we got big fat F’s.

  “Please, go ahead, ağabeyciğim, I’m listening.”

  Some kids are cute; I can tolerate them. Some are pretty; I can tolerate them too. But some, like this girl, who are wiseass know-it-alls plus every bit as ugly as Mrs. Kozalak said, well, they are tough to tolerate. She was like those kids in old-fashioned movies. A grown-up and poisoned midget was trapped in her child’s body.

  Hüseyin knelt down so as to be able to see Melek’s face as he spoke to her. I was curious to know where he’d learned that. I was certain he didn’t watch those daytime shows that explained the psychology of children.

  “Somebody brought an envelope for me yesterday. And gave it to you to take upstairs. Do you remember, Melek, dear?”

  “Of course I do, Hüseyin Ağabeyciğim.”

  “Can you describe him to us? What did he look like?”

  She was definitely a top student in her class. One who tattled on those who talked and were noisy when the teacher wasn’t around, and who, as soon as she got back to the classroom, told on anyone who had said rude words during playtime; one who did her homework to the letter and studied the following day’s topics ahead of time, just to get in the teacher’s good graces.

  “Please give me a few minutes to think,” she said.

  Her thinking pose consisted of an index finger to the cheek and a sideways tilt of the head. She had also narrowed her eyes. I bet she’d rehearsed this look in front of her mirror.

  “It was a young abla.”

  But our psycho was male!

  Now I knelt down too, immediately.

  “What did she look like?”

  Although I had posed the question, she nevertheless directed her answer at Hüseyin. Clearly she was bent on paying absolutely no attention to me.

  “Around twenty, I think. She looked like Ebru Gündeş before she got famous.”

  I didn’t remember what Ebru Gündeş looked like before she became famous, but I figured she was a petite brunette with large eyes.

  “She had long hair, down to here.”

  She motioned, indicating that it was a little longer than shoulder length.

  “What did she say to you, dear?” I asked.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, very grandly, sizing me up again.

  A good slap in the face would knock some respect into this girl, but we still had questions to ask, so I contained my annoyance.

  “Oh…I’m Burçak,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “And I’m Melek,” she said, bending her knee in a slight curtsy.

  “And so we’ve met…What
did she say to you?”

  “What are you to Hüseyin Abi?”

  “He’s my friend,” Hüseyin quickly responded, thus relieving me of the need to search for an answer.

  “I’ve never seen him before,” she said, looking skeptically at us both.

  It was official, signed, and notarized: the girl was openly flirting with Hüseyin and was jealous of me. This must be what is called a woman’s instinct.

  “Now let me answer your question,” she said. “We were playing here when that abla came on her bike.”

  “A bike?”

  “Yes, Un-cle Burçak, a bike.”

  And she’d called me uncle, emphasizing each syllable. While it was true that the younger generations were certainly lacking in the tactfulness department, the case at hand went beyond that; this pint-sized runt, in a fit of jealousy, was openly treating me with an obnoxious attitude.

  “She asked us if anyone knew Hüseyin Kozalak. I stepped forward. I told her Hüseyin Abi and I lived in the same apartment block. She told me she was in a hurry, and that she needed to make it to an exam. She kindly asked me to deliver the envelope to his home.”

  The bike, the exam…A girl, a student…What did all this mean?

  “What kind of a bike was it, Melek? Can you tell us?” said Hüseyin, moving on to a more fruitful line of questioning.

  Melek assumed her thinking pose again.

  “Let’s see…It wasn’t really new. If I’m not mistaken, it had gears. And it was blue in color. But it wasn’t a girl’s bike. There was a yellow water bottle where you’d normally put the pump. You know, one of those with a nozzle.”

  “You’re a right know-it-all, aren’t you…?” I said.

  Placing her hand on her Hüseyin Abi’s shoulder for support, she answered.

  “I’m knowledgeable, not a know-it-all.”

  Any other time I would have ripped to pieces anyone who back-talked to me like this. But we needed her, so I controlled myself. Besides, the details she remembered, if true, were important. And the girl clearly did have a sharp eye.

  I proceeded to pose a question that fell within my own particular area of interest: “Do you remember what she was wearing?”

  “She was wearing jeans,” she said, without thinking this time. “And a jean jacket. I don’t remember if they were purple or red but she had shiny, colorful sneakers. Converse sneakers. My mom’s going to buy me a pair this summer.”