The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  I led her to the guest room. She got into bed without removing her makeup, just taking time to slip out of her clothes. She was, of course, wearing the tiniest of G-strings.

  Chapter 4

  Sleep did me good. I awoke shortly after noon, with light filling the room as I pulled back the heavy curtains. I immediately opened the window: fresh air. No matter what the summer temperature is outside, the garden behind my building is always cool and moist. I adore this garden, filled with fruit trees and hydrangeas.

  The closed door of the guest room reminded me of Buse; I made my way as quietly as possible to the bathroom. She must be asleep. The cool water was refreshing, and I was flooded with the excitement of a new day. Then I prepared coffee for two in the kitchen. The first bitter swallow takes my breath away, then stimulates me.

  I went inside to choose some soothing music. I decided on Bach’s BWV 1060 double concertos. It’s a particularly appropriate piece for sunny days. I don’t even remember how many different versions of it I’ve got. There’s nothing like having good music close at hand. My favorite is the synthesized version as played by the Pekinel sisters and jazz musician Bob James, and also the authentic harpsichord played by Hogwood and Rousset. Christopher Hogwood and Christophe Rousset are both gay, another plus.

  I went to the guest room to wake up Buse. Tapping on the door, I peeked in: the room was empty. The bed had been made. I instinctively called out her name. Listening carefully, I waited for a reply from any part of the house. Nothing. I scurried through the flat, calling Buse’s name. My home is spacious, but no Dolmabahçe Palace. I quickly checked every corner: Not a trace of Buse! She was gone.

  Dumping her untouched coffee into the sink, I settled into my favorite chair with mine. I wanted to evaluate the situation calmly. Accompanied by Handel, I began to think: Someone—or as many as three people—was after Buse, whose real name was Fevzi. Actually, it wasn’t she they wanted, but the photographs and letters in her possession. The documents involved someone of importance who had once had a romantic adventure with Buse/Fevzi. She claimed they would make perfect blackmail material. The photos and letters were in the “teenage girl’s” old bedroom back at her blind mother’s house. Buse’s home had been ransacked. What’s more, three men had lain in wait for her there.

  Considering how easy it had been to locate Buse and her home, it would be easy enough for them to find the club too. Maybe tonight, or perhaps tomorrow . . . they would most certainly show up at some point. That particular fact was of great personal interest to me.

  Buse had come to my house after hers was broken into. As you might imagine, our girls are no strangers to criminal activities. They endure minor theft and physical attacks on an almost daily basis. So they’re not easily spooked. However, Buse/Fevzi was in a state of shock. Unsure of what was really happening and why, she had been unable to tell me much. Now she’d disappeared. Full stop.

  That was all I knew. It was now up to me to decide whether or not to become further involved. The choices before me were:

  One: Wait and see. Wait for Buse/Fevzi to contact me when she needed me.

  Two: Assume some degree of responsibility for Buse/Fevzi, who is, after all, a part-time employee at the club I run. Act preemptively, therefore, by attempting to find and protect her.

  Three: Get to the root of the problem in order to resolve it. I’m not really sure what that means.

  Four: Find the photographs and letters. Act as some sort of intermediary, surrendering them as painlessly as possible, destroying them, or selling them to the highest bidder for the benefit of Buse.

  There were, no doubt, dozens of other possible courses of action. But these were all that came to mind that I thought were worth considering.

  I jumped at the sound of the ringing phone. It might be Buse, wanting to explain why she’d left without a word.

  It was Hasan.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I hope I haven’t woken you.”

  “No. I was up.”

  “Good,” he said. “Is Buse still there?”

  “No. She was gone when I got up this morning.”

  “Hasn’t she called?”

  “Not yet.”

  It suddenly struck me. How did Hasan know that Buse had stayed with me?

  “How do you know she was here?” I asked.

  “After you left, while I was closing the club, she came up to me. I sent her off with that taxi driver of yours, Hüseyin, who was still here. Perhaps Cüneyt hadn’t told him you’d left and he was waiting for you.”

  This explanation seemed plausible.

  “I was worried,” he continued. “She didn’t look well.”

  “You’re right about that,” I agreed.

  “So what’s wrong? What happened?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  “I see,” he said. “Well, I just wondered.”

  “Look,” I warned him, “you’re a little too curious. You know what they say, it’s either pricks or prying. Dicks or curiosity are the root of all troubles.”

  “Well, I prefer the second,” Hasan said. “No dicks for me, thanks . . . They’re all yours.”

  Either he didn’t know what he was missing or he was pretending.

  We hung up.

  Immediately afterward, the phone rang again. Assuming Hasan had something he’d forgotten to say, I picked up right away.

  My “Hello” must have sounded a little brusque.

  “The line was busy. I hope I haven’t woken you up . . .”

  At first I didn’t recognize the voice on the other end. Then it introduced itself: Belkıs’s husband, Ferruh. I get on well with Belkıs, but it was very strange for Ferruh to be ringing me. Especially in the morning.

  He asked how I was, and thanked me for my hospitality the previous night. Although he didn’t sound at all convincing, he claimed to have enjoyed himself greatly.

  I rarely talk to Ferruh outside the club, but I could tell he was speaking more hesitantly than usual. There was enough space between each sentence—even between each word—for a commercial break.

  “Belkıs sends her best,” he said.

  I thanked him again and sent her my greetings. That’s odd, I thought; Belkıs would normally be at the boutique by this time.

  First it was Hasan who had given me pause for thought; the fact that he knew so much, and was so eager to learn more. Ferruh’s call raised my suspicions even further. Why now, of all times?

  I decided on number one in my list of possible courses of action: To wait and see.

  It was actually the most difficult alternative, because my mind had begun racing. It would be extremely nerve-wracking to just sit and do nothing. I’d have to restrict all thoughts on the subject to a corner of my mind and go about my daily business. After all, I have claimed patience as one of my many virtues.

  Luckily, I had plenty to keep me occupied. I went to my study and looked through my appointment book. Just as I’d remembered, I had a meeting at four-thirty with a company called Wish & Fire.

  My day job is in technology support. I develop security systems for computers in order to protect them from hackers. It pays quite well, and I can arrange work around my schedule, which offers me a great deal of freedom. What’s more, I’m still only second-tier, in professional terms; that is, I haven’t yet made a name for myself. Those unable to afford the big names come to me. That means a large pool of potential clients to choose from.

  I also have an office at one of the companies that offers these services. On my door there’s a sign that says CONSULTANT. I go there occasionally, when I feel like it. Otherwise, I work from home. When large companies want to meet with me, it usually means rewarding work is on offer. My job is by no means easy. Hackers are constantly developing more effective methods, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with them.

  When I go to meetings, I think it’s best to dress a bit unconventionally. Clients tend to associate quirky clothes with better-quality
service. The last thing they expect is for me to arrive looking like a banker. I selected a shirt in a fashionable shade of saffron. In that, paired with white slacks, I was sufficiently radiant.

  I arrived early for the appointment. All went as I’d anticipated: Their computer systems had been crashed twice, just for “fun.” They needed my help to prevent future attacks. On and on they went about the vital flow of information, their overseas connections and their sensitivity to such problems. I took copious notes and commented freely on each point they brought up. When it comes to business meetings, I consider myself head of the company; Ali, my business partner, merely shoots slightly bewildered glances at me from time to time. And that’s exactly what he did now. I winked, taking care that no one else saw.

  When the meeting was over I told Ali I’d have to have a good look at the company’s systems to determine the best course of action. I suggested deciding on a fee only after I had done so. Although this was incomprehensible to his mercantile mind, Ali nodded in agreement.

  “You know best. You’re the expert,” he said. He was right.

  I went home without wasting any more time. Once there, I got onto the Internet to research Wish & Fire, visiting both their local and international Web sites. I even covertly entered their system to gather some more data. It was easy enough to do. The global computer system had been established in the typically naïve manner of Canadians. Security precautions were virtually nonexistent. I estimated my task would take about ten to twelve days, and a fee of $20,000 would be adequate. International companies are incredibly tight, so I doubted we would get more.

  When I was satisfied, I rang Ali. He was somewhere noisy, but when the subject is money, he somehow manages to hear every word. He listened eagerly.

  After I hung up with Ali, all I really wanted to do was laze in front of the television for a bit, then make myself dinner. As I was surfing through the channels, the doorbell rang.

  It was Hüseyin, from the taxi stand.

  “Efendim?” I inquired. I managed an admirably rough tone, albeit somewhere in the upper register.

  “Uh,” he said, “what happened to your friend? Is she all right? She was in such bad shape this morning. I was worried about her.”

  “She’s fine,” I informed him crisply. “Most kind of you to inquire.”

  It seemed like everyone was worried about Buse.

  “You were going to call if you needed anything . . .”

  “I didn’t.”

  My tone was sufficiently stinging, but he kept standing there, apparently reluctant to leave. What he wanted was perfectly clear, but he lacked the courage.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I’ll drop by to pick you up whenever you’re ready. I promised to take you to the club, you know.”

  He attempted a lady-killer sneer.

  “It’s still early,” I noted. “I’ll call the stand. Don’t bother to wait.”

  “What do you mean?” he protested. “What could be better than waiting for you?”

  “Well, wait, then! It’s up to you. You’re your own man.”

  “But when will you be going out?”

  “I’m not sure. When I’m good and ready, I suppose. Good evening.”

  I shut the door.

  I was getting annoyed with Hüseyin’s attentions. And what was he doing in front of the club so early in the morning? If he’d really been following me, he’d have known I don’t stay there that late. And what was with all the interest in Buse? He’d only met her once. I figured it was all just an excuse to talk to me.

  As usual at this hour, I clicked from channel to channel, looking for something decent to watch. Nothing was on, so I switched off the set. Off I went to the kitchen to make myself something appetizing. I’m not involved with anyone at the moment, so all my meals are prepared for one. Even if it takes me twice as long to prepare a meal as to consume it, I find cooking calms me down.

  Chapter 5

  I ate with gusto, then loaded the dishwasher. There was still no sign of Buse. If something major had happened, surely I’d have heard. It was still too early to go to the club, so I decided to get online. I could try out some new software and also check out the dreamy men on some porn sites. It wasn’t like I had the opportunity to meet such men in my daily life. And it provided a feast for my eyes, an anatomy lesson, and some general knowledge.

  I opened John Pruitt’s site. There were new photos I’d never seen before. He is one of the few men able to turn me on with a mere photograph. I mean, I normally much prefer them in the flesh. Unlike so many others, I am no addict to erotic soft-core or hard-core pictures. In order to fully appreciate a man, I need him to look at me, to move. I need to get a sense of his scent. But that John Pruitt . . . those looks, those lips, those hands . . . perfect. He’s head and shoulders above the rest, a superstar model for Colt Studio, and renowned for years in gay circles.

  While downloading the photos, I simultaneously glanced at the new protective software on offer, but there was nothing of importance. That’s the advantage of belonging to Internet groups devoted to the subject. It enables me to keep up on the latest technology.

  Just as I was preparing to enjoy a little heart-to-heart with John Pruitt, the doorbell rang. Spotting Hüseyin through the peephole, I flew into a rage. I flung the door open. The slightest false move, and I’d flatten the dog. Enough is enough!

  “What is it?” I demanded. “What are you after?”

  “Excuse me,” he said. The grin was gone. “I rang, but the phone wasn’t connected. Were you watching TV?”

  “I was,” I said.

  “Fine, then . . .” He turned to leave, but wished to add something else, and was unable to.

  “Stop harassing me,” I said. “You’ve got me all wrong.”

  He blushed, unable to meet my eye.

  “N-no, you got it wrong,” he stuttered.

  “No, I haven’t! There’s been no misunderstanding. Get your act together or else. I’m warning you. And stop addressing me as sen. Your customers are to be addressed as siz.”

  “Look,” he pleaded, “I was watching TV at the stand. Your friend’s been murdered. I just came up to say I’m sorry. We’re neighbors, after all. I think I have the right.”

  Buse! Fevzi! Or whatever her name was. Now it was my turn to blush.

  I let Hüseyin in and he related what he’d seen on the news. His eyes remained downcast. He immediately recognized the girl in the news report as the one he’d brought to my house in the morning, so he’d listened carefully. A transvestite had apparently quarreled with a customer, according to the news account. The perpetrator had not been apprehended. It may have been a case of self-defense. Her head had been split open. They even showed it on the screen.

  He ended with, “So her real name was Fevzi,” and looked up at me. Actually, he has lovely eyes, full of meaning. But it’s still hopeless. I’m not sure how I looked at him, but he rose to his feet. “I’d better get going,” he said. “If you need anything, call me.”

  He’d remembered the suffix siz. Even if he had tacked it on at the last minute, it was progress of some kind.

  “Okay? I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  And that look again: two rows of bright, white, healthy teeth gleaming at me.

  I appreciate determined people. But not when they’re determined to hit on me.

  In my driest voice, I thanked him as I accompanied him to the door. Things were getting out of hand. An innocent love affair had become material for blackmail, then a threat, then the motive for a gruesome murder. As always, the police would relegate the “transvestite file” to a dusty drawer. In fact, there was bound to be much more to all this than meets the eye.

  I suddenly remembered the letters and photographs. The motive for the crime! Hidden at the home of Fevzi’s blind mother! Any moment now they might find her. Another innocent victim to the slaughter. I had to find her before they did. She needed protection, and I needed to prevent them fr
om finding the documents.

  I made up my mind instantly. Once again, I would have to get involved.

  Chapter 6

  I don’t know where the girls from the club live, or at least not many of them. Nor do I recall the exact addresses of those I have visited. I don’t even know most of their real names. It was therefore nothing out of the ordinary for me not to have the slightest idea of the exact whereabouts of the house of the dead transvestite’s mother. Her surname must have been mentioned on the news report that Hüseyin saw, but the story was almost certainly not important enough to be covered once more on the evening news. I could find out from the coroner’s office or the police. But that would take time, something that was in short supply. I had to find this elderly lady as soon as possible, and take possession of those letters and photographs.