The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  There was no need to subject myself to more. In order to make sure Süleyman remained out cold, I gave a cursory kick to the back of his neck. He seemed to become even more sprawled and lifeless. Like someone finally relaxing after numerous days of hard labor.

  I thrust the gun into my cloth belt and quickly searched him. He wasn’t packing any other weapons, but I felt a cell phone in his jacket pocket. Perhaps I would be able to search through his phone book, find out who he had last called. I pulled out the phone. It was switched off, and I didn’t know the PIN code. There was nothing I could do here. At home I’d crack the code in no time. I stuck the phone into my thick belt.

  Next, I took his wallet. His name was Süleyman Bahattin Aydın. He must have been named after both grandfathers. He was twenty-seven years old. Born in Istanbul. His driver’s license was registered under the same name. It featured a baby-faced youth doing his best to look tough. The wallet also contained a thick wad of cash and two credit cards, one of them gold, issued by two different banks. I felt like I deserved all of this money. It would barely compensate me for my dress, which was made of fine Italian cotton, but it would have to do.

  When he rustled slightly, I hit him again. Naturally. He seemed to relax into the deep slumber of a moment earlier. It’s so important to allow the muscles and joints to fully relax. By doing so, we wake up refreshed from even a short nap. Many aches and pains, as well as some illnesses, are the result of the failure to stretch out. As I remembered his tense posture and swaggering at the club, I decided I had in fact done him a favor, thus assuaging any guilt I may have felt.

  As a final precaution, I removed his belt, tying his hands behind his back with it. Most people would pass out cold for at least twenty minutes after a sharp chop to the base of the skull, but this guy was extraordinarily tough. The lid of his good eye was flickering even now, and his back arched slightly. Such amazing resilience and ability to recover so quickly could only be the result of years of training. I silently applauded him.

  Leaving him lying on the ground behind the car, I quickly riffled through the glove compartment. His registration and insurance documents were in order. And registered in his own name. In short, I had discovered nothing to reveal the identity of his employer. Finding a packet of condoms, I laughed softly. With the door open, and my eyes on Süleyman, I sat in the car, gun in hand. I inspected myself for damage: the skirt of my dress was torn. There were scratches and cuts on my naked arms and legs. At the sight of each one, I felt the stinging. Until I’d actually looked, I hadn’t felt a thing. That I was filthy seemed even more important. I was covered in dirt and dust. Over this I cursed long and lustily.

  There was no point in waiting around. Süleyman didn’t seem like the sort I’d be able to break, no matter how long I held a gun to his head. He knew as well as I did that I wouldn’t actually kill him. At most, I could only dare to shoot him in the arms or legs, just to frighten him.

  I looked at the gun in my hand. It was covered with my fingerprints. I wiped it thoroughly with my skirt, then stuck it in the glove compartment.

  I switched off the engine and took the keys. Just to be on the safe side, I wiped any possible fingerprints off the steering wheel, glove compartment handle, and car doors.

  Then I returned to Süleyman. He was still lying face down on the road, fast asleep. A thread of blood and spit drooled out of his mouth and onto the pavement. Lips parted slightly, he was bestowing a kiss on the asphalt. I nudged him in the ribs with my foot. He didn’t respond. There’s no way I had killed him, but I leaned over to check his jugular vein, just in case. It was pulsing at regular intervals. He was tough enough to recover fully in a few days.

  I ran through the alternatives facing me: (A) Wait for him to come to and interrogate him—which I had already decided against; (B) Take the car, leaving him behind; (C) Leave him and the car, and find some way to get home on my own. I tried, and failed, to come up with an alternative D.

  There was nothing to prevent me from taking the car and going. But what would I do with the car later? Also, I didn’t have my driver’s license with me. Traffic checks and police barricades were common at this time of night, especially on the weekend. If I abandoned the car somewhere, someone might see me and identify me later.

  Just striding off into the night, leaving the whole mess behind me, seemed an attractive option at first. Particularly in terms of cinematography: In my tattered Audrey Hepburn finery I would haughtily toss the keys into the bushes so he couldn’t follow me, then stride off into the night along the highway. But that would take far too much effort. Although close to Istanbul, we were out in what passed as the wilds, and hitchhiking on a nearly deserted road would not be easy. It would take some time to walk to the motorway. I was in no shape for that. My ill-timed fall had injured me.

  Even if I did manage to reach the motorway, hitchhiking at this hour could result in some unpleasant surprises. I might find that the driver wouldn’t let me go until I’d returned the favor. And I wasn’t in the mood for another brawl.

  I poked Süleyman in the ribs again. He turned his head slightly. So he was regaining consciousness. I decided to ask him for advice.

  “What do you think I should do?” I asked. “Should I take the car and go, or should I leave the car and go?”

  His good eye opened. “Huh?”

  I repeated my question.

  “Go fuck your mother!” he suggested. Or at least that’s what he tried to say. His lips were still plastered to the asphalt and my right foot rested on the back of his neck. I don’t appreciate references to my mother, particularly those of a crude nature. And my mother’s privates are certainly no one else’s business. I pressed down hard with my foot. His cheek was crushed. His lips reminded me of a guppy’s.

  “You certainly have no manners!” I scolded. “You asked for this,” I added, with a graceful kick to his head. He passed out again.

  Pulling the white kid gloves from my belt, I put them on. I placed my scarf on my head, tying it under my chin. I got into the car, started the engine, and drove off.

  Chapter 24

  I was in no shape to return to the club. I would have to abandon the car somewhere and go home. The road was empty. I drove straight to Taksim Square, where I could leave the car in the Atatürk Cultural Center parking lot. It would stay there for days. Better still, there were so many customers on the weekends that the attendants would probably not remember me.

  Rolling the window down just a crack, I took my ticket, parking the car right in the middle of the lot so it wouldn’t attract undue attention. I couldn’t decide whether or not to take the keys. I could leave it unlocked—someone might take it. That was it! A stolen car. Or Süleyman’s bunch could trace it here. Assuming they’d have an extra set, I took the keys, but left the doors unlocked.

  I exited the front of the parking lot, hugging the wall of the cultural center so no one would see me. I hailed the first cab that came along.

  The driver was young. He looked over my outfit as I got in.

  “Geçmiş olsun, lady,” he commiserated.

  I was, of course, the “lady” to whom he referred.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It’s nothing important. I’m afraid I had a little spill.”

  “That must have been quite a fall. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I tore my dress.”

  “They say the fallen have no friends,” he said, making an attempt at humor.

  He even laughed at his own little joke. Uncomfortable with the ensuing silence, he then turned on the radio. I was in no mood to argue with him over what to play. As a result, all the way home I was forced to endure not only the pounding music, but his shouting into his cell phone to make himself heard over the racket.

  I paid the driver from Süleyman’s roll of bills. Racing into my apartment, without even turning on the lights I began stripping. Leaving a trail of filthy garments behind me, I reached the bathroom.

 
The shower did me good. My legs were more badly scratched than I’d realized, but not too deeply. There were no wounds worth worrying about. I would, however, be covered with bruises, judging from the extensive areas of reddened flesh. My left arm, which had been held in Süleyman’s viselike grip, was an especially promising candidate.

  I applied an ice pack. Then a dressing. My face had emerged from the ordeal entirely unscathed. That’s all that was really important. The right clothing would conceal the rest.

  I’d injured my right shoulder during either the fall or the fighting. I spread on a soothing balm I’d purchased in the Far East.

  All in all, I was fine, and well enough to feel hungry. I discovered a bar of bitter chocolate in the fridge. I always keep my chocolate refrigerated. I began gnawing on it with gusto.

  I should call the club. They’d best be careful, especially Cüneyt. He wasn’t to give my address to anyone, even my father. I remembered that I’d unplugged the phone jack while I listened to the tape, so the answering machine wouldn’t have been working while I was away. I plugged it in. There were still five messages I hadn’t listened to. That’s right, I’d ignored them in my haste to play the tape. First I’d better phone the club, though.

  Hasan answered. Without even waiting for me to begin he launched in. The idiot.

  “Sofya has been calling every five minutes. She keeps asking whether or not you’ve returned. She hasn’t been able to reach you at home. It’s all been too much for me! What a stubborn woman. I’ve had it, I tell you.”

  “You deserve it,” I said. “You brought it on yourself. Now listen, and listen good.”

  Whatever the relationship was between Sofya and Hasan, it had gone too far. Without going into detail, I told him what had happened. I decided that I couldn’t reveal too much to Hasan until I’d given him a good dressing down. I’d have to cross-examine him, too, but I just wasn’t up to it tonight.

  I concluded by saying I might stop by the club later that night, but that it was highly unlikely.

  “Geçmiş olsun. Is there anything you need? Shall I come right over? Or do you want me to send anything with one of the girls?”

  No, the last thing I needed was nosy Hasan. We hung up.

  I began listening to my messages. The first caller hung up without speaking, which is unforgivable in my book. If you have no intention of speaking, why wait for the tone? It isn’t as though I expect a detailed explanation; name and reason for calling will do. I mean, really. If it’s too personal or confidential to say on the message, tell me as much and hang up.

  The second message was from Hasan. He had researched the people claiming Buse’s corpse: they were relatives. No documentation is required when claiming a body, so he had been unable to find out exactly who they were. In other words, there was nothing new.

  The third message was from Ali. He was bombarding me with detailed questions. I would have to hit the pause button and take notes. And that’s exactly what I did. The time allotted for Ali’s message had been insufficient, so the fourth message was also him. I jotted it all down, filling an entire sheet of paper. At the end, he wished me a good—and horny—night.

  The fifth, and final, message was another nontalker. I erased all five.

  I was wide awake, and feeling fed up with the whole business of the mysterious letters. Why was it any of my concern? Why not just let whoever it was find whatever it was? If that meant a scandal, so be it. It’d blow over quickly enough. Some would get snuffed out, others would go on living. Before the year was out, it’d all be forgotten.

  What did the blind mother’s problems matter to me? She’d managed to disappear without a trace. Even the filet-mignon-cheeked neighbor, who had claimed to know each time she stepped out the door, who heard the slightest peep, who was unable to sleep without knowing every detail of what went on in her building and neighborhood, hadn’t heard a thing. Well, good for her!

  What’s more, she appeared to have taken the letters and photos with her. I tipped my hat to her, especially considering her affliction.

  If she’d been abducted, rather than fled on her own, then I congratulated her captors. They deserved a big bonus for managing to spirit her away right under the nose of the busy-body neighbor. Naturally, they’d also taken the letters and photos. Anyone would have done the same, whether it was the Mafia or Süreyya Eronat’s henchmen. What difference did it make to me?

  I also found my trust in Chubby Cheeks waning by the second. A photograph of Süreyya Eronat with her husband hung in pride of place right in the living room. She hadn’t heard the murder upstairs. She’d seemed sincere enough, but it could all have been a big act. Either that or the husband was deeply involved without his wife’s knowledge.

  There had been two murders: Buse and the elderly upstairs neighbor. The possible cast of suspects included a gang intent on blackmail, Süreyya Eronat, whose very name chilled the bones, self-censoring journalists, and a bunch of celebrities, some minor, some major, desperate to conceal their past relationships. As if that weren’t enough, I had to deal with Sofya, who was doing all in her power to intimidate me. I’d had it.

  Hasan was another thorn in my side. He seemed determined to poke his nose into everything, and had far exceeded what I would consider the normal interest in high society gossip. There was no excuse for his having revealed so much to so many, filling in the blanks as he pleased. His loose lips had only succeeded in getting that filthy Refik involved. The fact that he was collaborating with Sofya made it that much more unacceptable.

  I could forget all about Refik Altın. He was truly pathetic. But that didn’t mean his time wouldn’t come, that I wouldn’t make him pay.

  To do anything further would mean asking for trouble, making a fool of myself. Clearly, someone had been provoked and that blockhead Süleyman had been sent to attack me. Someone wished to meet with me. I was sick and tired of the whole thing. It was a convoluted puzzle no matter how you looked at it.

  I had lost all desire to crack Süleyman’s PIN code or struggle with anything similar. Once I experience actual pain, the movie is over, as far as I’m concerned. Even if I’m starring opposite John Pruitt, that’s it. And I was in pain. The End.

  My thoughts returned to my arms and legs. What a waste of time and expense, trouble and inconvenience, at the beauty salon that same day. My belief in fate was reinforced. I intended to rub in some restorative lotion and play with my computer. First I’d put on some Bach. My hand once again reached out to take the BWV 1060 double concerto from the shelf, but the late hour called for something more extravagant. I looked over the orchestra suites and Brandenburg concertos. Handel’s Water Music caught my eye. Yes, that would do nicely. I have a finely honed appreciation for the Baroque, and an extensive collection. It’s just the thing for working on the computer, or after lovemaking. Authentic performance instruments are played with lighter force, attaining a sound that is both full and soothing. The instruments have a less overpowering tone, so that the playing of one note interferes less with the hearing of simultaneous or neighboring notes. That is, it might help me relax enough to fall asleep. Modern orchestras lack the same transparency of musical texture and are more subject to the interpretation of the conductor.

  I selected the modern, nearly experimental Pierre Boulez rendition. As a proponent of contemporary music, he was a true pioneer. As far as I knew, this was his only Baroque recording. The largo part of his first suite washed over me. I sat down in front of the computer.

  There were a couple of minor tasks I needed to complete for the company. I set to work. I was halfway done when the CD ended. It would be good to finish tonight and send everything along to Ali the following morning. Because he’s so swamped with visiting clients on weekdays that he doesn’t get much work done, Ali always works at the office on Sundays after his morning exercise regime. The analyses and programs I was working on would be helpful to him.

  I never send this kind of work over the Internet. It’s not secure e
nough. I removed the CD and inserted Satie. “Gnossiennes” was an excellent choice, and I resumed work to it. The glassy tones floated through the house. I wanted coffee, and brought a cupful to my desk. When I finished, I loaded everything onto a disc. For Ali’s amusement, I added a photo of John Pruitt. I’m of the firm opinion that even the most hetero of men benefit from the occasional sight of handsome men. If nothing else, they’ll have a source of inspiration. The pictures don’t have to feature nudity, although I prefer it. I set the disc so that the first thing to pop up would be John Pruitt. Each time a new file was opened, the image would reappear.

  Ali would be cross at first, then he’d come to appreciate my little joke. And since he didn’t know how to erase the image, he wouldn’t be able to share the contents of the disc with anyone else. I grinned evilly as I thought about it.

  I placed the disc into a bubble envelope. Labeling it, I put it to one side. I’d have a driver from the taxi stand take it over in the morning. I was in no shape to do it myself. Ali was a workaholic, and would be in the office until sometime in the afternoon.