“Keep your mouth shut about what, exactly?”
“The girls. All the pimping they did. We’re talking high society here. ‘They all do it, but it’s always hush-hush,’ Volkan would say. May he rest in peace . . .”
Refik jumped in with a heartfelt “amen.”
“You’ve been to their house, haven’t you!”
“Hang on! I said I didn’t go last night. Not that I never went.”
“But?” I stammered. “If you weren’t there last night . . .”
This could only mean that Okan had been recorded by the camera on a different night. According to the police, last night’s footage contained both Okan and me. The answer to the riddle was obvious. Someone had rigged the recordings. The camera was pointed at what was usually an empty garden or doorway. It would have been easy enough to splice in footage of Okan from another night. I wondered how I looked. The camera would have been positioned at an angle to capture faces.
“I think I know what happened,” I said, and explained.
“That’s pretty smart,” Okan said. “That way they’re fooling the police, too. Perfect.”
“Yes, but you’re the one taking the bullet,” I reminded him. “Perfect!”
Refik made his presence known with a tiny high-pitched scream meant to express shock and horror.
“Nothing will happen to him?” he said. “Don’t terrify us like that, I beg you. We’re only just recovering from the deepest anguish.”
He really was worried, but I couldn’t decide if he was a total idiot or if he was just pretending to be one. I didn’t deign to respond.
“What did you talk about with them, at their house?”
“Nothing much . . . They invited me to stay for dinner. Then we had cake and coffee . . . What a house, huh? More like a palace!”
“So they just invited you over for a social chat?”
“Yeah . . .” he said. “Oh, and they asked me to bring Volkan’s address book and some other things with me.”
Intriguing. My brain and teeth were set on edge.
“What ‘things’?”
“Whatever I had. Bank books, business cards, videocassettes . . . That kind of stuff. They paid good money for it. In dollars, cash on the barrel.”
“Ayol, a regular mopping up operation,” I said. “Sounds like the CIA. They gathered up all the evidence and destroyed it. Without a trace. I still don’t understand why they felt the need to be so thorough, though . . .”
“But what’s going to happen to Okan now?” said Refik, sticking his nose into the conversation again. He’d adopted the arrogant and quarrelsome look of the parent who has decided to blame any bad news on the teacher.
“How am I supposed to know, ayol!” I said. “Things are mixed up enough as it is. I still think they were looking for a fall guy. And Okan’s the chump who’s going to get nailed for all of this. Once he’s inside, there will be no one left to squeal. Cleanest job in the world!”
“Thank you ever so much, sister, for your encouraging words. Ayol, people don’t talk like that to their worst enemies. Not that anyone needs enemies with friends like you. Here I am, trying to ask your advice, and what do you do? I hope you’re pleased with yourself. And someone like you, with your record of sleuthing and snooping and crime solving . . . I really must deplore your insensitivity. I hope you know that.”
That final sentence was punctuated with a ducking of the chin that only served to expand his jowls.
I ignored his pleas for help. There wasn’t anything left to talk about. Even if Volkan’s killer was still at large, it didn’t matter anymore. How could anyone hope to get the better of such a well-organized and powerful racket? Everything was running like clockwork. Evidence of the slightest misstep or mistake was eliminated with the force of an atomic bomb.
“Cat got your tongue, sister? You’re as quiet as a nightingale with a beak full of mulberries . . .”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Everything’s been set in motion. I was just trying to figure out if there’s anything we can to do to stop it.”
Okan turned to Refik with a giggle.
“Do you know why nightingales are so quiet after they eat mulberries?” he asked.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Refik scolded him. “You’re a bit too happy-go-lucky for your own good. We’re talking about you, and what’s going to happen to you . . . and you just sit there grinning.”
Slapping his knees, Okan had a fit of the giggles. I put it down to the strain, not the joints. Spluttering and giggling, he managed to choke out a few sentences.
“When the nightingale eats mulberries it gets the runs. With every squawk, it goes plop! So it shuts up and stops squawking . . . Isfendiyar Dayı told us that back in the village. It plopped into my head. Plop! The runs! A squawk . . . and a plop!”
He felt compelled to demonstrate with his hand just where the plop was produced.
Confronted by our icy faces, our little nightingale seemed astonished that we weren’t laughing at his squawks and plops. He suddenly stopped his guffawing and presented us with a surprisingly serious expression, considering how stoned he was.
“I didn’t say I handed over everything, did I? That would have meant drying up my money supply . . . What kind of patsy do you take me for, anyway? . . . Of course I kept a few things for my own protection.”
Chapter 29
Every time I thought I’d sorted things out, events took another unexpected turn. Everyone I came across turned out to be a double-dealing trickster of some kind, and I had no idea where their stories were leading me. As if the lies weren’t bad enough, they all had something to conceal. Now I had Okan, who I’d taken for a junkie and a simpleton, declaring with glazed eyes that he, too, had something to hide.
It wouldn’t be easy to get a straight story out of Okan, but it was definitely doable.
First, I would have to silence Refik’s protests and lock him into the bathroom. His cries of “Please don’t wreck my house!” and “Don’t hit my face!” were getting on my nerves.
Ever merciful, I promised to spare his house and his face. Then I added, “If possible.”
Okan was made of sterner stuff. All it had taken to put Refik out of action was a swift chop to the back of the neck, from which it would take him considerable time to regain consciousness. I intended to honor my promise to Refik, but had no choice but to empty a bucket of cold water over Okan’s head, drenching a precious carpet in the process. Well, I had mentally crossed my fingers, and the living room had escaped serious damage.
When it came to Okan, now dripping wet, I’m afraid I had to resort to physical violence. As various bits of the boy’s anatomy were twisted and wrenched, he became most cooperative, chatty even; backhanded slaps and flying kicks of medium severity were less effective, as often as not provoking nothing but drugged slurring, weeping, and snatches of village folk songs. All too often he’d retract what he’d just said, contradict himself, or blurt out utter nonsense.
By the time I’d extracted the information I required, it was getting dark.
Much of what I’d learned was confusing to the point of incomprehensibility. According to Okan, everyone from the money-lender mafia to antiquities smugglers was in on the action. And as for our brothers, they were smack dab in the middle of it all. Okan was not the dolt he appeared to be. He had comprehended and deduced all he needed to cover his own ass and remain a step ahead. Under considerable duress, he’d kindly pulled the key to Volkan’s safe-deposit box out of his pocket and handed it over to me.
It was too late to go to the bank. In any case, I wasn’t certain I’d be able to access the safe-deposit box without being cross-examined. I didn’t even know if possession of a key was sufficient, or if identification of some kind had to be produced. Years ago, when I was a child, my mother had taken me with her to the bank. All I could remember was that she kept her more valuable jewels in a box there, believing it to be more secure than our home. When she visited
the bank to retrieve her special necklace and rings for the wedding of my doe-eyed cousin, Seher Abla, she took me along. Every time we ran into Seher Abla’s fiancé, Oktay, he’d cry out, “What a cute kid,” and spend the longest time hugging me, jiggling me on his lap, sniffing at my neck and under my ears, and kissing my cheeks. At the wedding, I was so jealous I refused to talk to anyone. Most of the guests tactfully blamed it on too much rich food, but my mother was embarrassed and my father furious.
However Volkan had reached the decision to stash away some potentially explosive documents, he’d been wise to do so. The man I’d considered to be nothing but a well-hung, handsome, part-time gigolo deserved a second appraisal. Having the presence of mind, right from the beginning, to store in a secure place all kinds of papers, private phone numbers, hotel invoices, and even documents of a more official nature indicated a calculating intelligence and a well-developed sense of organization, if nothing else. I was as curious as can be but would have to wait until tomorrow. And if it turned out that Okan had been lying about the contents of the safe-deposit box, he would live to regret it. The police were still after him, and he had nowhere to go, couldn’t even leave Refik’s flat. He was a wanted man. Unless the police got to him first, he would be all mine.
I called Cihad2000 the moment I stepped out onto the street.
“I think I’m onto something important,” he began.
“Tell me quick. I’m dying to know what it is.”
“Have you arranged the hotel room?”
“Believe me, I haven’t had a chance,” I said.
“Forget it!” he said. “I’ve been here all day working like a donkey for you and you couldn’t find the time to reserve a hotel room. Forget it.”
“I think I’ve stumbled onto something important, too,” I said. “I won’t know for sure until tomorrow morning. Come on, tell me what you found out.”
“It’s not fair! I’m expected to tell you everything, but you haven’t got anything for me. You owe me big time. We’ll talk later. I’m fed up with the whole business. I mean it, I’ve had it. Get me Pamir Hanım. Tonight. It’ll be a good deed in God’s eyes . . .”
“I’ll call you back later,” I said, hanging up. I was focused on a case involving two murders, and all he could think about was hanky-panky. If whatever he’d found out was so important, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it from me. It couldn’t be all that valuable.
I was stuck in commuter traffic. The taxi barely inched forward. Once again, I considered and rejected the idea of getting out and walking home.
I was tired. And confused. I imagined how nice it would be to arrange a house call by a masseur. How nice to be kneaded and pummeled, then to fall into a deep sleep.
But I had work to do. First I’d call Pamir and arrange a hotel, then I’d have to contact Ponpon to organize a visit to Faruk Bey’s house, even if it was just to pay my respects along with hordes of others. Next on the list was a little chat with Ziya Göktaş. I’d hurt my hands beating up Okan. How amateurish, I thought. Or was I just getting old and careless? I immediately banished the thought. It was unthinkable!
As we drove past the Conrad Hotel, I remembered its wonderful views and cake shop, and decided to reserve the room myself, in person. Ignoring the grumblings of the driver, I insisted he turn around and drop me off in front of the hotel.
A room with a whirlpool looking out on the Bosphorus would cost a small fortune, but Cihad2000 could afford to splurge. It was better than making a donation to some frivolous charitable foundation.
I ordered a slice of the divine pear cake, along with a cup of weak tea.
As the smiling waitress served me, I began placing phone calls. Pamir was hard to reach. I had to call several times before I got through.
“Ay, I was dyeing my hair. That’s why I couldn’t answer,” she said. “Red, just like the flag!”
I broke the news of her evening rendezvous with Cihad2000.
“But what if the dye doesn’t take? I mean, what if it turns out bright orange or something? I’m not setting foot outside the house if that happens, I swear it!”
“He’ll still want you,” I said. “And even if he doesn’t like it, so what? It’s a favor after all.”
“Don’t say that. You’re taking out all the passion.”
“Look, darling Pamir. It’s got nothing to do with passion. Just be yourself. And be strict with him!”
“Alright then. I’ll wear leather.”
“Good choice,” I commended her. “I’ll call you later to let you know the exact time.”
I dug into my pear cake, light as a feather. As I raised my shoulders and tilted my head back to heighten the heavenly experience, I realized my eyes were half closed. I may even have moaned. It was that good.
Recharged, I called Cihad2000 to fill him in on Pamir. His breathing grew heavier as he listened.
“Now,” he croaked.
“Don’t be ridiculous, she’s dyeing her hair. It’ll take at least another couple of hours.”
“Fine then,” he said. I gave him the reservation number. He’d have to confirm his credit card by telephone or e-mail.
“Now tell me what you’ve found out,” I said, leaning back and taking a swallow of warm tea.
“I forwarded it all to your computer,” he said. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise when you got home. It’ll take too long to explain now. A lot of bank account transfers. Lists of names from around the world, some of them familiar. Large sums, small sums . . . Nonstop money traffic. International accounts and local banks . . . I haven’t deciphered all the information yet, but I’ve got more than enough to give us a good idea. You’ll see.”
“But what good will any of that do? What are we supposed to do with these Telekom lists?”
“We’ve got access to the private records of almost anyone you can think of. A long list of names. It’ll be child’s play to hack any bank.”
“It already is,” I said, lightly pressing the last forkful of pastry against my palate with my tongue.
“Good luck to you then, bacı.”
“Since when have you addressed me as ‘elder sister’?”
“God willing, you’re now a big sister to me. No one has ever done me a favor like this. No one.”
I still planned to call Ponpon, but I’d do it when I got home. Brother-in-law Ziya could wait, too. I’d been tired even before dessert; now I was about to be overcome with drowsiness. Even a massage seemed like too much trouble. I paid the cheerful waitress and got into a taxi waved over by the doorman, tall and well built in his cape and top hat. As he closed the door for me, he shot me a smile that, though courteous, let me know that he was on to me. I was too exhausted to flirt, and simply nodded my appreciation.
I nearly dozed off in the taxi. It was all I could do to stay awake.
When I got home, there in front of the apartment building was a police car waiting to take me to the station.
Chapter 30
Fortunately, the police were most polite. Once again, my friendship with Selçuk had done me no harm. It was “sir” this and “sir” that. Exhausted, I calmly did all they asked and produced perfectly plausible responses to all their questions.
There was the matter of my visit to Faruk Hanoğlu. Why had I gone to see him, and when? How long I had stayed? What was the exact nature of our relationship? How well I’d known him, and such . . . They were simply gathering as much information as possible, that was all. A routine interview. Nothing to be concerned about. Not yet, anyway.
Nothing was asked about Okan, and nothing volunteered. With Okan so terrified of the police, he’d have no choice but to spend a couple more days with Refik Altın, at their love nest. Within a couple of days, everything would be clear, in any case.
I was certain that they’d interpreted my fatigue as boredom, therefore assuming that all I told them was true. My testimony was typed up. After glancing over it, I signed a copy. I was thanked, and a policeman went so far as to
accompany me to the exit, no doubt due to his respect for, and fear of, Commissioner Selçuk. Shaking my hand as we parted, he said, “Give my regards to the chief.”
I was deposited in front of my building by the same car that had taken me off to the station an hour earlier.
At last, I could crawl into my inviting, empty bed, with particular emphasis on the word “empty.” Were John Pruitt or even Haluk Pekerdem to come calling, I’d have politely turned them away. I was that tired. As I got undressed, I took the large safe-deposit box key out of my trouser pocket and placed it on the nightstand. I’m normally a tidy person, some would even say compulsive, but for tonight I simply tossed my clothes onto the low armchair near the bed.
It would take an alert mind to go through the lists forwarded to me by Cihad2000. That could wait until morning. It was nearly nine o’clock. Cihad2000 and Pamir would be going at it by now, I thought. Then I was out cold.
A blissfully deep sleep and delightful dreams were cut short by the endless ringing of the phone. Even worse, the call had been placed not to the line attached to the answering machine, but to my modem, the number of which even I didn’t know. It seemed the ringing would never stop; I’d have to answer it.
Opening a single eye, I peered at the alarm clock. It was well after midnight.
I dragged myself into my home office and produced my grimmest “Alo.”
“I just called to thank you” came the voice of Cihad2000. “I haven’t woken you?”
“I was sleeping. Anyway, I’m awake now.”
“It was amazing, better than any of my fantasies. I couldn’t get enough. It was so . . . punishing.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I said.
“Anyway, you’d better get back to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m too wound up to sleep. Maybe I’ll get some more work done. Oh, by the way, have you had a look at the lists I sent? Did you find anything useful?”
“You wouldn’t believe how exhausted I was. I passed out the second I got home.”
“Alright, alright. I can take a hint. Sorry. Tomorrow then . . .”
The Gigolo Murder Page 18
