The Mummy Case (Jim Knighthorse Series #2)

by J. R. Rain

  Her long fingers drummed on the wooden armrest. I could smell her perfume, or at least I thought it was her perfume. It could have been any number of lotions or fragrances that women use to perfume their bodies with. Anyway, it smelled like grapefruit, and I liked it. Through her slightly open mouth, I could see the neat skyline of her tiny bottom teeth. Her tongue slashed back and forth behind her teeth. She was breathing softly. Rain ticked against the window, as it had been all day. Good for the dry land, bad for business.

  “You are asking me to break the law,” I said shortly.

  “I’m asking you to help find my father. If not you, then someone else.”

  I stood and moved over to the window, my back to Faye. Rainwater slid down the pane, obscuring my reflection into a sort of live-action Dali painting. I knew there were many guides in Dogubayazit. Many good guides, but also many bad guides.

  “Why was your father so eager to climb the mountain?” I asked.

  “He...he has a map,” she said. I could hear the blush in her voice.

  “A map? Everyone has a map.” I shook my head. “Local shepherds will gladly sell maps to unsuspecting ark researchers. Of course these maps are worthless, and usually lead you in circles.”

  “Apparently not this one. My father drew it himself, based on his research, if that’s what you want to call it.” Her mouth twisted in distaste.

  In the street below, muddy water, intestinal brown, flowed along broken gutters and over-flowed broken sidewalks. I sighed and rubbed my jaw. I knew I should turn her away and save myself a lot of trouble. Instead, I found myself saying: “I’ll make some inquiries, but I can make no promises.”

  She stood quickly, chair scraping. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. When can I expect to hear from you again?”

  “At dinner tonight, say eight p.m.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll come get you.”

  I walked her to the door and watched her descend the wooden stairs and go through the quiet barroom below. Most of the male heads turned and watched her leave. I didn’t blame them.

  Chapter Three

  I sat at my desk for another twenty minutes, thinking about the sudden appearance of this feisty American, realizing that she was the first unaccompanied American woman I had seen in three years.

  Basically, the first single American woman in three years.

  I lit a cigarette and thought some more of her and then I thought of Liz and felt guilty, realizing for the first time in a long time that someone had, miraculously, pushed my brooding thoughts of my killed fiancé from my mind for longer than an hour.

  With this realization in mind, I stepped out of my bar and into the rain. I turned my collar up and walked north down a tourist street called Mersin. Dogubayazit was a town that existed on the tourist dollar, or in this case, the Turkish Lira. With Mount Ararat just a short drive away, Noah’s Ark themes were predominant. A shopper could choose from Noah’s Ark creamers to ark windchimes and bathrobes. I liked the Noah’s Ark water fountain. Cute.

  I stopped in front of the Hotel Kiraz, a brooding, massive eight-story fortress comprised of gray bricks and gray paint. It lacked only a moat and a fair maiden.

  I went through the double glass doors into a short entrance hall lined with hanging ferns and multi-colored Persian mohair rugs. I crossed the empty reception room and entered the adjoining restaurant. The restaurant was dark and moody. A fire crackled to my right in a huge stone hearth. The up-turned lights mounted on the walls cast their glow only a few feet, seemingly creating more shadow than light. The bartender was eating a sandwich and reading a newspaper spread out before him.

  His name was Crisnik. I think. I could never get it straight. Turkish names are hell on American tongues. He was a weightlifter and liked to show it, rolling up his sleeves to show-off his knotted muscles. He looked up at me and shoved the last of his sandwich in his mouth.

  “Did your mother teach you to eat like that?” I asked in Turkish.

  “Don’t have a mother. You know that,” said Crisnik.

  “That’s right, because you grew up on the streets,” I said, reciting Crisnik’s life history in a nutshell, “and stole a car before you were nine, and stuck a knife in a guy you caught cheating with your lady. I almost forgot. I mean, I hadn’t heard the stabbing story in, what, two weeks? Tell it to me again.”

  He poured a draft beer and placed it before me.

  “Fuck you,” he said in English.

  Then he moved over to the kitchen slide and called out my usual order and then went back to reading the paper. He ignored me.

  I drank the bitter Turkish beer. The room was empty, mostly. A handful of hotel guests drank and ate and spoke quietly in the back. They looked European. They could have been speaking any number of Germanic languages.

  Crisnik turned the page, flattened out the paper.

  “Takes you a long time,” I said, “to look at the pictures.”

  Crisnik didn’t bother to look up. “I’d better go check on your food,” he said. “Because when you’re eating, you keep quiet.”

  He moved off down the bar. Like magic, a hot plate of food appeared in the slide. He scooped it up and set it before me. “Should keep you quiet for a while,” he said.

  The dish was called lahmacun pide. It was a sort of pizza, with ground meat and tomatoes and onions. I ate the first slice and washed it down with the rest of my beer. And as Crisnik poured me another draft, I asked him, “A month ago two Americans were here, one older, one younger.”

  “You’re suppose to be eating, not talking.”

  “I’m a maverick.”

  “You’re also talking with your mouth full.”

  “A maverick with bad habits.”

  Crisnik shook his head. A waitress came by with a drink order. She smiled at me. I swallowed, smiled back. She had big round eyes and rounded everything else. She ordered two whiskeys and sodas. A moment later, Crisnik set two whiskeys and sodas on her tray. She sauntered off, dark pants tight over her posterior.

  “Healthy kid,” I said, watching her.

  Crisnik nodded. “Uh huh.”

  “So, do you remember the Americans?”

  “What makes you think they stayed here?”

  “Best hotel in town.”

  “What about Camilla’s place?” he asked.

  “That’s good too, but I happen to know they didn’t stay there.”

  He was quiet, his tan face calm and smooth. He wore his hair long, sometimes in a ponytail, but it wasn’t in a ponytail today. Probably because he was tired of me making fun of his ponytail. “Tall kid, if I recall,” he said. “But the old man was something else. Frizzy hair and a frizzy beard. He talked fast, even for an American.”

  “They meet anyone?” I asked.

  “Uh huh,” said Crisnik.

  “Daveed Hammid?” I prodded.

  Crisnik looked at me. “If you’ve got this all figured out, why do you need me?”

  I ignored him. “Did you ever see the Americans again?”

  His dark eyes were expressionless.

  “Never again,” he said.

  I thought about that while finishing my meal.

  About the Author:

  J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.