I was deposited into a room that was once no doubt used as a broom closet in this stately apartment, furnished with only a small conference table and two enormous armchairs covered in Moroccan leather. There was a window, but no view.

Spinning on her heel as she left the room, the secretary asked if I’d care for refreshments.

“A glass of water, please, at room temperature.”

Fashionable blends of tea or coffee don’t hold a candle to the source of life, plain old water. Unless they drink expensive malt whiskeys or imported beer, health-conscious society tends to favor aqua these days.

I was turning over in my mind what I would say to Haluk, and how I would say it, when the door opened and a girl with glasses poked her head into the room.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I thought it was empty.”

But she kept her eyes locked on me. I smiled lightly, staring back. We were still sizing each other up when she decided she’d seen enough to satisfy her curiosity and shut the door.

The professional secretary/receptionist must have flown straight to her colleague and fellow gossip with the news that I had arrived. And she’d come for a quick peek. It was probably the Sibel Hanım mentioned as an assistant. She couldn’t be called ugly, but she was unlovely, slightly sour, and far too curious.

I fought off boredom by going over in my mind the chronological order of Audrey Hepburn films, and also trying to remember her costars and costumes. My favorites were Roman Holiday, Love in the Afternoon, How to Steal a Million, Charade, and Sabrina. My least favorite ones were Green Mansions and The Unforgiven, directed by John Huston, whom I still admire. The former is set in a forest and features Audrey in tattered frocks. Nothing there for me. The latter is a western flick, with no changes of costume.

My Fair Lady had clothes galore, one outrageously over-the-top outfit after another… but nothing suitable for everyday wear. And I went cold on the film when I learned that they’d dubbed all of Audrey’s singing parts. I still hadn’t decided if I could rate it an overall success. My head hurt.

Just then the door opened and in came the gossip of a secretary to inform me that Haluk Bey was expecting me in his office.

Haluk greeted me on his feet and with the same insincere smile I imagine he presents to clients. His teeth were amazing, and he oozed charm in a light blue shirt and loosened striped red, white, and ultramarine tie. Not a trace of a belly. Were I to unbutton that shirt, well-toned muscle and golden chest hairs would await me. Of that much at least, I was certain.

The room had a splendid view over the gardens of the Hilton to the distant decorative bridges of the Bosphorus, smooth as a plate of china blue.

As he presented me with a chair, he murmured, “So pleased to see you again,” without even looking at my face. He was a professional liar.

“As am I,” I murmured breathily back.

He looked directly at me for the first time. He seemed to have detected a change in my appearance but couldn’t put his finger on what it was. The corners of his mouth turned up in a half smile.

He must have noticed me blushing.

We sat across from each other, on ultrasuede art deco chairs with black lacquer sloping armrests, our knees so close they’d have touched if I’d dared to inch forward.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked. He was still looking me full in the face. I searched for a spark of interest in his eyes. They were most decidedly sparkle-free.

“I’ve just had something,” I said. “Thank you.”

“If you’d like something later, let me know,” he said.

And that was that.

He was still addressing me with the formal siz. That beguiling specimen of manhood, honed and polished through years of work and play, full of self-assurance and effortlessly able to put any guest at ease, was looking straight at me, directly into my eyes. “So, what’s this all about?” his eyes said.

I could have explained, at some length and with numerous asides, that it was “about” the fact that I fancied the pants off him.

“The murder that Faruk Bey’s been accused of,” I said instead.

He seemed impervious to my intense stare, burning with love and admiration.

“I’m often a bit captivated by cases like this,” I explained. “They fascinate me. I like to do a little research on my own. Sometimes I stumble across things.”

“A bit of an amateur sleuth, are you?” he said.

“That’s one way of putting it,” I replied, a bit peevishly. “I have managed to contribute to the solving of a number of murder mysteries.”

He shifted in his seat, simultaneously shifting the expression on his face. I wasn’t sure if he was now looking at me with grudging admiration or as though he’d just realized he had a crazy tranny on his hands.

“I’ve stumbled across some things in this case, too.”

I didn’t know what else to say. It would have been nice of him to help me out. But he just sat there, raking me over with those dreamy eyes, making me even more tongue-tied.

I wanted to reach over and caress his cheek, then lean forward and plant a kiss on those hungry lips. I restrained myself.

“So, what have you found?” he finally asked.

“Volkan Sarıdoğan, the late Volkan Sarıdoğan, wasn’t particularly loved by those who knew him. He was a gigolo who managed to make a considerable amount of money in a short period of time.”

“Yes,” he drawled, not the least surprised.

The hand cupping his chin was exquisite. Was it possible to have come-hither cuticles?

“It appears I’m not telling you anything new.”

“No, you’re not… It’s not exactly a closely guarded secret that the, ah, victim, was not popularly esteemed.”

“He has a brother who’s a drunk and a junkie. They say there’s nothing he won’t do for money. Nothing he won’t do to feed his habit,” I continued.

I waited for his reaction. Nothing.

“Go on,” he said, after a moment.

“And there’s the question of the cell phone. Were the police to trace all the dialed numbers and received calls on his cell phone, I imagine there’d be quite a series of scandals.”

His laughter was genuine.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said.

“Don’t be too sure either way,” I said.

“The murder was most certainly not motivated by robbery,” he said thoughtfully. “Whoever did it didn’t touch his wallet, which contained some cash, nor his gold watch and chain or his cell phone.”

Haluk was as up-to-date on the police records as I was.

“Don’t you think the murderer made a stupid mistake, then?” I asked. “Why leave behind an important piece of evidence like a cell phone?”

Eyes narrowed, he studied my face for a moment. He was nibbling the thumb of his right hand. Delicious.

“It may have been deliberate,” he offered. “Done specifically to implicate Faruk.”

“But just as you said, planting a cell phone on the body wouldn’t be enough to incriminate Faruk Bey. And if he didn’t do it, who did? And why are they trying to make it look as though he’s the murderer?”

“Bravo!” said Haluk. “Those are all perfectly reasonable questions, but I suggest you let the police answer them. I’ve done all I could, which was to get Faruk released and cleared of the charges as quickly as possible.”

“But he hasn’t been cleared,” I pointed out.

“Well, he can’t be charged either,” he countered. “In a worst-case scenario he could be accused of having contacted a gigolo. That would be unpleasant but not damning. Rumors die down as quickly as they flare up. I only hope that his family won’t be affected. His wife must be standing behind him. Otherwise, she’d have made a statement by now. At worst, he’ll be branded immoral, a sexual pervert. A few people may turn their backs on him. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” I asked incredulously.

Leaning forward, he placed a hand on my knee.