Cihad2000 had told me that Faruk’s wife herself was fielding all phone calls made to the mansion. However, most of the talking was done by Yalçın, a man with the voice of a butler. As well as by the lawyer of the deceased, brother-in-law Haluk Pekerdem. Despite myself, I couldn’t help sighing at the very mention of the name Haluk Pekerdem.

“I gather the house has been flooded with visitors. Everyone who’s anyone is there. A well-placed bomb would effectively wipe out the Turkish political, business, cultural, and hooker communities. We’d be left empty-handed and destitute,” Cihad2000 continued. “While the phone calls are full of the usual sympathy and commiserations, there’s also a lot of talk of money. Dollars, marks, yen… Turkish lira are even mentioned, if rarely.”

“Ayol, what do you mean ‘marks’? It’d be euros!”

“Look at you, getting hung up on currencies! As if that’s what’s important! I’ll stop now if you’re not interested!” he scolded.

Kemal softened as I elaborated on Pamir ’s special talents. He then repeated, at great length and in full detail, everything he had heard, been told, and discerned. We may be the fiercest of rivals, and at each other’s throats more often than not, but I definitely have a soft spot for geeky Cihad2000. A pervert and a paraplegic he might be, but he was also a goldmine of useful information.

“When are you two coming?”

“She’ll come on her own,” I said. “Not with me. I’ll just give her your address. Make sure your mother’s not around.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he declared proudly. “I’m not doing it at home. I’m going to reserve a nice room at a classy hotel. What’s money for?”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“Any recommendations? You know more about that kind of stuff than me… But I want the best service. And not too many questions.”

“Would you like a room with a view?” I asked, stifling a giggle.

“I doubt we’d have time to admire the view.”

My chief suspect for Faruk’s suspicious death was, of course, Volkan’s burnout brother, Okan. Even as I was pondering Okan’s murderous motives, others had drawn the same conclusion: Television pundits were even now noisily accusing the brother. Up flashed the juicy caption “Drug Abuser Avenges Slaying of Elder Brother?” and the usual gang of windbags duly pontificated. The accident reported just a few hours earlier was now a sensational murder case. Police were searching everywhere for the main suspect. A snapshot of the brother appeared on the screen: dark, shifty, and ugly, with hangdog eyes, he looked nothing like Volkan.

Typically opportunistic, one of the channels seized upon Okan’s sudden notoriety to reair a program on drug addiction featuring grim doctors in white coats droning on and on. While abusers of marijuana were bad enough, anything could be expected of users of heroin. Random violence of a maniacal nature was apparently scientifically linked to doses of X opioid and Y hallucinogen. Sometimes I seriously considered giving the TV set to Fatoş Abla or the janitor, or even throwing it out of the window. I’d easily come up with something attractive to fill the empty space. As a matter of fact, that black, plastic box had always clashed with the room’s overall color scheme.

I hadn’t thought talking to Okan would be of much importance, nor had I managed to find him. Now I had to. I’d be racing against the police to get to him first. If he was arrested-as he no doubt would be, eventually-he would speak only on the record, nothing else. But I was only too aware of the methods employed in extracting official confessions and testimony. I’d have to be quick.

I hurriedly threw on some clothes that wouldn’t draw too much attention: a black sweater and a pair of relatively high-waisted jeans. Ever since waists started heading south, I haven’t bought a single pair of jeans measuring more than a hand’s length from crotch seam to belt loop. And my hands are not like those of the other girls: while strong, they are slender and elegant.

As I walked out the door, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going, and no idea where to find Okan. A street -by-street search would be less than effective. In fact, in this day and age, it isn’t even the preferred method for apartment hunting, let alone a hunt for a murder suspect. Undeterred, I locked the door and walked off.

Having silenced the nerve-racking music in the taxi, I gave the driver Refik Altın’s address. Less than fifteen minutes later I was entering his new apartment building in Esentepe. While there was nothing particularly grand about the place, it reflected him perfectly: well past its prime but stubbornly pretentious. As I rode an elevator redolent of Ajax to the top floor, I examined myself in the mirror. An impertinent hair had grown out just above my nose. I struggled to pinch it between two fingernails, but it was too short to pluck out. The hair won, and I was left with a red spot right between my eyebrows. Let’s hope for the best, I remarked to my third eye as I stepped out of the lift.

Refik was expecting me.

“Look, sister, you got me all wound up on the phone. I’m taking tranquilizers as it is, just to pull myself together. You can imagine the state of my nerves. It’s an understatement to say I’m not feeling particularly lucid these days. I haven’t got the slightest idea what I’m saying, or even what I’m being told. Do forgive me…”

It’s never too late to know thyself, I thought.

I was determined to keep the ritual expressions of sympathy to a minimum; he was equally determined to blubber and bawl over every last detail, embroidering and embellishing ad nauseam. Of the most recent news, he had not a clue.

“Ay, please, you can’t be serious. As though I have the strength to pick up a newspaper or switch on the TV. I’m in mourning, sister, scorched and in pain, utterly incapable of finding amusement in the simplest pleasures of life…”

I’d always been astonished that someone whose speech oozed treacle of such a vulgar nature could manage to produce such compelling poetry.

“If I weren’t worried about the neighbors, I’d be listening to hardcore arabesk at full volume. Gut-wrenching music belting out as I throw myself to the floor, thrashing and weeping, grieving to my heart’s content… But a sea of salty tears won’t bring him back, will it? Quiet! I know… But still!”

This final outburst, accompanied by facial contortions meant to simulate anguish, was all the confirmation I needed. Yes, once again he was performing. Puro teatro! The green light on his stereo was still burning; he must have switched it off just before I arrived. I was up against an a la turca Blanche DuBois at her most ludicrous, provincial, and overwrought.

“Look here,” I said, pointing my right index finger at his left eye. “I do believe you’re grieving and in pain. He was your lover, after all. However, please try to understand what I’m about to say. I speak not out of a lack of respect for your suffering and your love but because you’re about to spin completely out of control. So cut the drama for a moment, or I’ll smash you and your flat to bits.”

The lightning in my eyes convinced him I was serious. He knows all too well what I’m capable of when I lose my temper. Once upon a time, back when I was practically apprenticed to stupen-dous Sofya, I’d been provoked into breaking into Refik’s flat, tearing the place apart, and demonstrating for the benefit of Refik and my so-called lover boy at the time a series of recently mastered Thai boxing moves. And with bonus background information on each kick and slam thoughtfully provided free of charge. After that it was a long time indeed before I was able to refer to any man as my lover.

I was short and snappy as I summarized the latest for him. He was a bit thrown by my criticism, a bit miffed that his portrayal of an inconsolable widow had gone unappreciated. Eyes fixed on my wagging index finger, he meekly nodded from time to time to confirm that he was listening.