The wife of our newly departed loan shark, Faruk Hanoğlu, came from an old family of good stock and enjoyed a reputation as a traditional lady of impeccably conservative credentials. Her name was none other than Nimet Hanoğlu! Life’s full of surprises, and this one was a real doozy. Gracious wife and mother Nimet Hanoğlu had sent a pair of thugs after me. There I was, hard at work salvaging my own reputation and the good name of her husband, and she’d arranged for a couple of shantytown roughs to break into my flat! Great favors are so often repaid with ingratitude.

It was now morning. I had things to do, places to go, people to meet-and two thugs bound and gagged on my bedroom floor. I felt like a busy executive with no time to pick his teeth.

Full of energy, I took a shower, shaved quickly (twice), and applied a light coat of makeup. Meanwhile, İpekten sat in front of the TV with an enormous cup of milky coffee, a gun, and a can of pepper spray, watching a Queer as Folk episode she’d selected from my extensive DVD collection.

Sarp and the mute had been dragged out of the way but were still in plain view. Sarp hadn’t yet regained consciousness. The mute was still trembling.

The day was sunny and my spirits high. I decided on pastels. I was thrilled at the prospect of finally getting to the bottom of this murder case. Slipping into the sweetest little beige pantsuit, I knotted a pink and yellow Hermès scarf just above the Mao collar, around which I draped a faux gold chain that hung nearly to my waist. The seventies had sprung to life. With a wide-brimmed hat I would be the spitting image of Faye Dunaway in the original 1968 version of The Thomas Crown Affair. A hint of Chanel No. 5 and I was set to go.

Every time I pick up a bottle of Chanel I think of the magnificently icy demeanor of Catherine Deneuve in that old ad, then I remember Marilyn Monroe replying “two drops of Chanel No. 5” when asked what she wore in bed.

I suddenly felt like Monroe, Deneuve, Dunaway, and Audrey all rolled into one. It was a bit unsettling. Such a rare cocktail of beauty and elegance could prove overly potent. I decided to remove the hat.

“Hey hubby, why’d you ditch that tray on your head?”

“Ayol, İpekten, just keep watching your DVD. There are some real cuties in it,” I said.

“I can’t concentrate. I’m keeping an eye on them…”

With her big toe, she pointed to Sarp and the mute.

I’d have a look at Cihad2000’s e-mail when I got back home. I was determined to get into the safe-deposit box the moment the bank opened.

Under İpekten’s hawklike eye, I checked my pocket any number of times to ensure that I’d remembered the key to the box. She didn’t say a word, just watched. There are times when a steely eye is far more unsettling than a river of well-chosen words.

I cautioned İpekten, making her promise to keep the door bolted and not to let in any strangers until I got back.

“Don’t worry, hubby,” she called out after I’d closed the door behind me, deviant smile no doubt in place.

I’d been so excited I’d forgotten to call a taxi. I’d have to walk down to the main street and hail one.

Volkan’s safe-deposit box was at a huge bank branch in Şişli. It was always packed. I’d been there a few times before and went straight to the assistant manager. I realized now that despite my best intentions I was a bit overdressed, but I had enough faith in my Chanel No. 5 to take a seat right across from her.

Full cheeked and under the mistaken impression that minimal makeup and unkempt hair would make her look younger, she smiled at me expectantly. In dignified, ladylike tones I explained my business, adding that I was in something of a hurry.

“Just a moment, madam,” she said.

I’d expected her to ask for ID, but she dialed a number instead. The other party must have answered immediately.

“The guest we’ve been expecting has arrived,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I thought to myself. Expected guest? Me? Who was expecting me? I’d found out about the key just the day before. Crazy Okan wouldn’t have dared to tell anyone. He couldn’t have. It was impossible.

I must have gone white as sheet, and hoped I’d applied enough makeup to conceal it. I held my breath and waited. Or was I simply unable to breathe? In a word, I froze. I ran through every worst-case scenario, but still couldn’t imagine who had been the recipient of that phone call.

The assistant manager continued smiling at me sweetly. I studied her eyes and expression. No curiosity, excitement, or concern… Nothing. She faced me wearing the same pleasant mask of a few moments earlier.

Soon, in would walk the general manager, chairman of the board, or worse, and I would be discreetly led away. The police might even come. Or agents from MIT, the National Intelligence Agency. Flanked and handcuffed, I’d be asked for my name, the male name I’d been given at birth. I’d be thoroughly disgraced. Audrey Hepburn would abandon me in disgust, never to return.

Perhaps I could fight back? That depended on who came to confront me. I wouldn’t hesitate to resist ordinary bank guards… But the police, MIT?

I could run away right now, make it out to the pavement in record time. If anyone tried to stop me, and someone surely would, I’d fight for dear life: aikido, Thai boxing, a flurry of desperate punches, kicks, and slaps.

My brain was working, but my body had frozen. I couldn’t move a finger. Not a finger! I tried… I tried to move the hand I’d placed on the desk. Nothing. There was no response to the signals my brain was sending. I was petrified. Or paralyzed, perhaps.

I couldn’t hear anything, not a sound. The clocks had frozen; time stood still. Surely no one could remain motionless and not breathing for such a long time. But I was doing just that. The woman sitting opposite me wasn’t breathing either.

The telephone was ringing, ringing endlessly. Why was no one picking up?

I tested myself to see if I could remember Selçuk’s phone number. I could. If worst came to worst, I could rely on him again. Anyway, it wasn’t like they’d lock me up or torture me just for being in possession of a key.

“Please follow me, madam,” she said as she stood up. Her silk shirt and designer scarf confirmed her position as assistant manager.

She walked round the desk, stopping directly in front of me.

I followed her out of the door. I seemed to have forgotten how to walk like a lady, had adopted the springy lope my big brother taught me when I was a boy. The manager’s office seemed miles away. We walked forever. The other customers all stopped and stared, eyes filled with fear, curiosity, surprise, and even a little pity.

The general manager’s office was suitably spacious and decorated in cool, modern colors. There were no policemen or bodyguards. I relaxed, breathing normally. But I was convinced that my face was waxen.

Rising from behind his desk, the general manager came over to shake my hand. He must have had a background as a bank inspector. Chin thrust forward, he was overbearing, and the hand he reached out was held higher than necessary.

“Would you be the decedent’s next of kin?” he asked, obviously more out of a sense of duty than of genuine interest or sympathy.

“Uh, no,” I said. “I’m a friend…”

“As you no doubt realize, an application form for the release of safe-deposit box contents must be completed by an executor, the attorney for the estate, or the decedent’s next of kin…”

He looked at me as though he were unraveling all the secrets of the universe for my benefit.

“You must also realize that here we face a highly unusual situation. The key holder of the box did not die as a result of what we would normally deem… natural causes.”

“So?” I asked.

“However, if you can prove that you are an executor or next of kin, we might be able to make special arrangements. Otherwise, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”