Cate Blanchett really was fabulous. But becoming enamored of another willowy woman would mean betrayal of my all-time idol, Audrey Hepburn. Audrey would remain top of the list, while Cate would be given second place. I refuse to assign any rank at all to uncharismatic fashion model types.

As we left the cinema Ponpon said we’d have to dash back home to gather her things and head straight for the club. She was clearly determined that I accompany her. But I was preoccupied with thoughts of Volkan Sarıdoğan. Cate Blanchett’s porcelain beauty had driven him from my mind during the length of the film, but now my mind returned to him. I wanted to sit alone, thinking, and perhaps even researching. I had somehow found myself sitting atop another unsolved murder. Back to my role of amateur detective. And all because of that dish of a man!

Feigning fatigue, I managed to push Ponpon out the door. Then I prepared myself a large mug of fennel tea and began thinking. In order to focus, I switched on the TV, looking for an idiotic game show. No luck. I quickly decided a music video channel would not do. They’re more useful as a sedative or hypnotic agent.

My tea was nearly finished, but my mind was as confused as ever. The best medicine would be Handel. Scanning the shelves, I couldn’t decide between the Athalia oratorio and the opera Alcina. Alcina would be best. The exquisite coloratura soprano of Arleen Auger, who died unexpectedly at the height of her career, trilled from my speakers. Like a bracing tonic.

Working-class lad Volkan had graduated from driving a minibus to a career as a gigolo. He’d bedded Dump Truck Beyza, God knows how many others, and then finally Refik Altın before being killed by loan shark Faruk Hanoğlu for reasons unknown but perfectly obvious to me.

The thought of Faruk Hanoğlu brought to mind an image of Haluk Pekerdem: that strong chin, the thick hair of the young Franco Nero, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, his incredibly even white teeth. Every bit as tasty as John Pruitt, every known photograph of whom I owned and treasured. It had been ages since I’d encountered such a perfect specimen of manhood outside pictures and films, that is, in the flesh. He had awakened such deep desires.

It was still early. I decided to call him. After all, he had given me his card. I could always just thank him for the previous night. Just the thought of his voice gave me hot flashes. I imagined him holding the receiver, speaking to me. Naked, of course. His reciprocal desire for me boldly apparent… I shivered.

He answered the phone himself. Even his self-assured hello oozed masculine mystique. My first disappointment was his failure to recognize my voice. Bastard! I reintroduced myself. He remembered now. I thanked him for the previous night, assured him how charmed I had been to meet him. I was careful not mention the wife, Canan. I didn’t signify that I’d met her as well. I spoke of our night together as though it had been just the two of us.

“I saw the papers today,” I began. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were Faruk Bey’s brother-in-law.”

He listened, demoralizing me by making no attempt to prolong the conversation.

“I just wondered,” I said, “if there have been any further developments.”

“We’ll handle it,” was the terse reply.

I had no idea what he intended to handle, or how, but contented myself with a simple “good.” I heard him take a breath. He cleared his throat with a light cough.

“Hello,” I said.

“I’m here.” Silence.

“I thought the line had been cut.”

He couldn’t have made it any clearer that he didn’t feel the same pleasure talking to me that I felt talking to him. I fought a sinking feeling. I had no intention of giving up so easily.

“It seems Volkan Sarıdoğan, the late Volkan Sarıdoğan, was a gigolo,” I informed him, hoping to provoke a response. “Some of our girls knew him; even some of our gay friends.”

If he didn’t take the bait, there was really nothing more I could do.

“We know,” he said.

“What I mean is, if there’s anything I could do… I know everyone in those circles.”

“That’s kind of you. There’s no evidence to incriminate Faruk. But they’ve detained him anyway. It’s all sensation. There are those who like him. And those who don’t. There’s more to all this than meets the eye. He’ll be out in a couple of days.”

Now that’s more like it. A bit terse, but he was speaking. I’d loosen his tongue yet.

“They can’t pin it on Faruk just because the last three phone calls made by the deceased were to him, can they?”

“Apparently they can try,” he said dryly.

“An acquaintance of mine claims to have been Volkan’s lover.” I hesitated at the word “acquaintance.” Should I have said “friend”? No, Refik Altın couldn’t be described as a friend of mine. I only knew him from the club. “If any information would…”

He cut me off.

“It’s the police’s job to find the killer. Whether it’s an acquaintance of yours or not. It’s my job to prove Faruk’s innocence.”

He’d interpreted my offer of help as a finger-pointing at another suspect. Funny, it had never occurred to me, but Refik Altın could well have been the killer.

“I see,” I said.

He must have detected the hurt feelings in my voice.

“Still, thank you for your offer,” he said. “It was most thoughtful of you to call.”

There wasn’t a hint of emotion behind his words. Spoken like a professional. No gratitude, no pleasure at hearing my voice.

Wishing him a good night, I prepared to hang up, then added, “Greetings to your wife” at the last second.

Haluk Pekerdem was a tough nut. If I played my cards right, he would be mine. But I’d have to work for it. And I couldn’t blame him. The person he’d met had not been me. He’d met a badly dressed tranny in face paint. Me at my most clumsy and insecure. He was right not to have anything to do with that person. I accepted, when I put himself in his shoes, that I would have behaved exactly the same way. But I also had to admit that the person sitting at the table that night, smiling nervously, fabric hanging off her emaciated frame, was none other than me.

Dressed to the nines, I would visit him at the first opportunity! He was going to meet the real me.

I was asleep before Ponpon returned, and up before she’d risen. Taking my morning cup of coffee, I sat in front of the computer. Hundreds of e-mails had accumulated during my depression and I’d keep busy sorting them until Ponpon woke up and we had breakfast together.

Off went all the spam to the recycle bin, unopened. Ali had forwarded every work-related e-mail to me. Some included a line or two asking how I was; to others he’d attached a joke of some kind. But most were simply forwarded. It would take at least a few days to go over them all. I sent them to a folder for later inspection.

Cihad2000, that is, Kemal Barutçu, had increased the frequency and intensity of the messages he sent me. The more fervent, the more likely they were to contain elements of Islamic radicalism. The latest was full of prayers, scripture, and condemnation. I replied with a brief e-mail explaining my silence. The last thing I wanted was to antagonize Kemal. He’s one of the few computer geeks who faze me. At first I’d felt pity for the Stephen Hawking- like figure in the wheelchair, but the minute we’d moved on to the subject of sex-and that happened in no time-he was audacious to the extreme.

From the four corners of the globe hundreds of my fellow hackers, their true identities and faces unknown to me, had showered me with new codes, hacking suggestions, and the latest on gaining access to proprietary systems. I answered the shorter messages and filed away those I thought would be of interest, naturally deleting the identity of the senders.