The Serenity Murders (21 page)

“There! I kept my promise. This is only the beginning…” he had written. The message had been sent eight minutes after midnight. He was both punctual and violent.

How many “beginnings” did this make already? I was dealing with a psycho who couldn’t count. He had said the same thing after Master Sermet, and after Süheyl Arkın, whom he hadn’t even shot himself…

We finished our natural herbal tea and got up to leave.

“Gül was looking for you. Did she find you?” asked Andelip.

“I got her message, but I haven’t had a chance to call her back yet,” I answered, with hardly a blush of embarrassment.

I motioned toward the cards on the tarot table, the reading of which remained unfinished.

“Life recently…you know…”

“Oh, of course,” she said, fiddling with the handkerchiefs hanging from the garter belt. “You’re coming on Monday, aren’t you? We’re meeting at Cavit and Şirin’s place.”

She was referring to our routine Reiki meetings.

“If everything turns out all right…”

“He’s such a cutie!” she whispered in my ear. “I really like him. He’s upset now. Make him happy.”

With a kinky wink she indicated just how I could make Hüseyin happy.

No, he’s not my boyfriend, and he never will be
, I wanted to say, but Hüseyin was right next to me. And he’d been through enough for one day as it was.

“And before I forget, he needs a serious aura cleansing. See that it gets done…”

I wanted to tell her to be careful, that the loathsome creature that was after me now knew where she lived too, that he was unpredictable, like she had said; a dark person lost in the dark, who used uncontrollable power. But I didn’t. Who was I to warn someone who saw and knew everything so clearly? Certainly her cards, crystals, or clairvoyance would warn her if she were in danger. Still, the fact that my psycho now knew her address too weighed upon my mind.

Now our midnight roller-coaster ride of police, police station, reporting the event, Hüseyin’s Breathalyzer test had begun. Only a little well-placed “donation” oiled the creaky machinery of the police department. It was an uphill battle because Hüseyin, like every driver, had left his registration tucked in the pocket of the sun visor and so it had gone up in flames together with the car. We had to get more generous with our “donations.” Andelip’s natural herbal tea had made us very relaxed. I silently submitted to insulting behavior I would have objected to on any other day, with a moronic grin plastered on my face the entire time. Judging by the uninterested looks on the faces of those I encountered, I hadn’t yet done anything truly weird.

It had been not only a nerve-racking day, but a physically exhausting one too, and I’d woken up earlier than ever. And it hadn’t yet ended; here I was among police officers, a profession which wasn’t a particular favorite of mine, at the police station. I felt as if my tongue had swollen, a tingling sensation buzzed in my head, and I wanted to keep yawning big, gaping yawns.

Yes, I was simply drained, completely exhausted.

I stood waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall while Hüseyin dashed from one room to the next trying to sort out his documents, sloppy every now and then only to borrow more money from me.

By the time we reached the club at nearly two o’clock in the morning, I had sobered up completely.

Our bodyguard Cüneyt instantly took notice of the fact that Hüseyin was emerging from a taxi he wasn’t driving himself.

He grinned, displaying each and every one of his teeth.

“What’s up, Hüseyin Abi? Have you sold the car and come to spend all the money?”

Followed by a flirtatious wink of the eye.

Neither I nor Hüseyin responded. Cüneyt, seeing the sullen look on my face and regretting his father joke, quickly pulled himself together and stood at attention as he held the door open for us.

I wasn’t in the mood for the club. I didn’t know why I had come. It must have been habit.

DJ Osman was at it as usual, playing that electronic trance music I despise. Before even saying hello to anyone, I signaled for him to switch to a decent melody, which he did immediately. Those who had been swaying mindlessly in the middle of the dance floor, carried away by a trance rhythm capable of rearranging my internal organs, suddenly stopped, confused. He now played one of the Brazilian CDs left to us by Suzy Bumbum Ricardo, whom we had presented as “The Girl from Ipanema,” as in the famous song; it was Djavan’s “Milagreiro,” which Osman had grown especially fond of. It didn’t put anyone in the mood to dance and the floor quickly emptied. It was a rather melancholic, mournful tune. To change the track again, though, would be too jarring. I let it play, a melody of hurt; it was a chance for people to sit down, have a few drinks, and make the club some money.

Hasan, who had noticed I was sulking from the moment we walked in, preferred to wave from a distance rather than come near me and risk treading on a mine. He was sitting with a girl whose face I couldn’t see because her back was turned to me. Whoever
it was, she was gaudy as could be and was wearing a Mireille Mathieu wig you could tell was fake from miles away. I always tell the girls not to come dressed so gaudily, that they look like they’re wearing their mother’s hand-me-downs when they do.

Şükrü slipped a Virgin Mary into my hand at the speed of light. He knew from experience that he would be scolded if he kept me waiting, and that he’d be in for a real lashing if he did so at a time like this, with me sulking the way I was.

“What can I get you,
abi
?” he asked Hüseyin.

First Cüneyt at the door, and now Şükrü, who was a full-grown man. Addressing Hüseyin as “
abi
” could mean only one thing: a sign of respect for my “partner.”

“
Ayol
, you’re over forty. How can Hüseyin ever be your
abi
?” I said.

“It’s a sign of respect,” he said, with a saucy grin on his face.

Right, that was it. Hasan was in deep shit.

I looked over to where he was sitting and wiggled my finger at him in warning. But instead of Hasan, the gaudy chick sitting opposite him turned to look at me. She opened her mouth halfway as if for a dental inspection, thinking she was presenting a winning smile. Then she waved at me. Her makeup was monstrous. The fake eyelashes, the lavish coating of blue eye shadow, whore-red lips, and, as if all that weren’t enough, she had applied glitter to her cheeks and neck. The face looked familiar, but, no, it couldn’t be! That horrific imitation of a transvestite could not possibly be Chief Police Inspector Hilmi.

I went over to her, forging a path through the crowd that had now returned to the dance floor.

“Hello,” she said, straightening the artificial hair on her temples.

“What an incredible transformation,” I said. “I can hardly believe my eyes. What a surprise…”

Thus did I avoid making comments that included adjectives like “good,” “beautiful,” “nice,” or, more truthfully, “horrific.”

She reached out and placed her hand on Hasan’s.

“Hasan helped me out,” she said proudly.

So it was Hasan who had done this to her. This was his understanding of fun; he had turned the man into a laughingstock. Meanwhile, she had no idea what was going on and was quite happy and content with herself. I was sure she thought she looked like that goddess of pop star beauty, Türkan Şoray.

“It hasn’t been easy, but I have another surprise for you.”

So
this
, this state of hers, was intended as a surprise for me. She handed me the second surprise—the CD I was supposed to have recorded, found in Master Sermet’s home.

“That’s not the original,” he said, in his deep officer voice. “We copied it.”

“Then the source code is going to be from your computer, isn’t it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know that. But the contents are
exactly
the same.”

These last two sentences were said in a confusing mix of identities: half serious officer tone, half in the voice of a transvestite on the verge of reaching a fake orgasm.

Overcome with enthusiasm at the sight of a girl he hadn’t tried before, Gazanfer had come to the table. Hasan didn’t miss his chance.

“Let me introduce you two. Gazanfer Abi, this is Türkanş. Türkanş—”

The smile on Gazanfer’s face froze when he heard the name.

“Pardon me, I didn’t quite catch that,” he said, doing his best to remain polite. Thinking he had misunderstood, he leaned in closer to Hasan to hear better.

“What kind of a name is that?” I almost heard him say, as I walked away with the copy of the CD in my hand.

I wasn’t going to stay until closing time. I was exhausted.

We collapsed onto the bed. I didn’t object to Hüseyin sleeping next to me, though neither he nor I had the mental or the physical energy for another round.

T
his time I was the one to wake up first. I was sweaty, needed to pee, and had a headache. Half of Hüseyin was on top of me. Taking great care not to wake him, I pushed his arm and leg off of me and got out of bed.

A new day was starting.

It was a bright, sunny day, just as the starry sky the night before had heralded. Colors were clear and bright, the Bosporus, of which I could see a nib in the distance, was sapphire blue. I opened the windows wide to get some fresh air.

I took two Advils for my headache and made myself some strong coffee. A shower and I’d be ready for the day.

I sat in front of the window and, as I drank my coffee with a view of the roofs of Cihangir out my window, planned my day. I had to make Satı, who had promised to come today to make amends, clean the whole house. Then I had to look into the CD. I couldn’t sit at home all day and wait for the bodyguard Cemil Kazancı was going to send. I hoped he’d call me soon and let me know when to expect my “protection.”

I heard someone pass by on a bike. I looked out the window anxiously: it was only a man out with his dog. One lazy dog walker, though: he got to ride his bike while the beautiful golden retriever had to run alongside him. Not every cyclist in the city was going to
be my psycho’s female collaborator. Still, the sight of someone riding a bike was enough to put me on edge. My psycho was achieving his goal, and turning me into a complete neurotic. He had destroyed that “inner peace” of which he had been so jealous.

The arabesque song “So Long, My Peace of Mind” played in my head. It was now time to take a shower and investigate the CD Türkanş had brought.

Just as I was about to exit the shower, Hüseyin walked into the bathroom, scratching his messy hair.

“Morning, babe,” he said, in his husky morning voice.

He was getting too carried away with this boyfriend business.

“Don’t come out. I’ll join you in a minute,” he said, starting to piss.

“I’ve finished,” I said, drying myself off. “Besides, we’ve got a lot to do.”

I left him alone with his early morning enthusiasm. Discussing and clarifying our current situation, we quickly added to today’s to-do list.

The CD found in my aikido Master Sermet Kılıç’s apartment, which was supposed to have been recorded on my computer, was an ordinary mixed-music CD. I examined it carefully to see if there were any hidden files or other encoded data. Nope, nada. Twenty-four tracks had been recorded. The playing time was seventy-eight minutes and thirteen seconds. There was no way I had burned it: the music choice was nothing like the type of music I’d listen to. A bunch of string instruments playing minor rhythms and a woefully dismal melody. I listened to the songs one by one. Maybe something would turn up in between tracks.

While I listened, I examined my face in the hallway mirror. My face seemed to have aged a good three years from so much exhaustion, and stress, and lack of sleep. I immediately applied a skin-freshening beauty mask made from extracts of seaweed harvested
from the depths of the ocean. The tiny jar cost a fortune but it was worth it.

Hüseyin paced up and down the apartment grumbling to himself. While preparing breakfast he called everyone he knew, starting with his father, to inform them about his taxi being set on fire. The phone was constantly busy.

I was still sitting in my bathrobe, a towel wrapped around my head, the green mask starting to dry on my face, when the doorbell rang.

“Can you get the door?” I called to Hüseyin.

A second later he was standing in front of me.

“Someone’s asking for you,” he said.

Of course a person at the door would be asking for me. This was my place.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”

I untied the waistband on my bathrobe, tied it again tightly, and made my way to the living room.

Hüseyin hadn’t let the visitor in but had left him at the front door.

“Yes,” I said, in my most green-skinned alien state. “I’m Burçak Veral.”

Before me stood a man with a huge chin, huge nose, and a flimsy mustache in between.

“The boss sent me,” he said. “Mr. Kazancı.”

The name was explanatory enough.

It was strange that the Mafia should send a guy who looked like a hawker from an outdoor bazaar to watch over my house. I was expecting someone more flashy, muscular, with shoulders, tall, clean-shaven, and, most importantly, younger; someone like the lifeguards in the TV series
The Guard
.