Read Online The Kiss Murder by Mehmet Murat Somer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mehmet Murat Somer
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appeal was, though, it wasn’t enough to overcome my reservations. I didn’t give it a second thought.
Chapter 10
I was right back to where I’d started. We’d wasted a great deal of time going to Suadiye to try to find Sofya, and had been too late to intervene at Sabiha Hanım’s. Either Hasan had been unable to find Sofya’s house, or she really hadn’t been at home. Whichever it was, we were now dealing with a new corpse. I’d learned the location of Buse’s mother’s house, but it was now the floor below a cordoned-off crime scene, one no doubt crawling with police. Our acquaintance with the sturdy neighbors would make it that much more difficult to enter the building unnoticed.
It would be hard for the police to make a connection between the two murders. That is to say, if there was a link. Perhaps it really was a case of two unrelated homicides. But my instincts—and I do not always listen to them—told me it was no coincidence.
I pondered how events would play out in a novel or movie. The person in danger would most certainly hide the object the killers were after in the safest place possible. Suddenly bells, buzzers, even a five-engine alarm went off in my head: Buse may have hidden the letters and photographs in my house! She had arrived in the morning with Hüseyin, and may have stashed them away while I was sleeping.
I began searching the guest bedroom. I wasn’t certain what exactly it was that I was looking for. I suspected it was an envelope. I had no idea of the size. It could be a range of sizes. Thickness? That wasn’t clear, either. Whatever it was that I was looking for could be under the bed, behind a picture or—a favorite in films—taped to the bottom of a drawer.
The search took quite some time. I turned everything upside down. Satı Hanım would not be happy when she came to clean. As I looked for the lost documents I discovered numerous items I had thought were lost. Some were nostalgic, like my first pair of ladies’ underwear; others were ridiculous, like once-treasured letters, cards, and photos.
I got tired and gave up. I’d found nothing. Apparently Buse and I did not read the same books or watch the same films. She hadn’t hidden the letters and photos at my house. I gathered up all the personal items I’d found, and figured I’d sort them out later.
I pushed all thoughts of Buse out of my head as I decided to get dressed for the night. The club would be full. There was a possibility that some of the girls there would have useful information. If I was lucky, someone might even know who would be interested in the documents.
I performed the usual shower-shave-makeup ritual. There was just one difference: Try as I might to forget all about Buse, she was all I could think of. The man who had sent the letters, had the photos taken, was most definitely someone of great influence. He had taken on mythic proportions. I imagined a series of celebrities, power brokers, and politicians in romantic dalliance with Buse. First I saw them posing in romantic snapshots, then the pictures became pure porn. Buse had the most amazing missile-shaped, silicone-enhanced breasts and—or so she said—quite a large penis. Joyous and hilarious images of famous faces, heaving breasts, and enormous dicks flashing through my brain, I was ready in no time. Whenever I’m preoccupied with other thoughts, especially complicated subjects like this one, I forgo my diva costumes, settling for something simple. It’s probably an instinctive reaction to danger, a way of not drawing too much attention to myself.
I squeezed into a skintight, long-sleeved, flesh-colored bodysuit. Over it, I wore a long skirt, slit to the waist, and flesh-colored stockings. Flinging a honey-colored raw silk shawl around my shoulders, I was ready.
I called the stand for a taxi, requesting that Hüseyin not be sent. The last thing I needed was his flirting. In any case, they said he wasn’t
Chapter 10
I was right back to where I’d started. We’d wasted a great deal of time going to Suadiye to try to find Sofya, and had been too late to intervene at Sabiha Hanım’s. Either Hasan had been unable to find Sofya’s house, or she really hadn’t been at home. Whichever it was, we were now dealing with a new corpse. I’d learned the location of Buse’s mother’s house, but it was now the floor below a cordoned-off crime scene, one no doubt crawling with police. Our acquaintance with the sturdy neighbors would make it that much more difficult to enter the building unnoticed.
It would be hard for the police to make a connection between the two murders. That is to say, if there was a link. Perhaps it really was a case of two unrelated homicides. But my instincts—and I do not always listen to them—told me it was no coincidence.
I pondered how events would play out in a novel or movie. The person in danger would most certainly hide the object the killers were after in the safest place possible. Suddenly bells, buzzers, even a five-engine alarm went off in my head: Buse may have hidden the letters and photographs in my house! She had arrived in the morning with Hüseyin, and may have stashed them away while I was sleeping.
I began searching the guest bedroom. I wasn’t certain what exactly it was that I was looking for. I suspected it was an envelope. I had no idea of the size. It could be a range of sizes. Thickness? That wasn’t clear, either. Whatever it was that I was looking for could be under the bed, behind a picture or—a favorite in films—taped to the bottom of a drawer.
The search took quite some time. I turned everything upside down. Satı Hanım would not be happy when she came to clean. As I looked for the lost documents I discovered numerous items I had thought were lost. Some were nostalgic, like my first pair of ladies’ underwear; others were ridiculous, like once-treasured letters, cards, and photos.
I got tired and gave up. I’d found nothing. Apparently Buse and I did not read the same books or watch the same films. She hadn’t hidden the letters and photos at my house. I gathered up all the personal items I’d found, and figured I’d sort them out later.
I pushed all thoughts of Buse out of my head as I decided to get dressed for the night. The club would be full. There was a possibility that some of the girls there would have useful information. If I was lucky, someone might even know who would be interested in the documents.
I performed the usual shower-shave-makeup ritual. There was just one difference: Try as I might to forget all about Buse, she was all I could think of. The man who had sent the letters, had the photos taken, was most definitely someone of great influence. He had taken on mythic proportions. I imagined a series of celebrities, power brokers, and politicians in romantic dalliance with Buse. First I saw them posing in romantic snapshots, then the pictures became pure porn. Buse had the most amazing missile-shaped, silicone-enhanced breasts and—or so she said—quite a large penis. Joyous and hilarious images of famous faces, heaving breasts, and enormous dicks flashing through my brain, I was ready in no time. Whenever I’m preoccupied with other thoughts, especially complicated subjects like this one, I forgo my diva costumes, settling for something simple. It’s probably an instinctive reaction to danger, a way of not drawing too much attention to myself.
I squeezed into a skintight, long-sleeved, flesh-colored bodysuit. Over it, I wore a long skirt, slit to the waist, and flesh-colored stockings. Flinging a honey-colored raw silk shawl around my shoulders, I was ready.
I called the stand for a taxi, requesting that Hüseyin not be sent. The last thing I needed was his flirting. In any case, they said he wasn’t
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