Free The Kiss Murder by Mehmet Murat Somer Page B

you,” I began.

    “Exactly. Which is why you know more. Now tell me everything.”

    I decided against dragging things out. The surest way to get quick results was to pool what little we knew. I began to relate all that had happened. I neglected to mention the corpse of Sabiha’s upstairs neighbor. She listened intently, not moving a muscle. Ash collected on the tip of her cigarette. When it had reached halfway, I stopped.

    “It’s even worse than I thought,” she said.
     
    She thought for a moment. Or at least pretended to. Eyes frozen to slits, she began:

    “Look, the situation is more sensitive and complex than you’re able to comprehend. There’s so much you don’t know. From what you’ve told me, it’s begun to get dangerous. The murder makes it even more so. It means I’m at risk as well. In fact, so are you. Perhaps not yet . . . but soon.”

    She struck a dramatic pose, shifting slightly in her seat. Chin raised high, she blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. It seemed like she was trying to tell me something. But what, I couldn’t make out. I suddenly felt a bit pathetic.

    “I still don’t understand a thing.”

    “I don’t expect you to.” In an even more dramatic gesture, her hands fluttered gently in the air, as though to say, None of this means anything to you; leave me alone with my troubles. “If you’ll try to be a bit patient, to understand what we’re up against . . .”

    How was it that she seemed to reveal so much while saying so little—and managed to humiliate me as she did it? I ran through all the times I’d felt the way I did now. Every time, Sofya was there.

    “So who is the man in the photographs? What’s written in the letters? Do you know that much, at least?”

    Her eyes changed expression, as though to retort, How could you possibly ask me such ridiculous questions?

    “I mean, you may have seen the photos. Or perhaps Buse told you about them.”

    Silence. Tension. Anticipation. Everything! She’d managed them all.

    “Look,” she said, once again narrowing her eyes slightly, “I know who he is. It would be a mistake for me to tell you. He’s not just anyone.”

    “Who is it, ayol ? The president? The prime minister? The American president?”

    A plastic chortle silenced me. Like the sound a doll would make. Without so much as a facial twitch, Sofya was able to produce a wide range of sounds.

    “You’re so naïve.”

    I knew it. I was fully aware that all her efforts were aimed at confusing me. And she was succeeding.

    She finished her cigarette. When she was unable to spot an ashtray upon a cursory glance to the left and right, the stub was flung to the floor and elegantly extinguished with a twist of the right ankle. She rose, gathered her long skirts, and began the descent to the club. After a few steps she turned, widened her eyes, and offered this naughty child a bit of advice:

    “Blackmail. Big time. It’s dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Caution is advised. Teamwork will be needed.”

    The eyes narrowed once again as she scrutinized me. A finger landed on the tip of my nose.

    “I like you,” she purred. “Despite everything,” she added, after waiting a full beat. “Listen to me. Stay out of this.”

    She turned, and was gone.

Chapter 12
    I t wasn’t until later, after I’d had a few drinks, that I was able to begin processing what Sofya had said. It is impossible, the first time around, to get beyond her body language and narrative style. Sofya has mastered the art of playing the inscrutable woman.

    I couldn’t decide whether or not to envy her this skill. But it was food for thought.
     
    Sofya had me absolutely stupefied. I was drained, and would be unable to carry on until closing time. To make matters worse, Belkıs’s husband, Ferruh, was still at the club, eyes rolling in their sockets, too drunk to speak, but wanting to do just that. He’d taken full advantage of the discount we offer to friends.

    “But