Free Dead of Night by Barbara Nadel

Ernesto, and his stomach tightened. Carmen, his ex-wife, had
     taken the boy back to her native Mexico when they got divorced. Ernesto was seventeen in a country that was torn apart every
     day by drug-gang warfare. Luckily his son had a very clear and certain goal. He wanted to be a doctor. But that didn’t magically
     make him invulnerable to harm. Anyone could get caught in crossfire. Anyone. Narcotic supply wars did so much harm! If only
     narc addiction really were a public-health issue. Then, if the state controlled the addicts’ supply, as theydid for those who needed the drug medicinally, the men with the guns would be put out of business. Simplistic maybe, a dream
     maybe, but . . .
    The microwave pinged, telling Gerald that his noodles were ready. But he didn’t get up immediately. He just sat and smoked
     and looked down at the table with blank eyes. He could understand why Zeke Goins wanted the Turks to help him. Not that he
     would or could tell the old man that. Everybody needed something or someone to believe in, and with Zeke that was Turks, or
     rather his notion of them. Those Melungeons who identified with the old Turkish sailors story were completely convinced of
     its authenticity. Those among them of a more intellectual nature pointed at how similar some of their words were to Turkish;
     some even claimed actual DNA evidence. People like Zeke believed all that completely. Not so his brother. While Zeke was all
     about history, heritage and arcane connections, Sam was concerned only with the future of his people and with their integration
     into the mainstream, their little corner of the American Dream. But then unlike Zeke, Sam had not lost a child, his wife and,
     some would say, his mind. In a way, Gerald was sorry that İkmen and Süleyman couldn’t help Zeke to find out who had killed
     his son. If they, as Turks, found out, Zeke would believe them, whatever they discovered. As it was, if Gerald himself or
     any other Detroit cop came up with anything, the old man wouldn’t believe it on principle. If the Turks had a shot at the
     ‘who killed Elvis Goins?’ story and discovered a solution, they could actually put it to bed and give Zeke some peace. But
     that wasn’t possible. They only had four more days in the city and then they had to go home. Besides, who actually had killed
     Elvis Goins wasn’t that hard to work out, not really. Making anything stick was, however, quite another matter and also quite
     impossible.

Chapter 7

    ‘What do you mean, Kuban has got a Facebook page?’ Commissioner Ardıç said.
    Ayşe Farsakoğlu, standing to attention in front of his vast wooden desk, said, ‘It’s not his, sir. It’s a fan site. It’s where
     people who admire Ali Kuban and his “work” go to talk about his crimes and, well, fantasise and—’
    ‘It’s everything I hate about the internet!’ her superior roared. His large jowly face wobbled with indignation. ‘Criminals
     having “followers”. It’s appalling! Should be shut down!’
    ‘It’s difficult to control, sir.’
    And that, if she was honest, made Ayşe sad too. She’d found the rapist Ali Kuban’s admiration site easily. It was full of
     accounts of his acts and suggestions for further action. In reality, those involved in it were probably bored kids who did
     it for a laugh. But in common with a lot of internet material, the legality surrounding the expressing of such sentiments
     was tenuous. Ayşe had not liked what she had seen on that site, and so she’d brought it to the boss of her boss. The Commissioner
     could, in theory, act upon such information. Although quite what he might do was open to question. The Ali Kuban fan site
     wasn’t even written in Turkish. Constructed in poor English, it was in all likelihood the brainchild of some rich kid.
    ‘The world gets madder every day,’ Ardıç said gloomily as he chewed upon the end of an unlit cigar. ‘Inspector İkmen travels
     thousands of miles