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He was sure it would go easy. All the lights had gone out in the houses on the street and the blue glow of televisions in dark rooms, too. One streetlight burned half a block away, and several dogs were close by. A hog-neck Rottweiler lived up the street three doors to the right, but even she had surrendered the watch to the breeze rustling through the trees.

He waited until the moon slid behind the clouds before he moved from the stand of mulberry trees and jumped the drainage ditch at the side of the road. He landed on the far side harder than he wanted, sending a message up his spine telling him not to repeat that entry. Without slowing, he walked across the narrow road, stepping around the potholes. Like everything in this country, the road was on the verge of becoming something else, and no one could tell if it was more or less.

He reached the darkness of the seven-foot wall and hugged it as he listened for sounds. There was no wire or glass at the top of the wall and no perimeter sensors inside. He was over the top without trouble, chinning and rolling and dropping onto the ground three long steps from the terrace.

Nothing left but a heat-sensitive PIR on the front door. And that wouldn’t matter if he was quick.

The lock on the door was new—a replacement—not the best that could be had, but still a problem. He slid the pack from his back and took the pick gun from the front flap and the tension wrench he had velcroed in. He went twice in the darkness to locate the face of the lock, but slipping the tension wrench into the bottom was easy. Wet pussy was never as easy.

No tension at all. Wet and wild. He felt his way into the keyway with the pick gun. It felt like a brute in his hand, but worked like a ghost. Four snaps set the tumblers so quickly that his time at the door was no factor.

He waited before he pushed the door open, visualizing the interior for the last time. He knew it as well as his own before he had closed the place. There was one long room inside that was really three, but not overcrowded with furniture. A kitchen on the left. A bath.

He knew about the alarm system on the control panel near the bottom of the stairs and knew it was set to silent. That meant no problems with the neighbors. Still, it had to be deactivated within forty-five seconds, or vouched for by phone. Most people set their alarms quicker, but she had problems with her memory when she drank. And she drank. Most nights.

He liked to think he knew the reason. He had watched her for the last three days through the glasses from the car. Her routine did not vary much once she reached the house. If she was alone. When she took strange meat to bed, which she had done twice and each time a different one, there was no accounting for a pattern. The lights usually went on fast in the upstairs bedroom before they went out for good. Both men had left in the morning ahead of the neighbors going to work or to the market. They had their own cars, nice ones, too, parked across the street in the lot.

She had nothing hard to play with tonight. He had waited until he was sure no one would arrive for a late date. One o’clock had been his go.

On a deep breath he went in, whipping the door open and feathering it shut. He could have used a ferrite magnet to disarm the switch, but that was never guaranteed. No, it was a race from this point.

The first floor had metal shutters on the windows that made the darkness inside deeper than the night. Even with his eyes accustomed to low light, he had trouble making his way through the front room without meeting furniture. He bumped the corner of the dining table on the right, but soundlessly.

It was good the alarm system’s LED display put out a peep of yellow light when armed. Not much, but a target. The color stood for caution everywhere in the world except Istanbul, where it meant go faster. Beat the red.

That had to happen. He hit the stairs, measuring the height of the risers with the first step and letting it out when he was sure of the reach. Halfway up, the stairs curved to the left sharply. He took the turn without slowing, but his foot bumped on the second step, loud.

He would have stopped another time, giving the sound a chance to mellow in her dreams, but that was not an option for a man working against the clock. He took the last two steps as one, reaching the upstairs hall at a quick walk. He knew he had pushed the time all the way.

Then he knew he had pushed too far. The cell phone rang. Hers. He had a second to get into the bedroom, but that was all.

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Levent drove up to the gate of the police chief’s residence, where he was stopped by two patrolmen in uniform. Neither recognized him as an Inspector of Homicide or anything else. They took his name and identification, which were the same, and communicated with the interior by a hand-held device. After receiving an answer, they waved Levent through with a degree of respect.

The house was old, but recently restored, with board shutters, jigsaw work, and perhaps gables. At one time, when this area was not part of the city proper, most of the houses looked like this—figured by the imagination, and for most purposes earthquake-proof. There were still some left, set down among the concrete apartment buildings like reminders of a much slower time when the town was known by its Greek name, Saint Stephanos.

The Chief was an urbane man whose features were less Turkish than Byzantine. His face with its brief nose, bright cheeks, and winsome eyelashes, could have been lifted from any of the mosaics at Hagia Sofia without alteration. That meant he was descended from one of the old families of Istanbul. His was a political appointment, leveraged by his ancient name, and not to be trifled with.

He waved from five meters off as Levent entered the sitting room where the Chief did much of his business.

"Inspector, you came quickly."

"On your order, sir."

"It’s good you don’t live far away, Onur, and unfortunate you should be going back into the city so soon."

"May I know the reason, sir?"

The Chief did not respond as his servant entered the room with the coffee service. Both men sat in deeply creased leather chairs as the middle-aged woman, non-descript but for the size of her breasts, lay the tray on the table between them and quickly withdrew. The Chief took up his small cup of Turkish coffee, leaving the larger cup of filtered coffee for Levent. He had given no order for it. This man knew what his subordinate preferred.

"I called you here to take over a homicide investigation."

"Another man’s investigation, sir?"

"That’s correct. Inspector Altay, as we know, is a fine investigator, one of the best in the service, but he’s not known for his ability to deal with people."

"You mean the press, sir?"

"Among others." The Chief touched his nose with his thumb as if at a bad smell. "This case will generate attention here and abroad. I need someone who can tether these people with kindness."

"It’s not a small thing to take over another man’s investigation," said Levent. "I’ll see resentment from all quarters of the watch."

"I’m sure you’re correct," he said. "And I’m just as sure you can handle every problem. I won’t mention your obvious competence as an investigator. That goes without saying. I expect you to solve this case—and quickly. You’ll have the close cooperation of my office."

That was unusual. This was all quite unusual. It stunk like the sewers of two thousand years that ran under the oldest parts of the city. Not that old shit was worse than the new.

"How much time do I have before the murder becomes public?"

"The vultures will gather soon, if they haven’t already," said the Chief. "It was a prominent woman who was murdered in her own home. Her name is Ayla Acheson. She was the founder and proprietor of a tourist agency that specialized in foreign venues for Turks and jaunts in this country by foreigners. AylaTur is the name you might have seen here and there."

"I wasn’t aware of her or the firm," said Levent. "Her name doesn’t sound Turkish. I mean, the last."

"I understand her father was English. Or English-speaking. In any case, the daughter was multilingual with contacts in many countries. Some, I’m sure, will be coming to call."

Now Levent understood more. He spoke English and had never considered that a flaw in his upbringing until lately. The thought of having to field questions from people who were accustomed to answers did not sit well.

"I imagine I’ll be able to handle this case, sir, unless I’m required to hold daily press briefings."

"I don’t think that should be necessary, Inspector."

"May I refer the press to your office, sir, for the usual no comment?"

"I’m afraid that isn’t a good option," said the Chief. "There are strong overtones to this case."

Levent took a large drink of his coffee, which was not bad, as he waited for the sword to come down. Overtones meant politics. The murder of a tour operator did not usually ascend to a realm that was both higher and lower.

"The lady was a feminist," said the Chief delicately. "A rather prominent one in that respect, too."

"Active?" asked Levent.

"Very."

"Politically active?"

"Yes, indeed."

Levent remembered that when the ancients led their sacrificial lambs to the altar, they sprinkled water over its head before the slaughter began. When the poor beast shook himself to clear the moisture, he seemed to agree to his fate.

"Was Acheson involved in the recent demonstrations, sir?"

"Inspector, why do you think you’re here?"

Levent did not follow the logic as well as he could see the facts. The demonstrations that took place on Women’s Day began peacefully, but turned ugly when the police charged into the ranks and did what they do best. Photographs of women and men being beaten appeared. Coverage in the foreign press was devastating. A police riot was the most generous thing that was said. The country’s accession to the EU, always doubtful, became suddenly more remote.

"Have we changed our position on what happened that day, sir?"

"There have been modifications," said the Chief blandly. "We’re no longer saying the provocation was almighty."

"Was there provocation, sir?"

"Of course," he said, waving his hand at the world outside his compound. "We know left-wing elements were involved. Kurdish agitators, too. The problem is that these malcontents cluster together and muddy their own cause. Their numbers are never large enough, and solidarity is thought to be the answer to good sense. And, of course, we don’t teach good sense to our recruits."

"No, sir."

"Nor to our politicians," he said, excluding himself by waving his hand wider.

"That would be impossible, sir."

"But the politicians have also modified their position," said the Chief, criticism scratching his words. "Now they’re saying that in spite of provocations, and the presence of agitators from within and without the country, those happened to be our mothers and daughters on the street."

"How clever, sir."

"But illogical. I know that must offend you, Inspector. I’m certain you’ll discover the perpetrator of this crime, and I know the truth when it emerges will not disturb the body politic more than it has."

Finally, Levent understood why he had been called from his home and the dinner his wife had nearly brought to the table. He was to find the murderer of a political activist, and do it in a way that excluded Turkish society and its politicians. He was to make shit sanitary.

"Has Inspector Altay been informed of his replacement?"

"No," said the Chief. "I thought it best not to disturb the collection of evidence at the scene. We know how important that is at the outset."

"I see," said Levent. "I’m to tell him."

The Chief looked hard at Levent—not the first time he had ever done that, and perhaps not the last. "Since you’re already on your way, Inspector, I’ll inform Altay of his replacement."

"Thank you, sir."

Levent put the last of the coffee down and got to his feet. "I’ll keep your office advised of developments in the case. And the direction it leads."

"Be sure you do."

As he drove north, Levent no longer wondered how the Chief managed to retain his office through several changes of government, including the current one, which was the most fundamental kind. He was a remarkable creature with brass manners, a silver tongue, and lead in his pants. He was never the first through the door but often the last to leave. The important things were always brought up for discussion after the meeting adjourned.

Levent had once been called to arbitrate at one of those sessions after hours. He was on a case and in the neighborhood when he took a call that brought him to a room on the seventh floor of a seaside hotel. He found the Chief alone in a large suite with four cigars in the lapel pocket of his suit. Throughout the three rooms were the ruins of a major debauch. The smell of alcohol, tobacco, perfume, and sex was so strong it made Levent’s eyes water.

At least three men had been present by the evidence, but they were no longer available for questioning. In the bathroom, piled between the toilet and the tub, he found an attractive prostitute. It seemed she had swallowed a condom that somehow lodged in her throat.

It was not Levent’s place to ask what so many men had done with a share of the same woman, or how many more women had been invited to the party. It was his job to dispose of the body in a way that attracted no attention to the authors of her fate.

He supposed he would have done that. If the police were not the guardians of morality, they were the ones who absorbed its meaning. Levent thought of heaving the body out the window onto the apron of the swimming pool until he realized the windows were permanently shut in the American fashion. He thought of sending her down the laundry chute for a quieter exit. He was preparing to wrap her in a bed sheet, his hands in her armpits, when he suddenly understood, skin to skin, that she was not dead. Bluish purple, but still alive.

Luckily, a hospital was located two blocks down the same seaside street. With even more luck, the woman survived. What could have been a disaster was now the subject of department jokes that the Chief himself circulated.

The only details that did not come public were the identities of the men who had shared the suite. They were understood to be prominent, but anonymous. Never to be known in any form was the man who by his method in love had caused the complete dysfunction of an experienced whore.

The intervention had not harmed Levent’s career as he was afraid it might. The way the event had made its way into folklore was a measure of the Chief’s cunning. The threat of blackmail was never an issue, since death did not result. As long as the names of the parties involved were unspoken, the only man who benefited by the silence was the Chief.

And Levent. He was promoted to Inspector later the same year. He knew he had gained the position by merit, as well as he knew the Chief had put in his word. The nature of the incident also gained Levent a reputation as a man who could be trusted for discretion. When a case demanded it, Levent expected a call. He never complained. Not, perhaps, until today.

He had a queasy feeling about this one. Mothers and daughters indeed. When politics and common sense met, the results were always absurd. This time promised to be no different. When he called his wife, Emine, as he sped along the freeway, she had asked: "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, wondering how his words had betrayed him. His work was his mask, and he did not often speak of it to her.

Of course, she might have assumed he would never miss her kirlangich except for an important reason. It was trash fish, as ugly a creature as God ever made, and could not be eaten until its flesh nearly dissolved in a long-simmering pot.

But then it was heaven. And a lesson in life. The really important things, the ones that could not be enjoyed as they came from nature, were the province of women and their subtle alchemy.

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Ayla Acheson had been murdered at her summer home in the country, if such a thing existed in Istanbul any longer. What was heavily wooded land not long ago now looked like a suburb in patchy leaf. As he drove in, Levent had passed two new housing developments with swimming pools and tennis courts. Levent had never met a Turk who played tennis, but thought his innocence might not last much longer.

The victim’s two-story house, painted a strange but comfortable shade of gold, stood alone and fenced all around, with several neighbors a few meters distant. Levent parked his car across from the house in a small lot scratched out at the side of the road. The house had a short driveway and garage, but it was completely filled with police vehicles, including the technician’s van.

It was an unwritten law in the department that the more prominent the victim, the more homage paid in personnel. Already, the front lawn had been trampled, cigarette butts embedded in recent footprints. So much for outdoor forensics.

Levent made his way through five patrolmen standing on the terrace without making comments or losing his temper. Plenty of time for that. Dealing with Inspector Altay came first.

He was a grim stocky man whose coat had not been buttoned since it left the lowest rack at the discount store. He came to meet Levent at the doorway, his heavy eyelids almost closing at what he did not want to see. Lighting a Samsun in his mouth off the one in his hand, he blew smoke at his colleague, speaking in the gruff voice that intimidated many men.

"You don’t need to worry, Onur. The Chief called."

"I’m sorry about this, Deniz. You have to believe it was not my doing."

"I don’t have to believe it," he said. "I have a right to be pissed off, and I don’t want you or that sex kitten taking it away."

What a strange way to refer to the Chief. But appropriate. Altay was never far off target. "Who found the body?"

"We did." Altay’s eyebrows went up halfway to his brow. "Anonymous call to the authorities, don’t you know?"

That was as bad as it came to the table. Someone who knew enough to alert the police to murder knew enough to have done it. Or who had done it. And wasn’t telling.

"Don’t worry," said Altay. "You and the Chief believe in angels. You just don’t believe in wings."

"Go home, Deniz. Make love to your wife, but be sure to call first. She might have to move someone out the back door in a hurry."

He smiled, biting his overhung lip. "If you’re thinking it’s going to be as easy with this one, you’re mistaken. When they analyze the semen in her bed, you’ll have to stand for a roll call."

"That busy?"

He took the cigarette from his mouth and pointed it at Levent. "According to the neighbors, this is a whorehouse without apology. I sent them home for now because the numbers they gave me were preposterous. AylaTur, one called her. That’s supposed to be a joke."

Levent should be sorry to hear that. An investigation could drown in too much information. But a lottery of suspects meant a range of choice. That was better than none.

"How long have the technicians been here?"

"An hour before you," he said.

"Good," said Levent. "I’ll get them out the door as quick as I can."

"I can take a hint, Onur. I’ll leave a copy of my notes on the table as soon as I make sense of them."

"Thanks, Deniz. I owe you."

"Your balls," he said. "That’s what you’ll lose this time if you don’t give that pussy what he wants."

"What does he want?"

"A psychopath would be best," said Altay. "Mindless, of course."

When Levent reached the top of the stairs, he met Derya Silme coming down the hall. The medical officer, grossly fat and triple-chinned, was the best man for guesswork until the autopsy came in.

"What do you have for me, Bones?"

Silme smiled with teeth that had been made and others that were unfortunately natural. He was a science fiction addict who reveled in blood, which only seemed like a contradiction. Turning around in the hallway barely wider than his frame, he led Levent to the second room on the right.

"I’ve seen worse, Onur, though not lately and not from star-crossed lovers. He used a knife for the work, and probably not from the kitchen. It looks like a double-edge with a serrated back."

"A hunter."

"Of bipeds," he said, as they entered the room.

Not a bedroom. A study, and as modern as the rest of the house. A writing desk stood in the center of the room with little clutter except for the laptop computer. Directly ahead was a television set large enough to present life-sized images. A tall built-in bookcase sat on the right with two filing cabinets opposite. All of it—every piece in the room—had been disturbed, including its occupant.

She was a woman of about thirty-five who sat in her nightgown in an office chair on wheels with her hands behind her back. Her throat had been cut, and other parts of her body seemed mangled, too. The garment was ripped down the front, so most of the blood skirted the nightclothes, painting her breasts and settling like slush in the chair. Its fabric had always been red, but a difference could be seen now.

Levent tried to discover what she looked like before her death. He had little success. Her left eye—the one that was turned away—had been plucked from its socket in a rage of blood and transferred to the printer stand at the side of the desk, which she faced. Look at me, it said, and think of the other. Levent looked at the other. It was blue and wide open.

"I’d like to see the autopsy results quickly," said Levent. "Tomorrow would be late."

"You’re dreaming."

"The Chief doesn’t dream. I think he’d be normal if he did."

"Then I’d better get her out of here before she starts to melt," said Silme. "I’d have done it already if they hadn’t said you were on the way. I know you like to shake hands with the dead."

Levent liked to know them, true. That was the best way to find out who wanted them dead. Somewhere he would put a hand on a lever that would prove a killer as human as his victim. She was very much that.

"When did it happen?"

"Less than a day. I’d say last night late until we know more. We should be able to narrow it down."

"No evidence of rape?"

"None that shows," said Silme. "Unless he had a liking for half-blind women, I’d be surprised."

So the Chief might have his psychopath after all. Levent did not often see torture in his work, and never such a mutilation of a woman. The man who did this was deliberate and absorbed in his work. Unless the victim had deactivated her security system downstairs, he bypassed it. He had taken the time to bind and terrorize her, so he probably wanted something.

What?

Levent noticed a fingerprint, oval and dirt red, implanted on top of the printer. Bald with no whorls, a gloved hand had made it. The print was probably useless if the blood was the victim’s. It had been left behind as if the killer was careless. Or as an advertisement.

When he moved around the desk to the back of the chair, Levent saw her hands were cuffed. Unless she liked sexual games, the killer brought them. Standard black and cheap, they could be found without much trouble. Still, it was unusual. This man came well prepared.

On both her hands were fine rings. One was a diamond set among smaller, more colorful stones. The other, as big as a Napoleon cherry, had been carved from a single piece of stone. It looked like a bird in flight, and no doubt was expensive. So this did not appear to be a robbery—not the ordinary kind.

On her back, about eight centimeters below the beginning of her neck, was an incision too precise to be called random. Or mayhem. Levent could not tell more because of the blood.

"There’s a cut here," he said. "The garment was pulled away to make it."

"Yes, I saw that," said Silme. "Rather neat. He could have put some pressure there to tell her that he was serious. At a glance, the wound doesn’t look deep enough to sever the spinal cord."

"But the cut extends below the skin," said Levent. "Would he know how far to go before she wouldn’t be able to help him any longer?"

"A surgeon would. A man off the street—no. If there’s a halfway place between those two, I haven’t seen it."

"An experienced torturer might know."

"Come across many of those?"

"Not yet."

Levent was afraid he would never know if the man was as good at his trade as he seemed. Experience like this set him apart from ninety-nine percent of suspects. Unless Ayla Acheson kept mean company, the killer could have been hired. And that meant someone had hired him.

"Anything else?"

Silme pointed to the floor. "She had six toes on her left foot."

Levent looked. He saw nothing unsightly about the foot, but even among the carnage, he felt a shock. Something primeval had crept into an investigation where so much was incomprehensible.

"I noticed because her slipper was missing," said Silme. "The surgery wasn’t done last night. She had the extra one removed some time ago. Better for the beach. And at the haberdasher."

"In some places, you know, that makes her a witch."

Silme’s laugh was like the wheeze of a wounded giant. "I wasn’t aware you were superstitious, Onur."

That was a joke. All Turks were superstitious. They learned that, if nothing else, at their mother’s knee.

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