Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 6

CHAPTER 2

I like to walk in cities; to ask the way; to find what I want to find by getting lost in the back streets, across the wastelands where the gardens are, and the shops and the bazaar stalls; to flow with a throng of people at lunch hour, then find an empty street and go slowly.

Mary Lee Settle, Turkish Reflections

Afternoon sunlight glinted pale-gold across the Bosphorus. Sea gulls followed the ferry in raucous competition, trying to catch a piece of sesame-covered simit thrown by a passenger. The smell of fresh-salt water permeated the air. I pulled my raincoat around me.

Damn, damn, damn.

Everyone in the Trib newsroom had been shocked. Popular, gregarious Peter. Aggressive reporter. Much-respected at the Trib. I took it personally. He was my friend, colleague, and partner on some prize-winning investigative stories. We both loved digging out the truth.

Now here I was, alone in Istanbul. To do Peter’s job. Not an assignment I’d ever thought to have, or wanted to have.

The Embassy dispatch said Turkish police had completed an investigation and thought Peter had died of an accidental overdose of an illegal drug.

Easy for the police to say, but I didn’t buy it. Peter was a professional. I had to clear his name of this posthumous insult.

My editor Mac had read my mind. “Not your job to investigate this. Don’t do it! I don’t need two correspondents dead.”

Mac knew perfectly well I’d follow my own advice, not his. I assured him I’d be careful. He punched my arm playfully, a worried frown on his face. We understood each other.

Plaintive Turkish wails of love gone wrong swirled around the few of us riding outside along the ferry’s railing. The sad tunes fitted my mood. Where had the music come from?

Two people down from me along the railing, a man with dark, olive-shaped eyes, wearing a black leather jacket, seemed to be the source. The radio must be in his pocket. His thick mustache matched his dark hair. He smoked a cigarette and looked away from me. Macho in the extreme. A Turk’s Turk, right from an old Camel ad.

The wooden ferry made a clean swath through the dark water. Bubbles of white wake stretched out and widened behind us, untraceable footprints on our liquid path.