Dead of Night by Barbara Nadel

obviously unknown quantities, but Ayşe didn’t
     think that anyone she could call an enemy was free and on the streets at the present time. Such offenders’ relatives were,
     of course, another, if unlikely, matter. If she were honest with herself, Ayşe had to eventually concede that what had probably
     unnerved her had come about as a result of her recent contact with Ali Kuban’s Facebook fan site.
    Commissioner Ardıç had decided, in his wisdom, to monitor closely the traffic into this site. Kuban had been out of prison
     for less than a week and the fan site was already, if without his apparent participation, doing a very great deal of business.
     It was Ayşe that the Commissioner chose for this task.
    Not only praise for Kuban but also fantasies woven around his old crimes, as well as some new and even more inventive suggestions
     for further offences, flooded in. Ayşe, though aware of how important her part in monitoring the site was, felt sickened.
     In reality the majority of those involved were probably just stupid kids mucking around. But what of the minority? What about
     those who were taking Kuban’s release and a possible resumption of his ‘career’ very seriously indeed? In spite of Atatürk,
     of women’s suffrage, of more educational opportunities for girls, there were still a lot of men who believed that females
     were only good for housework and for sex. Any woman or girl active outside the family home was a slattern and a whore and
     was therefore fair game for any passing pervert. In spite of all herefforts to leave her work behind her whenever she left the station for the day, this particular task had stayed with her and
     infected her sleep.
    ‘Such opinions strike at women more than men,’ İzzet had said as he passed her the glass of tea he’d made for her in her kitchen.
     ‘Ardıç should have given that job to a man. It is after all Vice who will take any action that is required, not us.’
    ‘Maybe he thought that my extra female empathy would make me more sensitive and attend to the material more closely,’ she’d
     replied.
    They’d talked. Then she’d started yawning and he’d suggested that they both get some sleep. She’d agreed. She’d thanked him,
     apologised and then told him to go home and try to rest before work. But he’d insisted upon staying. She was still obviously
     rattled and might wake again in a state of agitation. This was quite possible. She wasn’t entirely comfortable about İzzet
     leaving her. But she was also very far from comfortable about him staying. She knew how he felt about her, even if they had
     never actually spoken about it.
    He’d looked away from her then and said softly, ‘Of course I will sleep in your living room, in a chair.’
    She’d let him stay. She feared she might have insulted him by locking her bedroom door, but she’d done it anyway. Now it was
     morning and she needed to go to the bathroom. But how to do that without having to pass by the living room?
    Ayşe eventually rose, unlocked her door and then very tentatively put her head outside to look into the living room. İzzet,
     as far as she could see, had already left. His departure left her feeling odd. In a way she was relieved that he had gone,
     but in another way she wasn’t.

Chapter 9

    The conference downtown was taking up too much of the lieutenant’s time. He was supposed to be taking the lead on the Aaron
     Spencer homicide, but in reality it was Lieutenant Shalhoub who was doing most of the work. Rita Addison got on well with
     Shalhoub, but he was no Gerald Diaz. People liked him but they didn’t trust his judgement in the same way that they trusted
     Diaz. Diaz could get people to talk to him. Over the course of many years, Diaz had made it his business to get to know Detroiters
     in all walks of life. He knew politicians and gang members, charity hostesses and junkies, urban activists like Martha Bell,
     fences, forgers, mad people and