Effendi

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I saw three faces on one head. One was an angry red, another between pale and yellow, the last like those who live where the Nile rises . . .

—Dante, Inferno, Canto XXXIV

“Of course,” said Ashraf Bey. “We could just kill the defendant and be done with it . . .” He let his suggestion hang in the cold air. And when no one replied, Raf shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe not.”

It was getting late and autumn rain fell steadily on the darkened streets outside, while inside, sitting around their table, Raf's visitors continued to chase the same argument in tight circles. A Grand Jury was in session. If three judges plus a senior detective in a damp, third-storey office could be called anything so imposing, which seemed doubtful.

“An accident,” suggested Raf. “The steps in this precinct are notoriously slippery. Or perhaps suicide . . . Shoelaces, an unfortunately overlooked belt . . . ? One of my people would have to be reprimanded, obviously.”

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