Knight In Peril: A Jorja Knight Mystery, #6

By Alice Bienia

A missing woman. A ruthless killer. A PI running out of time.

 

When PI Jorja Knight arrives in the ancient, mysterious city of Istanbul, she knows something is wrong. Her best friend, Gabriella Rizzo, isn't at the airport to meet her as promised. Gab's suitcases are at the guest house—but she's vanished. She's not answering her phone, and no one has heard from her in days.

 

Alone In a city of fourteen million people, Jorja faces her worst fear—her best friend has been abducted. Jorja's desperate race to find Gab plunges her into a dangerous world of lies, secrets, and greed, where witnesses take bribes, suspects won't talk, and corrupt politicians barter for favors. With time running out to save her best friend, Jorja must navigate the murky depths of Istanbul's dark underbelly, where every move could be her last.

 

Or is it too late?

 

A gripping mystery thriller perfect for fans of Melinda Leigh, H.K. Christie and Susan Hunter. Discover the Jorja Knight mystery series today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alice Bienia
• Release date: Oct 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781990193163

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Copyright © 2023 by Alice Bienia

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any format, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, or used in any manner without the express permission of the author. Requirement of author consent is not, however, necessary for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or book reviews. Requests for permission to reproduce selections from this book can be made to [e-mail]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-990193-15-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-990193-16-3 (EPUP)

Editing by: T. Morgan Editing Services

Cover Design by: Damonza.com

Published by: Cairn Press | Canada

For Margaret, and all the other strong women out there.

Contents

1.ONE

2.TWO

3.THREE

4.FOUR

5.FIVE

6.SIX

7.SEVEN

8.EIGHT

9.NINE

10.TEN

11.ELEVEN

12.TWELVE

13.THIRTEEN

14.FOURTEEN

15.FIFTEEN

16.SIXTEEN

17.SEVENTEEN

18.EIGHTEEN

19.NINETEEN

20.TWENTY

21.TWENTY-ONE

22.TWENTY-TWO

23.TWENTY-THREE

24.TWENTY-FOUR

25.TWENTY-FIVE

26.TWENTY-SIX

27.TWENTY-SEVEN

28.TWENTY-EIGHT

29.TWENTY-NINE

30.THIRTY

31.THIRTY-ONE

32.THIRTY-TWO

33.THIRTY-THREE

34.THIRTY-FOUR

35.THIRTY-FIVE

36.THIRTY-SIX

37.THIRTY-SEVEN

38.THIRTY-EIGHT

39.THIRTY-NINE

40.FORTY

41.FORTY-ONE

42.FORTY-TWO

43.FORTY-THREE

44.FORTY-FOUR

45.FORTY-FIVE

46.FORTY-SIX

47.FORTY-SEVEN

48.FORTY-EIGHT

49.FORTY-NINE

50.FIFTY

51.FIFTY-ONE

52.FIFTY-TWO

53.FIFTY-THREE

54.FIFTY-FOUR

55.FIFTY-FIVE

56.FIFTY-SIX

57.FIFTY-SEVEN

58.FIFTY-EIGHT

59.FIFTY-NINE

60.SIXTY

61.SIXTY-ONE

62.SIXTY-TWO

63.SIXTY-THREE

64.SIXTY-FOUR

65.SIXTY-FIVE

66.SIXTY-SIX

67.SIXTY-SEVEN

68.SIXTY-EIGHT

69.SIXTY-NINE

70.SEVENTY

71.SEVENTY-ONE

Also by Alice Bienia

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ONE

A shadow shifted to my right. I tightened my grip on my shoulder bag and peered into the darkness. A red pinprick of light glowed for a second, then snuffed out. I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke, different from the tobacco odour back home, yet recognizable all the same.

I should have never got out of the taxi at the top of the street. I should have never left the airport.

My heart raced. A car horn blared off in the distance, then silence. I took a deep breath and continued on, my senses on high alert. My suitcase wheels rattled behind me, cutting the silence.

My flight from Calgary had been two hours late leaving and I had to scramble to make my connecting flight in London. It was going on midnight when I arrived in Istanbul. My best friend, Gabriella Rizzo, said she’d be at the airport waiting for me. Except, she wasn’t.

Gab wasn’t the most punctual person I knew, so I had waited patiently, expecting to see a five-foot three-inch curvaceous bundle of energy with a blazing smile, and emerald-green eyes, bouncing toward me at any moment. After a while, I began to wonder if we had screwed up the time difference and miscalculated our meeting time. It wouldn’t be the first time.

While I waited, I had scrolled through my old messages from her.

Hey Jorja, it’s all set up. All you have to do is get your adorable ass on that plane. And when I confirmed I had booked my flight: Yay! We’re going to have so much fun! Can’t wait to c u!!!! I’ll be at the airport waiting. The message ended with five emoji kissy faces.

I had waited as waves of arriving passengers picked up their luggage and dispersed, leaving a few stragglers like me behind. I told myself Gab must have gotten caught in a traffic snarl on the way to the airport. Or that the car she was travelling in had broken down. Except it didn’t explain why she hadn’t replied to the message I sent her before I got on the plane in Calgary or the five texts and two emails I had sent since. Two hours after arriving, I knew something was wrong.

Tucking a strand of stick-straight dark hair behind my ear, I paused to check my phone. The map I had downloaded at the airport showed that I was in Beyoğlu, a district of Istanbul somewhere between Taksim Square and Kabatas. The directions indicated that I should turn left. That street is even darker and narrower than the one I was on.

I glanced behind me and moved on. Buildings on both sides of the street blocked out any light—a mugger’s paradise if I’d ever seen one. And I’d seen a few. I knew that my job as a private investigator made me more wary than most. Just the same, I’d rather not become a mugging statistic on the first day of my vacation.

I shivered and pulled my coat tighter, bunching the fabric close to my chest to keep out the cold March air. The yellow glow of a single light pulled me forward.

What if the guest house wasn’t open this time of night?

I swallowed hard. What if something bad has happened to Gab?

TWO

The Golden Sky Guest House didn’t look quite as stately as it did on their website. The front door sagged and the whole place needed several coats of paint. I reached for the door handle and heaved a sigh of relief when it turned in my hand. My suitcase bumped loudly as I pulled it through the doorway.

The only light came from the glow of a small TV screen, the sound turned down to an imperceptible level. A narrow wooden counter divided the space, which was hardly bigger than a cloak room. A figure lying slumped behind the counter jerked awake and leaped to his feet.

Welcome to the Golden Sky Guest House. He gave his shirt hem a few tugs and brushed back a lock of dark hair from his forehead. How may I assist you?

He was all of fifteen or sixteen. A hawkish nose and large brown eyes dominated his thin face. His English was heavily accented but excellent.

I’m glad you’re open, I managed a shaky laugh. I have a reservation. My name is Jorja Knight. I spelled it out for him.

"One moment, please." He peered at an ancient computer screen to his right.

After a few moments of silence, I added, Or it might be under my friend’s name, Gabriella Rizzo.

Eezo…eezo, he muttered. Yes. Yes. It is here.

Has my friend already checked in?

He pulled over a leather-bound register and ran his finger down the page, then up the other side.

Yes. Madam Rizzo is here.

I breathed out and lowered my shoulders, which were scrunched up around my ears.

I handed over my passport and signed the register while the young man jotted down the information he needed.

He slid my passport back across the counter, along with an old-fashioned key. Our very best room. Number seven. Third floor. He gave me a toothy grin.

My eyes searched for an exit.

Stair is here, madam. He swept aside a dark red curtain as if he were showing me a curved marble staircase to the grand ballroom.

I hiked the strap of my carryall higher onto my shoulder and picked up my suitcase. After travelling all day and then some, the suitcase felt heavier than ever.

Each step creaked loudly as I climbed. Reaching the landing on the third level, I paused. A dimly lit hallway, stretched out in two directions. I chose the short hall—and located number seven. The doorknob wobbled loosely in my hand when I inserted the key. Very best room, my ass.

Gab? Are you here? My hands fumbled on the wall for a light switch, and a single bulb cast a yellowish glow over the room.

A suitcase lay open on the floor at the foot of one of the twin beds, another smaller case on top. Clothes spilled out from both.

Gab? I checked the luggage tags—Gab’s name, written in purple ink, was clearly visible on both.

I massaged the back of my neck. Could we have missed each other enroute? Maybe she went out, thinking she had plenty of time to explore the streets of Istanbul before heading to the airport and got sidetracked somewhere. But why hadn’t she replied to the texts I sent her at the airport? I checked my phone again—no message. The knot in my stomach tightened.

This wasn’t like Gab at all. Sure, she was prone to being late, but not by three hours, and certainly not without letting me know she’d been held up somewhere.

A floorboard creaked, in the hall outside my door.

"Gab?" A spark of elation shot through me as I moved toward the door.

The footsteps stopped but someone remained, just outside. Gab, is that you? I whispered loudly, aware of the early morning hour.

I held my breath and waited for the sound of a key being inserted, or the door across the hall opening. But there was none. Fighting the urge to yank the door open, I waited in silence, gripped with uncertainty.

The door handle turned slowly, then turned back.

It’s not Gab.

Who’s there? I asked louder, the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears.

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard a creak, then another, as footsteps moved away.

THREE

I bolted upright. The room was still dark, and it took me a second to remember where I was. I must have finally dozed off for a few minutes The other bed remained empty. I reached for my phone—no messages, no texts, no emails.

Anxious for the day to start and yet dreading it at the same time, I shoved off the thin blanket I had pulled over my clothes, crawled out of bed, and peered out the window. Pushing aside the gauze curtains, I stared into the darkness as a growing streak of pale-pink light split the eastern sky, breathing deeply to quell my rising panic. Come on Gab, where are you?

Gab and I met at university over twenty years ago and had been best friends since. We were different in many respects but similar in the ways that counted. Yin to Yang. Although Gab’s shorter frame was more curvaceous than my more athletic five-foot eight-inch one, it wasn’t our biggest difference. Gab wore her zest for life on her sleeve, and unlike my more studied way of making decisions, Gab jumped headlong into new situations trusting that the universe would reward her spontaneity.

Last year Gab put a pause on her catering business after being accepted into a ten-month long culinary program at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. After finishing the program, she decided to take time off to travel—a gap year like the one she never had. She’d been begging me to come join her for months. I had just wrapped up my latest investigation and with nothing major scheduled on the books, I agreed to meet up with her in Istanbul.

It took my fuzzy brain a minute to identify the faint melodic rise and fall of distant voices—the first call to morning prayer. Another dawn, another day. I listened until the hauntingly beautiful sound faded away.

I rubbed my arms against the cool air and glanced at the door. I should give thanks for surviving the night. I would have preferred to stay in one of the modern hotels lining the Bosporus, instead of Istanbul’s version of the Bates Motel, but Gab insisted we experience as much authentic life in Istanbul as possible and had booked us into this guest house. I got it. After paying for her ten-month long stint in Paris, the guest house was a whole lot cheaper.

I climbed off the bed and made my way to the postage sized bathroom. Cranking open the taps, I cringed as the pipes banged and creaked before spitting out a small stream of tepid water. I pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the shower. The water did little to displace the gnawing worry that chilled me.

Shivering, I wrapped myself with the threadbare towel hanging next to the door, rushed back into the bedroom, and got dressed. I’d give anything right now to see Gab walk in the door, laughing, apologizing, saying she had met the most fabulous man, and spent the night with him. Except, I knew Gab would never do that. Not the meet-a-fabulous-guy-and-spend-the-night-with-him part, but she would never blow off a friend.

Finding no hairdryer, I rubbed my stick-straight, shoulder-length, dark hair with the now damp towel, and finger fluffed it into place. I slapped concealer on the dark circles under my eyes and swiped lip-gloss across my lips. By the time daylight filtered into the room, I was ready and dressed, the whole process expedited by the frigid room temperature, and the fact that I was antsy and needed to do something. Anything.

I turned at the door for one last glance around the room. Something was off. My eyes took in the clothes spilling out of Gab’s unzipped suitcase. Gab aways rolled her clothes when she packed—her not-so-secret tip for keeping them wrinkle-free. I walked back and flipped open the lid. The clothes had been rolled at one point, but someone had lifted them and hurriedly shoved them back in. Had someone rifled through Gab’s suitcase, or had she simply been in a hurry?

About to flip the lid of the suitcase shut, something caught my eye. Bending closer, I lifted a corner of the suitcase lining and it pulled away. It wasn’t frayed or torn—it had been cut.

FOUR

This morning, an older man stood behind the counter. He had the same dark curly hair, brown eyes, and thin face as boy who had been on duty last night.

Merhaba, I said, trying out one of twelve Turkish words I had committed to memory on the flight over, and probably butchering it.

Iyi Gunler, Madam Jorja Knight, he replied.

I was surprised he knew my name, but they probably didn’t have many single women arriving in the dead of night.

I pulled out my phone and held it up. Can I connect to Wi-Fi here?

He reached under the counter and handed me a card with handprinted instructions. I nodded my thanks and scanned the small space. The website mentioned daily breakfast was included in the room price, another reason this place would have appealed to Gab.

Turkish breakfast? The man took a step back and pushed open a door in the paneled wall behind him. He bowed slightly and gestured for me to go through.

I slid past him and entered a small courtyard—walled in by the Golden Sky Guest House on two sides and neighbouring buildings on the other two. Small gas heaters kept the space almost as warm as my room had been. A young woman rushed over and motioned me to one of the mosaic tiled tables.

I lowered myself into a chair. A young couple at the next table held hands and stared into each other’s eyes. The table to my other side was occupied by a man reading a newspaper. At least, I assumed it was a man by the thick-soled shoes on his feet.

Chee? the server asked.

It took me a second to realize she had said tea. I nodded, while my brain screamed for coffee. But I didn’t want to complicate things. She rushed off and seconds later returned with a tray and placed a glass of dark liquid in front of me. Chee, she said, smiling.

Discovering Gab’s cut suitcase lining disturbed me, but not as much as her failure to return to the guest house this morning. After all, the lining could have been cut weeks or even months before she arrived in Istanbul. My foot jiggled under the table and my stomach cramped. I pulled out my phone and tried to connect to the Wi-Fi.

It’s spotty.

The second time the man at the table across from me said it, I realized he was speaking to me.

I looked up. Oh. The Wi-Fi.

Yes. Sometimes good, sometimes no good. He twisted his hand left and right.

I nodded. Of course.

He wore a leather jacket overtop a sweater with a collared shirt underneath. He had several plates in front of him and had stopped eating, fork in one hand, a piece of bread in the other, to talk to me.

I shifted my gaze away from him, took a sip of my tea, and grimaced. The man in the leather jacket made no attempt to hide his interest in me.

It’s better with sugar, he said, pointing to several small packets lying on a tray on his table.

I usually have coffee.

Turks mostly drink tea. Coffee is for tourists.

I see. I gave him a weak smile.

Where are you from?

Calgary, Canada.

Ah, Canada. I have always wanted to go there. It’s on my—what do you say?—pail list.

I stared for a second. Oh, yes. A bucket list.

He laughed. Yes, I have many places to visit in my bucket.

You just arrived? He had an accent, but I couldn’t quite place it.

Yes, last night.

He rose slightly from his chair and waved a hand at the empty seat across from him. Please, won’t you join me?

I groaned silently. The newspaper rattled as the man to my left turned the page. Smart.

Gab’s absence was foremost on my mind, and I wasn’t in the mood for chit chat, but I didn’t see a way to avoid this talkative man without coming across as rude.

I picked up my tea and carried it to his table. I told myself it might be useful to get to know him—or anyone here, for that matter. He jumped up to pull back my chair.

I am Arto Nacar. He bowed slightly. He was a few inches taller than me and built solidly. If I had to guess, I’d put him close to my age or a few years older, so early forties. His wavy brown hair was cut short and threaded with grey. He had big brown eyes and droopy eyelids which gave him a sad puppy-eyed look.

His face was neither wide nor narrow, but his nose was unmistakeably large and looked like it may have been broken once or twice.

Jorja Knight, I replied.

The server returned with a plate containing bread, meat, cheeses, a small pot of what looked like honey, and another filled with cream or perhaps yogurt. She placed it in front of me along with a bowl of chopped cucumber and tomatoes and a tiny plate of black and green olives. My stomach rumbled with hunger, but my appetite had deserted me.

Not many people know, but Turkey is very good in beekeeping and honey production. Here, many types of honey are produced. Flower Honey and Pine Honey are most popular. Arto pointed at a small pot in front of me. You will find it at every breakfast. It is best to spread it and the clotted cream on bread. We recommend everyone who comes to Turkey to taste it this way.

Great. I really didn’t think I could smile my way through a Wikipedia-worthy account of Turkey’s honey industry. I told myself to eat—I’d need the energy to get through the day and the lack of sleep over the last forty-eight hours had left my brain foggy.

You live in Turkey? I asked, changing the subject.

Yes. In the Eastern Region.

Let me guess—you’re in the honey business?

He laughed. I am in the spice business. I come to Istanbul seven or eight times a year to arrange our contracts. And you—you are here on business or pleasure?

Pleasure. I blushed for some reason.

You travel alone?

I’m meeting a friend here.

Ah. She will be arriving today?

I didn’t feel the need to get into the current situation with a complete stranger. On the other hand, he might be able to help. I debated how much to share. I couldn’t bring myself to openly admit that Gab could be missing. My hope was that she had gone out last night, been delayed somewhere, and would return soon.

I’m afraid there has been a delay.

Ah. Travel arrangements are difficult. The airlines struggle to stay on time. Is it your first time to Istanbul?

Yes, first time to Turkey.

And your friend? It is her first time too?

Yes.

Your friend knows someone in Istanbul?

The question puzzled me. No, I don’t think so.

She is also from Canada?

Yes, but my friend has been in Paris for the last ten months, studying at the Cordon Bleu.

Magnificent. She studies to be a chef!

Yes.

And you are a chef, also?

I had no desire to let him know that I was a private investigator. It would only spur more questions. I just wanted to finish eating and get out of here.

I teach English to foreign students who come to study in Canada. The lie came easily. My office back in Calgary was housed on the same floor as the International English Language School.

How admirable. His voice tightened ever so slightly. How long is your stay in Turkey?

About a week. I planned to be away for twenty-one days, which included travel days to get here and back. Gab had been eagerly planning out our vacation for weeks—and I had been happy to let her handle the itinerary. After seven or eight days in Istanbul Gab’s plan had us visiting Cyprus, then Egypt.

You are not married?

No use lying on that one—he had already scoped out my ring hand.

Um, no. Now my eyes flew to his left hand, also devoid of a ring. I cringed inwardly. It was just a reaction, but he caught me looking.

Sorry, we Turks are curious people.

I try not to wear my feelings on my face, but clearly, I hadn’t succeeded. He switched topics.

I am sure the spice market is something that will be of great interest to your friend. And to you of course. I can arrange a tour for you. It would give me great pleasure to show it to such beautiful women from Canada.

That’s kind of you but my friend has set up a busy itinerary for us. If she ever shows up.

My offer is open—I am here also for one week, so please let me know when your friend returns. He reached into his pocket, brought out a business card, and handed it to me.

I glanced at it, before tucking it into my purse.

The server arrived to clear the dishes and Arto checked his watch. I am heading to the Bosporus for a business meeting. I have a car coming to meet me at the top of the street at nine o’clock. I can give you a lift to the Galata Bridge. From there you can easily find your way to the Grand Bazaar and the Blue Mosque—if you don’t mind a bit of walking.

Is this what happened to Gab? A friendly stranger offered her a lift, and then she disappeared. Thank you, but I’d like to explore the area around here and get my bearings straight. I’m going to walk to Taksim Square today and start there.

Turkey is a safe country, but there are areas where you need to be careful. Especially when walking alone. One or two streets can take you from a nice area full of shops and cafés to very dangerous streets.

As we both got up to leave, I realized I hadn’t heard any paper rustling. The lone man at the next table sat quietly behind his newspaper, only the top of his dark hair showing. His boney wrists and hairy knuckles gave me the impression that he was tall and thin. Now, there were two complete strangers in Istanbul who knew way too much about me and Gab.

After breakfast, I headed back upstairs. The travelogues all espoused Istanbul as an attractive and unique city to explore. There were, of course, tips on how to stay safe, as Istanbul, like any other densely populated city, had its share of crime. My legs were wobbly as I reached the third floor, and the climb left me lightheaded and jittery.

Had Gab gone exploring, and unknowingly wandered into dangerous territory? A sense of dread settled over me, like a weighted blanket, but nowhere near as comforting.

FIVE

The street looked less menacing in the daylight. The brightly painted buildings lining the narrow roads reminded me of the houses in North End Halifax, although older and more worn. I headed uphill, back to the street where the taxi driver had let me off last night. Several thin cats followed me. Their heads seemed disproportionately large compared to their bodies, which made me think they might be feral, but when I bent to pet one it showed no fear.

I reached the top of the street and pulled up a map of the area that I had downloaded to my phone, turning it so it was oriented the right way. I veered left, crossed another street, and entered a busier thoroughfare, this one containing a combination of small guest houses, private homes, and small shops.

I told myself not to panic. Gab would show up. Despite setbacks—Gab always managed to land on her feet. It’s like she travelled in a parallel universe to the one I was in, a kinder, more forgiving universe.

I reached Taksim Square. The streets were wider here, the traffic heavy with morning commuters. A line of yellow taxis stood waiting at the far end of the square and knots of people waited near what looked to be a bus or train station. I could appreciate why Gab had chosen the guest house we were staying in. It was an easy walk to Taksim Square which, besides being a popular tourist destination, provided easy access to buses and the Istanbul Metro subway. The guidebook I picked up at the airport told me that Taksim Square was once a favourite spot for parades, New Year’s celebrations, and other social gatherings. But following several recent incidents, including a suicide bombing that injured over thirty people, and several violent protests, such gatherings were no longer permitted.

I crossed the street to the square itself and paused at the Republic Monument to reorient myself. Several couples snapped pictures of the monument, and although there were plenty of people milling around, the square’s massive size gave the illusion that it was largely empty. I was overcome by an uneasy awareness that I was alone in a city of fourteen million people where I knew no